I Really Moustache You a Question

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‘Member Movember? Well, the firefighter grew a ‘stache for the occasion and decided to  keep it. You know when something new enters your world and you begin to notice it everywhere? I had never really paid attention to the number of men sporting so many different styles of facial hair.

If only the story ended there.

You see the firefighter took great care in the combing, trimming and shaping of his ‘stache.  For some bizarre reason this inspired me to take a long, hard, CLOSE look in the mirror. Um. What the what? I was the spitting image of Tom Selleck. My dad was an accomplished grower of facial hair and I imagined he would be quite impressed, if I was his son.

Well crap. The firefighter and I are planning a second honeymoon to Mexico and I was indistinguishable as the female of our couple. So I started googling for advice and asking some of the ladies I know who have dealt with this issue. The collective responses suggested bleaching or waxing. Plucking was out of the question because it was a full blown man stache and I do not have hours to dedicate toward that level of hair removal/female upkeep.

I decided to try bleaching. The kit I bought promised to make the hair lighter and thinner in one use and with continued use the hair should become unnoticeable.  I used it everyday for a week.  The hair did become lighter, but instead of becoming thinner it seemed to develope a thick, spike-like exterior as a defense mechanism. It looked like Billy Idol was giving a concert on my face. When I walked outside and stepped in the sunlight, my luxurious flowing mustache locks glinted and blinded those near me, much like a vampire’s skin. Seriously. I generally do not wear makeup, but I started putting powder above my lip to combat the shine from my silent battle. This was ridiculous! I was spending way more time being self focused than ever and now this hair I had never noticed before was now as plain as the peach fuzz on a high school boy’s face.

To make matters more superficially worse my husband and I were supposed to go on a trip to visit some of his old friends for a few days. I was nervous enough about the trip I truly could not reconcile the image of us sporting matching moustache’s for the occasion. So I decided I better just wax the dang thing and be done with it. Again I did a lot of research and asked around. I considered going to get it professionally done, but I couldn’t justify the cost and I really didn’t have any opportunity to take time for myself. Plus, I did not want to explain to the firefighter what I needed to do, when he was so sweetly pretending not to notice the strange gender bending that was occurring on his bride’s face.

I bought a few waxing kits. One that required a microwave to warm the wax and another with strips.  The microwavable kit had the best reviews and was personally recommended by some ladies I know. I stuck it in the microwave and my microwave ceased to work. Not kidding. The warranty is apparently expiring on every stinkin’ thing we own lately. I was a woman possessed by a desire to look like a woman again, so I decided to just use the other kit.  The thing is, I was on a time crunch before the firefighter came home. I had the boys in the bath, and Amelia was eating dinner in her highchair.  I wasn’t really prepared to carefully read another set of instructions but I was prepared to be testosterone free before trying to kiss my husband without our mustaches becoming entwined.

I went for it.

In full view of my precious three children I applied, then RIPPED strips of wax from my face. They were quite concerned. The boys stopped splashing water all over the bathroom floor to ask questions, “Why don’t you like your mustache? Does daddy know what you are doing? If you’re not crying why are there tears in your eyes and on your face? You should get rid of that hair too (pointing to another area on my face).” My face now resembled a ruddy Sir Ben Kingsly. Amelia just stared in horror, hoping she got her daddy’s genes and not mine. When the firefighter came home and my face was oddly hairless and painfully red, I confessed what I had been up to for the past ten days. I told him all about noticing, bleaching, and now waxing. He just stared at my upper lip the whole time and said he had never noticed until I started the bleaching process. That was when he “noticed, ‘hey, Amber has a little peach fuzz.’” The firefighter actually admitting he had noticed it is tantamount to a normal human saying, “Holy crap! I married the bearded lady!”

Unfortunately, there is an afterword to this tale . Yes, the hair came out just fine. But I didn’t read very well about what to do after ripping my hair out. The kit came with oil. I figured I should slather it on my raw skin.  I thought it was to soothe.

Two days later I was still hair free, but I now had an acnestache. Every pore that had release a hair, absorbed that oil, then produced a pimple. This has not been my favorite. I want to go back to the time before I noticed myself.

I don’t have a title

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I meant to keep my blog full of the intrigue/ridiculousness of raising a family. I meant to keep politics and religion out of it. I meant to just be funny.

Welp, not today. For the last few weeks I have felt gently nudged to share more. I didn’t want to for purely selfish reasons. I’ll still keep my political thoughts in my brains. But here is a bit of my heart.

I was reading in Daniel chapter 2 awhile back and was struck by a series of events and how often I do not follow suit. Here’s the story:

King Nebechadnezzar (whom I shall refer to henceforth as “Neb”) had some seriously weird dreams and a hair trigger temper. Neb asked his sorcerers and peeps to tell him what it meant. Well, they just flattered him and stalled. Neb was annoyed by them and let them know that they better cut it out or he would “have you cut into pieces and your houses turned into piles of rubble.” (verse 5)

Well, they trembled at his word knowing how sincere he was in his threat and they let Neb know “What the king asks is too difficult. No one can reveal it to the king except the gods, and they do not live among men.” (verse 11)

Unfortunately, “this made the king so angry and furious that he ordered the execution of all the wise men of Babylon.” (verse 12)

This decree would end the lives of many men, including Daniel and his friends. When the commander came to Daniel to put him to death, Daniel did not even know why this was happening. He asked the King if he could be permitted time to interpret the dream. Neb agreed.

Daniel went home to his friends and explained the peril they were in. He asked them to pray, because only God could provide the answers that would save the wise men from certain death.

“During the night the mystery was revealed to Daniel in a vision. Then Daniel praised the God of heaven.” (verse 19) Only after Daniel lavishes much praise to God does he go to the executioner to ask him to stay his hand. Then he is brought before the King with the answers that had vexed Neb so.

This was so beautifully striking to me because Daniel is in truly desperate circumstance. Upon hearing he is slated for execution, he does not whine, argue, beg, or become angry. He “spoke with wisdom and tact.”(verse14) He then asked for time to interpret. He asked his friends to join him in prayer. He received the interpretation of the dream, the only thing that could spare his life, and instead of bolting out the door that moment shouting, “I know what to do! Listen to ME!!” he first praises and thanks God.

Then he stands before a pagan mercurial King and firmly says, “No wise man, enchanter, magician or diviner can explain to the king the mystery he has asked about,”(verse 27) (I imagine King Neb trembling with rage at this moment, ready to tear this kid limb from limb) but Daniel continues, “but there is a God in heaven who reveals mysteries.” (verse 28)

I wondered if I would follow Daniel’s example of faith and faithfulness. Would I praise God before saving my skin? Would I stand before an angry man who regarded my God with disdain and preface my life saving testimony that the wisdom I bear could only come from my God?

No. I am afraid that my first inclination upon gaining the insight that would spare my life would not be to lavish praise upon the revealer of mysteries. I would have raced before the king and breathlessly told him how he wouldn’t want to hurt me because I have the answer. Then I would have told all of my friends and family how amazing it was to be spared. I would have gone into great detail about the peril I was in. I would have casually said, “Praise the Lord” as I shared the tale without actually offering Him any praise. After I had wept tears of joy and laughed till I was weak, I would have gone to bed and said “Thank you” as I was drifting off.

I know this is what I would do because the unfortunate and shameful truth is I do it everyday, in circumstances much less dire.

Now, don’tcha worry. In my next post the firefighter grows a mustache. And some other things happen. ;)

BYOB at Thirty

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Here we are. Thirty. With three kiddos. BYOB means something completely different for us now. For us it means Bring Your Own Bun.

We have been Gluten Free for about four weeks now. Not because we are trendy. But because we have Connor Bear.  Turns out, he may not actually be a bear when he poops like a normal human.

I’m sure with that tantalizing intro you are desperate to hear more. (please note: this post is ALL about poop.  You have been warned.)

Connor has had poops that are so bad that my sweet friend who has SIX children said she has never seen anything like it. And that wasn’t even a bad one.  He has been bathed in more public bathroom sinks, exited more buildings wearing only a diaper, and had more poop in weird places than any other human. Ever.

For instance, he had one of his wretched poops while at the hospital meeting his sister for the first time. The firefighter took Connor and Zeke to walk around a little.  A few minutes later they were back. Connor held in his daddy’s outstretched arms. The firefighter started retching in the background as my mom and his mom scurried to contain the situation.  The resulting casualties from the chaos: the “Big Brother” onesie I made him, his pants, and his socks were all trashed.  From what I understand the carpeting along the path of their brief walk may also have warranted replacement.

Another time Amelia and I went on a women’s retreat with our church.  The retreat was held in a canyon where there is no cell service.  I called the firefighter a few minutes before we would start descending into the canyon to say “I love you. See you in a few days.”

Firefighter: “Are you calling to tell me you are ALMOST HOME?!?”

Me: “Um…no. We are almost at the retreat and I just wanted to call and say ‘I love you and I’ll see you in a few days.’”

Firefighter: “Amber, he’s doing it. He’s having the bad poop. <gag>Oh, it’s everywhere! Oh MY GOSH! Connor, how did you…?!? Connor! <gag, deep breath> OH MAN!! It’s on his bed and the changing table and oh gosh, NOOOOOO it’s all over the carpet! He got it EVERYWHERE! <productive gag> What DO I DO!?!?”

Me: “Uh…”

Firefighter: <gagging> “How do I get rid of it?!?”

Me: “Wash it.”

Firefighter: <gagging with desperation> “WASH IT WHERE?!?”

Me: “Hey, I think we are about to lose service. I love you and I will see…you…in a…few…”

In his line of work the firefighter has fetched limbs that have become detached from their humans at accident scenes.  He has seen and helped people during the most difficult and horrifying moments of their lives. He fights fires for crying out loud! He is the toughest, strongest, most logical, least dramatic man I know. Except when it comes to poop.

Anyway, Connor has had these epic showdowns 4-6 times a day, every day since he started eating table food. I have been told repeatedly by Doctors that he has Toddler’s Diarrhea (<—the spelling of that word is annoying) a condition that he will grow out of and to keep him away from juice.  Well, he doesn’t even like juice.  He drinks water or coconut milk (he is also dairy sensitve). I have asked many times if there is anything that we could be doing different to help him. The answer has always been that he will grow out of it.

Well, he is nearly 2 1/2 and many of his little friends are beginning potty training. While their parents are googling all the different methods and reward systems for potty training, I am over here googling if there is such a thing as pull-ups for college students because I am certain Connor will need them.  His friends are able to tell their parents when they need to go potty.  Connor can’t let me know before because there is no warning, he just suddenly says, “I poo poo on my leg and my shoe and the floor.”

So we have talked with folks and studied a bit and felt that we should give Gluten Free living a shot. We knew this would be weird to some people. But this wouldn’t be the first time we have done weird things for food. I have washed poop off of warm farm fresh eggs, bought grassfed beef off the back of a truck in the Sutherlands’ parking lot, and my husband has accepted foods for payment from some of his side jobs. I truly love scrubbing real live dirt off of fruits and veggies. If I find a bug on my produce I have been known to squeal with a strange combination of elation and disgust knowing that no pesticides have touched our food and also, gross, there is a bug on my food.

Blah blah blah, back to Connor.

The first thing we noticed upon giving up gluten is that taking gluten away from a bread-loving 2 year old is like taking a drink away from an alcoholic. It was ugly. Full of tears, hitting, and much frustration. He wanted Goldfish. I gave him applesauce. He threw it on the floor and screamed.  We ate at our favorite restaurant and gave him his burger without the bun. I swear, the sad look he gave me is forever imprinted in my mind. He would just fall in my arms and lay there, unmoving, as if all joy had been stolen from his little world. This lasted the first two weeks. I wanted to cave. I kept telling the firefighter that his lack of explosive poops was not due to giving up gluten but because he wasn’t eating as much.

“Please, PLEASE man, for the love of peace, I beg of you! Give the sad little boy some bread!!!”

But the firefighter held firm and I grudgingly agreed. And as much as I hate to admit it, Connor is better. All better. I cannot stress enough how much I wish it weren’t so. It makes life, snacks, and spaghetti much more complicated. I guess I feel a bit defensive because I know Gluten Intolerance and Gluten Sensitivity are the current buzz words that are causing so many people’s eyes to roll.  I am not trying to advocate a new lifestyle for anyone else. I don’t want anyone else to feel like they need to attempt to make unpalatable muffins with Coconut Flour. I wouldn’t dream of telling you to spend $2.50 for one Gluten Free hamburger bun that you must spread with olive oil and toast before leaving your house so your family can go out to dinner at a restaurant. What I really want you to glean from this post is we don’t have to start stocking up on adult diapers for Connor’s graduation gift. And that is a beautiful thing.

Hulk Need New Dishwasher

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Apparently I have become freakishly strong. I don’t know when it happened.  But I have the upper body strength of a Russian weightlifter.  It is just hard to tell because it is carefully concealed within the undefined bulk of “mom arms”.  You may think you are witnessing the ebb and flow of flab as I wave goodbye to my husband everyday. You would be wrong. It is covert muscle.

If you have ever seen/been a mom in pack mule mode you know how this creeped up and happened.  I am often weighed down by about 60 extra pounds consisting of: A two year old, his 10 month old sister, two diaperbags, my purse, my waterbottle, and a couple of sippy cups.  Or I am at Target, pulling one basket full of my three kiddos, and pushing a whole other cart brimming with food, diapers and wipes.

Anyway, somewhere between not exercising on purpose and eating lukewarm leftovers I have become the Hulk. I broke a lightbulb in my hand a few days ago and shrugged it off as a really old bulb (because, you know, lightbulbs begin the decomposition process as soon as you take them out of the package rendering them quite fragile by the time you replace them…?) Yesterday I broke a glass as I was putting it away. Just crushed it. With my man hand.

The other day at Target I spotted some adorable little socks for our dainty daughter. I was so enchanted by their delicate loveliness that I yanked the first pair of socks, along with all the other socks and hardware right out of the display. I became so flustered trying to catch them before they littered the floor that I also knocked down a nearby shelf. The crash of that metal shelf hitting another metal shelf before falling to the floor brought an audience. And there I stood. Covered in pink socks with a shelf full of tutus and blankies at my feet, holding the pair of socks and the peg that started it all.  I felt like Lennie from Of Mice and Men. I just wanted to touch the pretty thing. The stocker nearby was really impressed by my super human strength.  I could tell by the way he said, “Uuuuuugggghhhh” as he started to clean up my mess.  I tried helping, but out of customer courtesy/fear of the freakishly strong lady, he shouted down my offer.

But the biggest bummer of my brute strength happened today. I pulled out the top drawer of the dishwasher to put the clean dishes away and inadvertently ripped  the stinkin thing all the way out.  The whole drawer full of dishes came crashing down.  It took a few moments for me to assess the damage because the dishwasher had just finished running and all the steam fogged up my glasses. But there ya go. Hulk need new dishwasher.

I would like to create a sign for my bathroom. A really Pinteresty looking pretty thing. And on this piece of decorative wall art I would share the revelation I had today:

Motherhood means never pooping alone.

The Flu ‘n’ Stuff

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Sorry for the hiatus.  We have been all kinds of busy here.  We hosted Christmas, then I hosted the flu. This year we have caught every sickness that has gone around and have gotten super sick. In fact, if there is even a remote possibility that the Zombie Apocalypse is a real thing, my family will be the first infected and we will rule the Zombie population.  Fair warning to you all.

Anyway, this flu was unlike anything I have ever experienced. Our little family had the flu a few years ago and we felt like roadkill for a few days. This time I was in bed for about a week. This is not like me. For example, less than 24 hours after I birthed Amelia, the firefighter, Amelia and I were at Target buying girl clothes.  You see, we waited to find out if we were having a boy or a girl, so we only had boy clothes and one gender neutral preemie outfit.  Both of our boys were teenie tiny babies who wore preemie clothes for the first 6 weeks of their lives, so we were not even remotely prepared for an 8 pound baby GIRL.  The firefighter offered to go buy some baby girl clothes while Amelia and I rested at home. But I told him “There is no way I am missing taking our daughter shopping for the first time. I just need a new pair of hospital issue undies, an icepack and another giant maxi pad and I’ll be ready to go shopping!”

Ladies who have had babies, you know what I am talking about.  Male readers, my bad.

All of that to say, I got freakishly sick with the flu this year. On New Year’s Eve I started coughing up blood.  So the firefighter came home and I went to the only Urgent Care center that was open New Year’s Day. I walked in to a cacophony of coughs and sniffles and the delicate sound of loogies being hocked. It sounded like a Tuberculosis Symphony warming up. As I looked upon the huddled masses of fellow fevered sickies I felt a sense of camaraderie. These were my people. We all shared a common bond visible by the glassiness of our eyes, the sheen of sweat upon our brows and the wretched racking of our coughs. The bond we shared was ill fated. <—See what I did there?

The receptionist smiled warmly and asked me, “Why are you here today, hon?”

I answered, “Well, I have had the flu for 6 days now and around midnight I started coughing up blood.”

My fellow zombies stopped their various bodily sounds and looked at me like I had announced I had Leprosy and my intent was to lick them all.

The receptionist, mouth agape in horror, said, “No ma’am. There is nothing we can do for you here. You should not be here. You need to go to the hospital, now.”

No thanks. I’d rather die at home.

Thankfully we have a Dr. friend who listened to the firefighter describing my symptoms and prescribed some meds, just in case it had become pneumonia.  It probably did not get to that point, my cough has always been a full body experience.  It sounds vaguely like a sea lion convention and finishes with the lilting timbre of a cat kacking up something disgusting.

Anyway, I am a new woman.  Four pounds lighter, with ab definition (due to all the coughing), and as God is my witness I will never reject a flu shot again.

Once I rejoined the land of the living we decided to redo our boys’ room. First, I worked on removing the old border in their room.  That took a while. Though not as long as the booger wall.  Yes. Booger wall.  There was not enough magic in the Magic Eraser to remove years worth of two little boys boogers.  After concocting a cocktail of lemon, vinegar, and soap my brillo pad was finally able to penetrate the mucous layers to reveal the wall.  While the firefighter and I were working, I mentioned the booger wall.  Just in passing. I said, “Yeah, I got the border off and you can’t even tell where the booger wall was.”  He said, “Yeah, it looks great.”  I think it really bothers me that I didn’t have to explain what a booger wall was.  He assured me that assigning a wall as keeper of boogers is a completely normal kid thing to do, like vomiting all over your bed, or keeping your baby teeth in a special box in storage.  Wait. What?

I would like to finish with an observation.There are two types of people in this world:

those who use guacamole as an excuse to eat more chips and those who use chips as a guacamole delivery system.

Pinterest is Making Me Weird(er)

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What I want to eat right now is a chocolate chip cookie slathered with cream cheese icing, dipped in milk, with a red velvet cupcake chaser.

Instead, I’m over here noshing on a handful of grapes with a big ol glass of water.

As far as diets go, giving up cupcakes was me at my most dieting extreme. I feared getting the diabetes. Then our lil girly started having some, ahem, intestinal issues. We narrowed the issue down to an allergy. To dairy. My doctor suggested I put her on formula, but I decided to just change my diet. Just. Turns out soy and dairy are literally my bread and butter. I have lost 7 pounds in two weeks. Worst-most-deprived (also, effective) diet, ever. Amelia is all better though.

Sidebar: Oh cheese, there are not enough words to describe the vast emptiness I feel without you by my thigh, er, side.

Whoever said, “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels” is a different kind of human than me. Like a Heidi Klum sub species. One of those weirdos who manages to look even better after having tiny humans exit their body.

Moving on…

K, so (<—oh my, now I am thinking about queso…my mind wanders…Chuy’s has gooooood queso. Mmmmm… melty cheese.) we are hosting Christmas for my family at our house and my creative juices are flowing. And by “creative juices,” I mean searches on Pinterest. I have decided overnight that I am a crafty person, by golly, and I have the boards and pins to prove it. I have a limited budget, but Pinterest has given me the knowledge that armed with a glue gun and a hammer, there is no stopping this force of decor.

I saw a pile of pallets the other day and lost all sense of self and asked the elderly owner if he needed them all. (I do not even know what I would make with them, I just have a board full of projects using Pallets). He scratched his head and said yes, and told me I was not the first woman to ask. Then I took our kiddos to our church parking lot to gather small acorns. Then we went to our chiropractor’s office to gather larger acorns. (You would not believe the elation that ensued when we found some bonus pinecones.) Next, we went stick hunting. Zeke is a very discerning stick hunter, capable of finding sticks with gnarly branches and interesting weather patterns. Connor has no sense when it comes to stick gathering. He picks up all sticks without considering how it will look spray painted in a vase. Such a shame.

My hope is that our home will have a welcoming, rustic, holiday type-vibe. Not a “Hey, my kids and I went for a walk and found a bunch of crap and stuck it in mason jars!” type-vibe.

Ode to Pizza

Oft whence the firefighter has left this home

to weary battle blazes, and give aid to the needy,

my children bestowed upon me the name “awesome”

whence I mentioned your name. All fighting ceased,

and goodwill befell upon the brothers.

My little cherubs would doe-eyed give thanks for your

sustenance, and silence would ensue as their bellies filled.

Pizza, thy power and significance is great,

I know it full well in the wake of thy absence.

“I Want My Momma To Give Me a Sticker!!”

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Everyday Connor comes up with a new thing to holler at naptime. Today his random, bitter tirade is “I want my momma to give me a sticker!!”

Anyway, while Zeke plays outside, Amelia sweetly slumbers, and Connor howls himself to sleep, I would like to share a sort of meandering stream of consciousness that is now marching toward resolve.

This post is not meant to make anyone feel guilty, but to reveal the ugliness that I have allowed to gently creep into my world. My husband and I were among the last, the dying breed of non-smartphone users. We had basic cell phones. We hardly ever texted, unless we wanted to spend an hour tapping out a text message.

Here is an example of a real text message situation BI (Before iphone): One of my friend’s who had an iphone texted me“What do the letters stand for in the band that has that song in that movie with Molly Ringwald that you used to watch all the time?” By the time I had pressed send in my hard labored reply of, “I think OMD stands for Orchestral Manoeuvers in the Dark and the movie was Pretty in Pink” the recipient had already asked 4 other people, bought Pretty in Pink for $1 on Amazon and was downloading the song from itunes.

Dang.

So when we were given iphones, the firefighter and I were completely overwhelmed at all they could do, if only our clumsy fingers were willing to train hard. Texting was a breeze and we could take billions of pics of our kiddos and share them so easily. Our family is spread so far and wide that this became such a precious gift to share our lives with each other. That seemed an innocuous and lofty enough purpose.

Then I downloaded the Facebook and Instagram apps. Now I was able to share pictures and snarky comments any time I wanted with everyone I hardly know. And I have. I have shared and shared and overshared to the point that I think I may have made our family portrait a caricature, cartoony and hardly recognizable. We have far more depth and complexities than what I would share with people I hardly know, yet I am sharing CONSTANTLY little bits and pieces of our lives.

So that has been gently convicting (though it should have been blaringly so).

Here is what finally got me. The other day I was sitting outside holding Amelia while the boys played. Such a sweet scene, right? No. It should have been. I should have been drinking up that moment. Enjoying the perfect weather, snuggling my baby girl, while watching my adorable boys playing. What I was doing was holding the phone out of Amelia’s reach with my eyes glued to the screen as it played a Youtube video demonstrating a toy I was thinking about getting the kids for Christmas.

That’s not soooooo bad, right?

Well…

Except, Zeke called to me, “Mom, hey Mom. Mom! MOM!!!! Watch!!!”

To which I snapped, “What Zeke? Can’t you see I’m busy?!?”

Busy? Busy doing what? Busy ignoring my precious oldest child playing with a loved toy right in front of me because I was too busy watching a video of some stranger’s kid playing with a toy?

This is even more ridiculously disgusting when I think about the times that I have ended a phone call to interact with a stranger. I am never on the phone when I checkout at the grocery store or when I go to Sonic. No way! I don’t want to be one of those rude customers!

Well, guess what Miss High and Mighty? You have become a rude mom.

I am caring too much about the trappings of the world. The enviable and unnecessary things. My focus, too often, has fallen from these sweet blessings right in front of me and instead been given to the fading beauty of silly things. I was not created to worship tinsel, and I am setting a poor example for the little eyes that are constantly watching me. I could share a thousand pictures and never come close to capturing the beauty of our family. You could never know the prayers, struggles, strength, laughter and tears that have brought us to any one moment. And no matter how many pictures I take or filters I test on Instagram, I will always feel like I am not beautiful or good enough and that every lack of “like” tells me it’s true. But I wouldn’t feel this way if I hadn’t invited these things to follow me constantly. If my focus was on the real, the tangible.

So, no more. I have deleted these apps from my phone and I resolve to check Facebook only when it does not interfere with time I could be spending with the people who are right in front of me. Those who know me, feel free to ask me how it’s going. In fact, I beg of you. Keep me accountable.

P.S. Don’t worry, my next post will be much less heavy. Seriously. I have had to give up ALL DAIRY.

More Poop Than Giggles

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I am so sorry to my tens of readers for not posting in a while.  We have been dealing with a lot more poop than giggles lately. No, seriously. Amelia has been pooping around the clock for 11 days now. 

Here is a look at the last 11 days (in addition to everything else everyday entails)

1) Hear baby poop (Let me tell you something: you haven’t lived if you’ve never heard the grunty-squirty-farty-exploding cacophony of intestinal distress overfilling a diaper).

2) Start running a bath with baking soda.

3) Change screaming baby using cotton balls and warm water.

4) Consider burning everything she was wearing.

5) Instead, use stain remover.

6) Put baby’s inflamed bottom in bath.

7) Let baby play in bath till happy and pruney.

8) Dry baby and let her scooch around nekkid for a while, ready to clean up any mess that may (will) occur while baby is sans diaper.

9) Slather baby in butt paste (that is what the product is called, I am not trying to offend anyone’s delicate sensibilities)

10) Dress baby

11) Hear baby poop…

[Sidebar: I took her to the Dr on Tuesday last week.  They took a stool sample and ran tests and cultures. Still no answers.  I have changed my diet a bit to see if that will make a difference, but we are still waiting for it to take effect.  I will be calling the Dr. again tomorrow, just to let them know that she is still dealing with this. She is also nursing around the clock to replenish. Oy. End Sidebar.]

Anyway, the other night the firefighter and I were watching Duck Dynasty, and I was reminded of a funny(tragic) event. I thought I would take some time while they are all napping to share the tale:

The firefighter was reading about Davy Crockett to Zeke. Zeke was really enjoying the story and really wanted a coonskin cap. I envisioned us going to an outdoorsy retailer and purchasing a very snuggly, polyester-blend, machine washable hat.  

The firefighter had much more authentic(disgusting) plans.

Another firefighter lives out in the country and was complaining about the stinkin’ raccoons. My firefighter asked his friend if he would trap one so he could make a coonskin hat for our son.  The friend obliged and about a week later the firefighter came home with a sheepish grin and a warning not to look in the back of his truck.  As I recall, I was pregnant and carrying our 1 year old Connor at the time. I figured he had the skin of a raccoon in there and was being sensitive to my delicate sensibilities.  

Buuuuuuuut….

Then he went to the closet and got his shotgun and told us we should not go in the backyard. 

Oh. My. Word.

We may be Texan, but we live in TOWN y’all!

That event has become that which we do not speak of. My son does not have an animal carcass fashioned for his head, but that raccoon is no longer pestering anyone.   

Has anyone seen my angry eyes?

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We bought Halloween costumes for the boys. Connor (2) will be Buzz Lightyear and Zeke (6) will be the lanky Sheriff Woody. We were talking about how we wished we could find a tiny Jessie costume for Amelia (7months).  Then I said, “Well, I could just be Jessie.”

Zeke, without missing a beat, said, “No, you are Mrs. Potato Head.”

Oh sure. The rotund, nagging toy instead of the trim toy with spunk. The one who manages to lose her own eye but remembers to pack for every possible scenario for her husband. That doesn’t sound like me at all.

Wait…

The firefighter tried to smooth it over saying that it was probably just because there is a Mrs. and a Mr. Potato Head and that Zeke was just divvying out roles in close  accordance with our actual roles.  He told me that Zeke would probably have chosen him to be Mr. Potato Head. But he didn’t.  Zeke (the child who is no longer in the running for favorite) said, “Yeah, and daddy should be Bullseye.” 

Bullseye is a horse.

He is not married to Mrs. Potato Head.

Of course, the firefighter tried to fight it, but I could see a little puff of pride as he thought about the role he had been given.  And I don’t blame him, at the end of the second movie Bullseye carries Buzz Lightyear, Woody and Jessie to safety all at once. He is a sweet, loyal hero.

My mind starts to wander as I try to figure out what has caused this child to make me the least enviable character. Perhaps I waited too long to give up cupcakes, thus he sees me as round. Maybe he has watched me constantly rubbing my eyes from allergies and sleep deprivation and feels I need a new pair.  Could be he sees my ears with earrings or without and thinks I have two different pairs of ears.  Maybe he has noticed that some days are better than others with the nerve damage in my arm and ankle and thinks I have been swapping them out.

Nah. I know that’s not it, because nuances are lost on him.  Recently a bunch of my friends were showing some of the clever, precious things they were making with their children’s lunches. Pictures of circuses and animals made with food all over Facebook and Pinterest.  So, one day I made a cute clown face out of Zeke’s lunch. I called him in for lunch and I went to get my camera. By the time I got back he had eaten an eye, half of the mouth, and a little of the clown’s hair.  I was a little bummed that I hadn’t gotten evidence that I had attempted something cute, but I asked Zeke if he liked the clown I made him.  He looked up and around and said, “Where?” When I pointed it out on his plate he looked at it for a few minutes and said, “I don’t think so.  Because see? It doesn’t have any ears…or arms…or a body…and is that supposed to be the nose?”

Maybe I need a little more adult interaction.

Second Honeymoon > Red Velvet Cupcakes

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The firefighter and I are going on a vacation in the spring! In honor of that awesome upcoming event, I decided it is time to whip my body into shape. Although, really, I have lots of shapes everywhere on my body… Stretch marks and varicose veins making squiggly shapes all over my legs, a muffin top shape hanging over my jeans, and cellulite making circle shapes on my thighs.

Those shapes suit me just fine in my arena. I mean my dress code is mom shorts, yoga pants, ill fitting jeans, and t-shirts. But my husband and I are going to relax on a beach, sipping umbrellad fruity drinks while wearing swimsuits. Meh, swimsuits. I could stuff myself into a swimsuit just fine except that we would be wearing them in the sunshine, not indoors during a blackout.

Well, I recognized my first order of business was to give up (please read the following in Gollum’s voice) my precious red velvet cupcakes. I knew I couldn’t do it alone. So I stopped using my Sensodyne toothpaste. I have CrAzY sensitive teeth. So sensitive that I went to the dentist last week to make sure I was just dealing with the usual sensitivity issues and there wasn’t anything more serious going on.

(Yes there are other things going on and I have to get stuff done tomorrow and I am not a big fan of metal tools and drills touching the inside of my mouth and no I do not want to talk about it.)

Instead I would like to talk about the things they really really felt I should consider. The things insurance, in their unsuperficial approach to client care, wouldn’t dream of covering. Apparently, behind a million dollar smile, is a million dollars missing from one’s wallet. I always felt I had a perfectly fine smile full of perfectly capable teeth. I have been smiling and eating food with these teeth for many years now. According to the dentist’s photographs, charts and computer screens, I am an idiot and should be ashamed of flashing these bad boys around town all these years. To make matters worse, the extra wideness of my offensive grin means they would have to correct a bunch of teeth they normally don’t even have to work on.

I’m looking up at that dude (the dentist) holding a mirror, with my jaw opened as wide as that machine could extend, wearing jeans that were distressed from crouching in the grass to tie shoes and from having stain remover scrubbed into them from three different babies numerous blow outs. I am wearing my glasses, because my eyes were too dry for contacts after spending most of the night up soothing sick babies. I am wearing a t-shirt Amelia puked on before I walked out the door, and my hair is in a ponytail because I haven’t had it cut in ages. I keep glancing at the time because baby girl is going to be ready to nurse again soon, while this man points out all the silly little defects that he could fix to make me have a beautiful smile.

Buddy, I would LOVE to have a picture perfect smile, but I think I’ll go on a second honeymoon instead.