I was given this card after the birth of one of my children and laughed because it'd never happened to me. Until the fateful weekend when my now ex-husband left the freezer door ajar while we were out of town; an entire grocery bag of frozen breast milk thawed and had to be tossed. My daughter was only a few weeks old and I screamed at him "That was all the colostrum, you idiot!!It's like liquid gold! I can never get that back! Never!" I sobbed for an entire hour, inconsolably. Perhaps my post-partum hormone festival had something to do with my reaction, but I still say that the loss of 100+ oz of breast milk totally justifies my hysteria.Friday, November 30, 2012
Spilled Milk
I was given this card after the birth of one of my children and laughed because it'd never happened to me. Until the fateful weekend when my now ex-husband left the freezer door ajar while we were out of town; an entire grocery bag of frozen breast milk thawed and had to be tossed. My daughter was only a few weeks old and I screamed at him "That was all the colostrum, you idiot!!It's like liquid gold! I can never get that back! Never!" I sobbed for an entire hour, inconsolably. Perhaps my post-partum hormone festival had something to do with my reaction, but I still say that the loss of 100+ oz of breast milk totally justifies my hysteria.
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Real Friends Take Care of Your Maggots
I've been very fortunate to have found an amazing community of women whom I am blessed to call my friends; they're supportive, compassionate and always entertaining. With that out of the way I have to say, I'm winning the Best Friend Ever award along with Loyal Friend #1.
Three of us got together for Coffee & Conversation and our hostess was having a bit of a fruit fly problem. She'd spent the better part of three days on a bleach and Lysol bender trying to eradicate the pesky flies from her kitchen and had resorted to a darling little dish of vinegar and Dawn at the sink for pest control - thank you, Pinterest! The topic was soon forgotten as we moved on to the more pressing matters of preschool politics, curling irons and holiday plans.
Midway through our morning, the kids came bouncing down the stairs to regale us with tales from their bountiful imaginations. All four of them were twirling around, dressed to the nines in old Halloween costumes and Christmas dresses, acting out a story about little bugs that were flying around upstairs in a bedroom. Loyal Friend #1 was really getting into it, acting it out with them and adding her own twists to the tale. Bless her oblivious little heart; it was sweet while it lasted.
Hostess and I made eye contact and you could see the wheels turning as we came to the same conclusion, silently mouthing Fruit Flies? to one another over the heads of our unsuspecting children and LF#1. We asked the kids to show us the bugs and they were only too happy to oblige, all seven of us trucking up the stairs as they exclaimed "There's a jillion of 'em!" The moms were moving noticeably slower than the kids and my stomach was starting to knot up; Hostess was already gagging and sweet, sweet LF#1 was still clueless.
Our fears were only too realized as we walked into the bedroom and came upon a swarm of fruit flies large enough to carry away the Fisher Price kitchen set that they were hovering around. The little sink was full of an unidentifiable, thick, brown liquid that seemed to be dripping from behind the door of the miniature microwave. Hostess was covering her face with her hands and I had pulled up the cowl neck of my sweater so as to minimize the likelihood of my inhaling any of those little mothers. LF#1 barreled into the room, still not fully aware of the situation and literally jumped and screamed when she saw what the rest of us were already recoiling from.
Hostess and I backed up and made LF#1 open the microwave door to just exactly what horrors lay behind it. And oh, was it ever horrific: a ginormous pile of brown goo that was teeming with fruit flies and maggots. Hostess was already halfway down the stairs, gagging all the way and racing for the bleach. The kids were pretty sure it was a granola bar but I'm positive that those don't melt; I deduced that it had been, at one time, a banana and was now simply a feeding station for larvae.
Hostess was completely out of commission, face ashen, as she battled back from the brink of a nervous breakdown. LF#1 and I got to work, shipping the kids downstairs so we could chemical bomb the room.
Us, to hostess: "You probably shouldn't let your child sleep in this room tonight."
Her near-tears response: "How long has she been sleeping in this bug infested room to begin with?!?!" We figured later that the offending banana had been festering for two weeks since the kitchen had been moved upstairs from its former place in the living room. We discussed a new idea that perhaps children are best kept in the dining room with food.
Once the chem bomb was unleashed I started working my MacGyver magic with a few garbage bags and some duct tape; I fashioned up a makeshift gunny-sac that we used to contain the entire kitchen set, then we tossed it outside so Hostess could simply point it out to her husband and allow him to deal with it. For our money, LF#1 and I would have pitched that kitchen in a quick little minute but Hostess and her husband are pretty sure it can be redeemed.
The entire experience was hilarious, at best, traumatic, at worst. But perhaps the most disturbing part of the entire incident came nearly a week later when I was back at Hostess's house for coffee; not only was the "redeemable" kitchen still sitting on the back patio, wrapped in all its plastic glory, but this little gem was sitting on the couch. If my lens was faster I'd have caught the best part: the fruit fly sitting atop the banana, having a little munch. The moral of the story is this: Good Friends handle your maggots for you. But only once.
Three of us got together for Coffee & Conversation and our hostess was having a bit of a fruit fly problem. She'd spent the better part of three days on a bleach and Lysol bender trying to eradicate the pesky flies from her kitchen and had resorted to a darling little dish of vinegar and Dawn at the sink for pest control - thank you, Pinterest! The topic was soon forgotten as we moved on to the more pressing matters of preschool politics, curling irons and holiday plans.
Midway through our morning, the kids came bouncing down the stairs to regale us with tales from their bountiful imaginations. All four of them were twirling around, dressed to the nines in old Halloween costumes and Christmas dresses, acting out a story about little bugs that were flying around upstairs in a bedroom. Loyal Friend #1 was really getting into it, acting it out with them and adding her own twists to the tale. Bless her oblivious little heart; it was sweet while it lasted.
Hostess and I made eye contact and you could see the wheels turning as we came to the same conclusion, silently mouthing Fruit Flies? to one another over the heads of our unsuspecting children and LF#1. We asked the kids to show us the bugs and they were only too happy to oblige, all seven of us trucking up the stairs as they exclaimed "There's a jillion of 'em!" The moms were moving noticeably slower than the kids and my stomach was starting to knot up; Hostess was already gagging and sweet, sweet LF#1 was still clueless.
Our fears were only too realized as we walked into the bedroom and came upon a swarm of fruit flies large enough to carry away the Fisher Price kitchen set that they were hovering around. The little sink was full of an unidentifiable, thick, brown liquid that seemed to be dripping from behind the door of the miniature microwave. Hostess was covering her face with her hands and I had pulled up the cowl neck of my sweater so as to minimize the likelihood of my inhaling any of those little mothers. LF#1 barreled into the room, still not fully aware of the situation and literally jumped and screamed when she saw what the rest of us were already recoiling from.
Hostess and I backed up and made LF#1 open the microwave door to just exactly what horrors lay behind it. And oh, was it ever horrific: a ginormous pile of brown goo that was teeming with fruit flies and maggots. Hostess was already halfway down the stairs, gagging all the way and racing for the bleach. The kids were pretty sure it was a granola bar but I'm positive that those don't melt; I deduced that it had been, at one time, a banana and was now simply a feeding station for larvae.
Hostess was completely out of commission, face ashen, as she battled back from the brink of a nervous breakdown. LF#1 and I got to work, shipping the kids downstairs so we could chemical bomb the room.Us, to hostess: "You probably shouldn't let your child sleep in this room tonight."
Her near-tears response: "How long has she been sleeping in this bug infested room to begin with?!?!" We figured later that the offending banana had been festering for two weeks since the kitchen had been moved upstairs from its former place in the living room. We discussed a new idea that perhaps children are best kept in the dining room with food.
Once the chem bomb was unleashed I started working my MacGyver magic with a few garbage bags and some duct tape; I fashioned up a makeshift gunny-sac that we used to contain the entire kitchen set, then we tossed it outside so Hostess could simply point it out to her husband and allow him to deal with it. For our money, LF#1 and I would have pitched that kitchen in a quick little minute but Hostess and her husband are pretty sure it can be redeemed.
The entire experience was hilarious, at best, traumatic, at worst. But perhaps the most disturbing part of the entire incident came nearly a week later when I was back at Hostess's house for coffee; not only was the "redeemable" kitchen still sitting on the back patio, wrapped in all its plastic glory, but this little gem was sitting on the couch. If my lens was faster I'd have caught the best part: the fruit fly sitting atop the banana, having a little munch. The moral of the story is this: Good Friends handle your maggots for you. But only once.Wednesday, October 17, 2012
The Good Doctor
Due to post-divorce changes in insurance I found myself needing a new eye doctor. I ended up with a referral from my family practitioner to one of the ophthalmology clinics in town. Hands down, the very best referral I've ever been given. Note to self: send thank-you gift to Dr. S.
I arrived for my appointment needing a new prescription for my glasses and contacts and with a few questionable neurological symptoms that my family practice doctor thought best evaluated by a professional of the ocular sort. With nothing but the name of the doctor and an appointment time I had no idea what to expect. The optician was very friendly and nice, finishing her part of my visit quickly and leaving me with gigantically dilated pupils and streaks of angry, yellow eye drops running down my cheeks. Between the yellow tears and my incessantly watering eye relieving me of my mascara and eyeliner at a record pace, I'm pretty sure I looked ten shades of beautiful.
And in comes Dr. Gorgeous. Dr. Holy-Buckets-I-Wish-I-Would-Have-Showered-For-This-Visit. Dr. You're-So-Hot-I-Forgot-Why-I'm-Here. Dr. Thank-God-You're-An-Eye-Doctor-And-Not-My-Gynecologist. And he smelled good. Sooooo good. Like a warm spring morning, a crisp fall evening and a steamy summer night all rolled up in one dark haired, blue-eyed, muscular package.
His exam was thorough and painless. Ok, yeah, the eye doctor is rarely painful but just let me have my moment here, ok? He recommends some further testing but says he won't be able to read the results for a few weeks as he'll be out of the country. Must be nice to head out on vacation in April, right?
I went out to the reception desk to schedule my next appointment, a little skip in my step knowing that I would see him again soon. He finds me before I leave the office and hands me a pair of Seriously Glamorous plastic inserts for my sunglasses, you know, to counteract the dilating eye drops. There is no way to convincingly suggest that I won't be needing them; between the tears and eye drops I look like a domestic abuse PSA. Still, I insist that I'm fine and my eyes feel great. Never mind the fact that I literally can't even keep them open due to the bright sun shining in through the excessive number of windows.
Hoping for a subtle attempt at further conversation I say "Have a great vacation!"
Stoic, Handsome Doctor: " It's not actually a vacation; I'm going to Honduras. For a humanitarian mission with the National Guard; sort of like Doctors Without Borders."
Me: "Oh, wow. What will you be doing there?" Really, Leah? Really?
He lifts an eyebrow and slowly says "Um, I'll be doing eye exams. And minor eye surgery. For women and children without access to health care."
Of course you are. Of course. Because you don't have enough going for you, you must also be a Soldier. A fricking Soldier. A humanitarian-mission-taking, child-sight-saving, well-dressed, gorgeous, great-smelling Dr. Soldier. Advanced degree: check. Dedication to his patients (worldwide, no less): check. Sense of civic duty: check. Uniform, Uniform, Uniform: checkity check check check.
That about wraps it up, ladies. Quite possibly the most highly specialized brand of Man Candy ever created. And I have an appointment with him in just a few weeks. My dry eyes are simply torturous and I have no doubt he'll be quite concerned.
I arrived for my appointment needing a new prescription for my glasses and contacts and with a few questionable neurological symptoms that my family practice doctor thought best evaluated by a professional of the ocular sort. With nothing but the name of the doctor and an appointment time I had no idea what to expect. The optician was very friendly and nice, finishing her part of my visit quickly and leaving me with gigantically dilated pupils and streaks of angry, yellow eye drops running down my cheeks. Between the yellow tears and my incessantly watering eye relieving me of my mascara and eyeliner at a record pace, I'm pretty sure I looked ten shades of beautiful.
And in comes Dr. Gorgeous. Dr. Holy-Buckets-I-Wish-I-Would-Have-Showered-For-This-Visit. Dr. You're-So-Hot-I-Forgot-Why-I'm-Here. Dr. Thank-God-You're-An-Eye-Doctor-And-Not-My-Gynecologist. And he smelled good. Sooooo good. Like a warm spring morning, a crisp fall evening and a steamy summer night all rolled up in one dark haired, blue-eyed, muscular package.
His exam was thorough and painless. Ok, yeah, the eye doctor is rarely painful but just let me have my moment here, ok? He recommends some further testing but says he won't be able to read the results for a few weeks as he'll be out of the country. Must be nice to head out on vacation in April, right?
I went out to the reception desk to schedule my next appointment, a little skip in my step knowing that I would see him again soon. He finds me before I leave the office and hands me a pair of Seriously Glamorous plastic inserts for my sunglasses, you know, to counteract the dilating eye drops. There is no way to convincingly suggest that I won't be needing them; between the tears and eye drops I look like a domestic abuse PSA. Still, I insist that I'm fine and my eyes feel great. Never mind the fact that I literally can't even keep them open due to the bright sun shining in through the excessive number of windows.
Hoping for a subtle attempt at further conversation I say "Have a great vacation!"
Stoic, Handsome Doctor: " It's not actually a vacation; I'm going to Honduras. For a humanitarian mission with the National Guard; sort of like Doctors Without Borders."
Me: "Oh, wow. What will you be doing there?" Really, Leah? Really?
He lifts an eyebrow and slowly says "Um, I'll be doing eye exams. And minor eye surgery. For women and children without access to health care."
Of course you are. Of course. Because you don't have enough going for you, you must also be a Soldier. A fricking Soldier. A humanitarian-mission-taking, child-sight-saving, well-dressed, gorgeous, great-smelling Dr. Soldier. Advanced degree: check. Dedication to his patients (worldwide, no less): check. Sense of civic duty: check. Uniform, Uniform, Uniform: checkity check check check.
That about wraps it up, ladies. Quite possibly the most highly specialized brand of Man Candy ever created. And I have an appointment with him in just a few weeks. My dry eyes are simply torturous and I have no doubt he'll be quite concerned.
Monday, October 1, 2012
Shit Just Got Real
On the eve of my 30th birthday, it seemed only fitting that I cross the very last threshold into the Land of Bona Fide Grownups. My first assigned task in Adult Town involved just enough money to cause serious second thoughts and give me a stomachache. Also, I cried the whole way home.
It is a gorgeous new necklace or pair of diamond earrings? Maybe those $600 riding boots I've been eyeing? Or maybe I finally went out and bought every Cuisinart and KitchenAid appliance I've ever wanted? Of course I deserve all of those things, but I went bigger. Much bigger. Think: living room. As in, Living Room on Wheels.
That's right, I bought a minivan. A full-fledged-soccer-momming-grocery-getting-zero-sex-appeal-inducing-kid-pleasing-ego-murdering Chrysler Town & Country. I don't know whether to laugh or cry, so I've been doing a pretty solid job of both.
I could go on for days about how comfortable and practical it is, how much the kids love it and how nice it'll be for long trips in the car. But that only adds to the stark reality that is the loss of my twenties, my "carefree" twenties that I packed full of every life experience possible:
20-22: Just a lot of floundering and a general search for purpose. I am bad at this.
23: Started dating the man who would become my now-ex husband. Aim high, ladies!
24: Married that man. (my inner monologue on the way down the aisle: "This will not end well.")
25: Gave birth to my sweet, firstborn son. *win*
26: Gave birth to my beautiful daughter. *win*
27: Gave birth to my littlest and last babe. *win*
28: Got divorced. True to form, it Did Not End Well.
29: Had a hysterectomy. Take that, Tampax and Midol!
29+++: Bought the damn van and left behind life as I know it.
It was every bit as crazy as it looks, and then some. Though with all that in my past, my thirties can only bring calm, right? Because that's what I'm telling myself. Over and over again I tell myself that 30 is good. Thirty is peaceful. Thirty is forward motion. Thirty is the *Decade of You*! Right? RIGHT?!
It is a gorgeous new necklace or pair of diamond earrings? Maybe those $600 riding boots I've been eyeing? Or maybe I finally went out and bought every Cuisinart and KitchenAid appliance I've ever wanted? Of course I deserve all of those things, but I went bigger. Much bigger. Think: living room. As in, Living Room on Wheels.
That's right, I bought a minivan. A full-fledged-soccer-momming-grocery-getting-zero-sex-appeal-inducing-kid-pleasing-ego-murdering Chrysler Town & Country. I don't know whether to laugh or cry, so I've been doing a pretty solid job of both.
I could go on for days about how comfortable and practical it is, how much the kids love it and how nice it'll be for long trips in the car. But that only adds to the stark reality that is the loss of my twenties, my "carefree" twenties that I packed full of every life experience possible:
20-22: Just a lot of floundering and a general search for purpose. I am bad at this.
23: Started dating the man who would become my now-ex husband. Aim high, ladies!
24: Married that man. (my inner monologue on the way down the aisle: "This will not end well.")
25: Gave birth to my sweet, firstborn son. *win*
26: Gave birth to my beautiful daughter. *win*
27: Gave birth to my littlest and last babe. *win*
28: Got divorced. True to form, it Did Not End Well.
29: Had a hysterectomy. Take that, Tampax and Midol!
29+++: Bought the damn van and left behind life as I know it.
It was every bit as crazy as it looks, and then some. Though with all that in my past, my thirties can only bring calm, right? Because that's what I'm telling myself. Over and over again I tell myself that 30 is good. Thirty is peaceful. Thirty is forward motion. Thirty is the *Decade of You*! Right? RIGHT?!
Sunday, September 30, 2012
It's a Fine Line
I'm beginning to see that in this small world, there are Six Murky Degrees of Separation from the People You Blog About and May or May Not Offend. Believe it or not, I don't seek out controversial subject matter, nor do I seek to offend my readers. And because I'm very aware of my oft-missing filter, I'm at a constant crossroads that is currently crippling my writing process.
Do I write what I live, see, experience and think? Even in a small city where everyone is so interconnected? At the risk of offending untold numbers? Or should I embrace this chance to reach into the closets of other, though certainly more controlled, filterless-minded individuals like myself? This never-ending question circles through my mind, round and round until any hint of creativity has been murdered and I'm left without a single, worthwhile thought in my head.
Writing is my outlet, my therapy, my cleansing process. It is the fastest, easiest way for me to rid myself of the busyness of my mind and free up room to deal with my current reality. Realities such as diapers, dirty dishes, to-be-folded laundry, homework, and seriously, you're fucking hungry again? Really?! I just finished scraping the oatmeal off the walls; you're gonna have to wait.
My self-imposed writer's block is killing me; keeping all of my loud opinions hidden inside just can't be healthy. So from here on out, I'm taking off the gloves. I've lived my life, thus far, by the seat of my pants and while it's not always served me well, it's gotten me to where I am today. And today is a good place to be, bitches.
Do I write what I live, see, experience and think? Even in a small city where everyone is so interconnected? At the risk of offending untold numbers? Or should I embrace this chance to reach into the closets of other, though certainly more controlled, filterless-minded individuals like myself? This never-ending question circles through my mind, round and round until any hint of creativity has been murdered and I'm left without a single, worthwhile thought in my head.
Writing is my outlet, my therapy, my cleansing process. It is the fastest, easiest way for me to rid myself of the busyness of my mind and free up room to deal with my current reality. Realities such as diapers, dirty dishes, to-be-folded laundry, homework, and seriously, you're fucking hungry again? Really?! I just finished scraping the oatmeal off the walls; you're gonna have to wait.
My self-imposed writer's block is killing me; keeping all of my loud opinions hidden inside just can't be healthy. So from here on out, I'm taking off the gloves. I've lived my life, thus far, by the seat of my pants and while it's not always served me well, it's gotten me to where I am today. And today is a good place to be, bitches.
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Unbridled Creativity
My daughter definitely has a creative streak, as is evident by the many and varied art projects that adorn the doors of my kitchen and dining room. Aside from the standard daycare send-alongs, we have a collection of projects born from the pretty impressive contents of our "craft crate." The crate is the most widely used source of entertainment in our house and by keeping it updated and refreshing it often, the kids don't get bored of the contents.
Sweet T's creativity knows no bounds. Really. Last fall she treated me to a one-of-a-kind masterpiece. It was a truly remarkable abstract done in bold black, a real Statement Piece, if I've ever seen one. I thought the title needed more thought, but I kept my opinion to myself.
"Giant Box-Marking Sharpie on Suede"
by Sweet T Schroeder
And again yesterday, she blessed me with another one of her original works. When I pick the kids up from daycare we have a pretty standard episode of Schroeder ridiculousness and it goes a little something like this: everyone is clamoring for my attention and some (The Baby, I'm talking about you) will literally climb the bodies of the other siblings in order to be the first into my arms. You must feel so loved! you're probably saying to yourself. Yes, quite.
Realizing that my attention is not just divided but completely frayed, they take to their own devices. G runs towards the building and pretends not to hear my unending refrain of getinthetruckGetInTheTruckGETINTHEFRICKINGTRUCK! The baby takes off, running the length of the playground fence in search of his water bottle and an escape route. I can usually count on Sweet T to be my little momma hen and assist in the capture of her brothers.
But yesterday was not one of those days. While the boys ran in their standard - and opposite - directions, Sweet T obediently went and stood by her door, waiting patiently for me. I was getting the details of the kids' day from the teachers while chasing down The Baby and yelling for G, barely registering the loud pounding noise in my periphery.
I finally made my way to the truck in time to observe my daughter, deep in the creative process. She's unleashing the beauty of her next masterpiece, all over my truck. With a rock. A big, fat, dent-making, door-scratching, paint-scraping, mother-loving ROCK. A fucking ROCK, people!
I gasped, she dropped the rock and with wide eyes, nodded along when I requested that she not color my truck with rocks. Ever again. Actually, let's just not even touch the truck. Remarkably, not another word was needed to gain complete compliance from my entire crew for the remainder of the evening.
Being that I'm in the midst of trying to sell my truck, I've decided to fully market her latest work. I intend to play up the fact that the new owner of my Land Rover will be in possession of one of the earliest works from an up-and-coming, child prodigy, mixed-media artist. Yes, I'm pretty sure I'll have to fend off the throngs of people flocking to my door, cash in hand.
Sweet T's creativity knows no bounds. Really. Last fall she treated me to a one-of-a-kind masterpiece. It was a truly remarkable abstract done in bold black, a real Statement Piece, if I've ever seen one. I thought the title needed more thought, but I kept my opinion to myself.
"Giant Box-Marking Sharpie on Suede"
by Sweet T Schroeder
And again yesterday, she blessed me with another one of her original works. When I pick the kids up from daycare we have a pretty standard episode of Schroeder ridiculousness and it goes a little something like this: everyone is clamoring for my attention and some (The Baby, I'm talking about you) will literally climb the bodies of the other siblings in order to be the first into my arms. You must feel so loved! you're probably saying to yourself. Yes, quite.
Realizing that my attention is not just divided but completely frayed, they take to their own devices. G runs towards the building and pretends not to hear my unending refrain of getinthetruckGetInTheTruckGETINTHEFRICKINGTRUCK! The baby takes off, running the length of the playground fence in search of his water bottle and an escape route. I can usually count on Sweet T to be my little momma hen and assist in the capture of her brothers.
But yesterday was not one of those days. While the boys ran in their standard - and opposite - directions, Sweet T obediently went and stood by her door, waiting patiently for me. I was getting the details of the kids' day from the teachers while chasing down The Baby and yelling for G, barely registering the loud pounding noise in my periphery.
I finally made my way to the truck in time to observe my daughter, deep in the creative process. She's unleashing the beauty of her next masterpiece, all over my truck. With a rock. A big, fat, dent-making, door-scratching, paint-scraping, mother-loving ROCK. A fucking ROCK, people!
I gasped, she dropped the rock and with wide eyes, nodded along when I requested that she not color my truck with rocks. Ever again. Actually, let's just not even touch the truck. Remarkably, not another word was needed to gain complete compliance from my entire crew for the remainder of the evening.
Being that I'm in the midst of trying to sell my truck, I've decided to fully market her latest work. I intend to play up the fact that the new owner of my Land Rover will be in possession of one of the earliest works from an up-and-coming, child prodigy, mixed-media artist. Yes, I'm pretty sure I'll have to fend off the throngs of people flocking to my door, cash in hand.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Sweet T: 1; Momma: -2
My daughter's pacifier got "lost" when she was about 2 1/2. But no worries, she just picked up her thumb and had an instant (not to mention un-loseable) replacement. I didn't fight it because she's a pretty steady bedtime-only sucker and it's not interfered with play or socialization in the least. I cannot say the same for my son, who is now 4 1/2. His pacifier also got "lost" around the same time but he did well with the transition. That is, until about 6 weeks ago; out of nowhere he came home from a visit with his dad as a die-hard thumb sucking fanatic. I kid you not, that stub only came out of his mouth at meals and when he needed to speak.
Being as G is my oldest child, and constant victim of my numerous and on-going parenting failures, I have been at a complete loss for how to deal with this situation. I tried the whole "you're not a baby anymore and big kids have much cooler things to do than suck their thumbs" along with "dude, seriously, the smacking/sucking noise is making me homicidal" and on to vague, crunchy-theory directed "let's try to find another way for you to self-soothe that doesn't involve appendages and saliva." Not to mention that daycare was commenting about and questioning the behavior and its sudden onset and constant presence.
Eventually the slime and suckling got the best of me and I ordered a bottle of Mavala Stop - a nail polish with a distinct, terrible taste that is for nail-biters and thumb suckers alike. I must admit, I was feeling nervous and more than a little guilty about using it; but my parents used something like it with me and it didn't cause any long-term hatred for them, so onward I went. G and Sweet T were obliviously excited to get "toe-polish" on their thumbs; that alone made it a little more heartbreaking, as in the back of my mind I was thinking "you have no idea of the reality to come, though I've prepped you and issued constant reminders of the function of said toe-polish."
Sweet T threw a fit shortly after the initial application and immediately popped her thumb in her mouth. With watery eyes she drooled, moaned, groaned and complained all through stories and the bedtime routine. Six drinks of water later she was still lamenting "It's not getting out of my mouth. It's stuck on my tongue, momma." G was impressed enough by her reaction that he didn't even attempt so much as a lick. Though I did bust him stealing the baby's pacifier shortly thereafter. Hey, I'll take my victories where I can get them.
The next night was a little more interesting: G had decided that his forefinger made a perfectly acceptable replacement for his thumb so he was no worse for the wear. Are you fricking serious, kid? So he got the royal treatment: all ten little fingers painted for prevention. It gets better though, because he then transitioned to sucking the flesh of his forearm; his entire arm is still peppered with giant hickeys and he looks like a battered child. He's nothing if not innovative, right? At least there's that...
Sweet T was an entirely different story. As I went downstairs after tucking them in she starts a rousing round of "I don't have anything to put in my mouth!!" and carries on for some time. Now, a little background on my baby girl: there was an entire year of her life that when angry or frustrated, she would scream and cry until she vomited. Intentionally. It was lovely, really.
After a solid 30 minutes of crying I hear the dreaded "I puked, momma!" I stomped upstairs and started the water in the tub before silently stalking into her room to survey the damage. And damage there was; her entire bed, the carpet, her whole front and her long, beautiful (just washed) locks were covered in goop. Being more than a little disgusted and irritated I gave her the whisper-quiet lecture about how screaming until you vomit is NOT the way to get through life, then shipped her off to the tub while I got out my haz-mat suit and attacked the mess before me.
Being the lazy mom that I am, it wasn't hard for me to decide that rather than spend 45 minutes rinsing and gagging over the soiled bedsheet and jammies, I would simply stuff them in a Target bag and toss them in the trash. And before you get all uppity and send me emails about waste and eco-friendly habits, know that I'll expect you to back up your rhetoric by offering to come and pre-rinse all of my kid-soiled linens and clothes, you know, in the name of eco-consciousness.
I bathed my daughter for the second time in less than an hour and trucked her back to bed, but not before having a whole bunch of water. She was completely silent, as is often the case after one of her Super Mega Vomit Tantrums and she apologized as I snuggled her back to bed.
After replaying the scene in my head later that evening, I realized that she was still throwing up when I came upstairs and kept drooling and gagging while I got her undressed. And then it dawned on me: holy crap, she didn't do this on purpose. I think it was the perfect storm of screaming and getting worked up and then putting her thumb in her mouth that led to the Big Event. I felt terrible and about two inches tall; here I'm angry with my child because of actions that were not, in fact, intentional but rather entirely situational. And from a situation that I had created with my Genius plan for thumb sucking eradication. Lesson: learned. In spades.
I went upstairs right away and removed the polish, feeling more guilty by the minute. I spent the next two days apologizing profusely, owning my wrong-ness and vowing to be less shitty. As of today, Sweet T is a happy-go-lucky thumb sucking 3-year-old; for my money, she can suck that bad boy until she's 35 if she feels so inclined. As for G, he's moved on to sucking the life out of his bottom lip and won't dare chance tasting the "toe-polish." I'm pleased as punch and he's pretty proud of himself, as well. So I guess we'll always have that, right?
Being as G is my oldest child, and constant victim of my numerous and on-going parenting failures, I have been at a complete loss for how to deal with this situation. I tried the whole "you're not a baby anymore and big kids have much cooler things to do than suck their thumbs" along with "dude, seriously, the smacking/sucking noise is making me homicidal" and on to vague, crunchy-theory directed "let's try to find another way for you to self-soothe that doesn't involve appendages and saliva." Not to mention that daycare was commenting about and questioning the behavior and its sudden onset and constant presence.
Eventually the slime and suckling got the best of me and I ordered a bottle of Mavala Stop - a nail polish with a distinct, terrible taste that is for nail-biters and thumb suckers alike. I must admit, I was feeling nervous and more than a little guilty about using it; but my parents used something like it with me and it didn't cause any long-term hatred for them, so onward I went. G and Sweet T were obliviously excited to get "toe-polish" on their thumbs; that alone made it a little more heartbreaking, as in the back of my mind I was thinking "you have no idea of the reality to come, though I've prepped you and issued constant reminders of the function of said toe-polish."
Sweet T threw a fit shortly after the initial application and immediately popped her thumb in her mouth. With watery eyes she drooled, moaned, groaned and complained all through stories and the bedtime routine. Six drinks of water later she was still lamenting "It's not getting out of my mouth. It's stuck on my tongue, momma." G was impressed enough by her reaction that he didn't even attempt so much as a lick. Though I did bust him stealing the baby's pacifier shortly thereafter. Hey, I'll take my victories where I can get them.
The next night was a little more interesting: G had decided that his forefinger made a perfectly acceptable replacement for his thumb so he was no worse for the wear. Are you fricking serious, kid? So he got the royal treatment: all ten little fingers painted for prevention. It gets better though, because he then transitioned to sucking the flesh of his forearm; his entire arm is still peppered with giant hickeys and he looks like a battered child. He's nothing if not innovative, right? At least there's that...
Sweet T was an entirely different story. As I went downstairs after tucking them in she starts a rousing round of "I don't have anything to put in my mouth!!" and carries on for some time. Now, a little background on my baby girl: there was an entire year of her life that when angry or frustrated, she would scream and cry until she vomited. Intentionally. It was lovely, really.
After a solid 30 minutes of crying I hear the dreaded "I puked, momma!" I stomped upstairs and started the water in the tub before silently stalking into her room to survey the damage. And damage there was; her entire bed, the carpet, her whole front and her long, beautiful (just washed) locks were covered in goop. Being more than a little disgusted and irritated I gave her the whisper-quiet lecture about how screaming until you vomit is NOT the way to get through life, then shipped her off to the tub while I got out my haz-mat suit and attacked the mess before me.
Being the lazy mom that I am, it wasn't hard for me to decide that rather than spend 45 minutes rinsing and gagging over the soiled bedsheet and jammies, I would simply stuff them in a Target bag and toss them in the trash. And before you get all uppity and send me emails about waste and eco-friendly habits, know that I'll expect you to back up your rhetoric by offering to come and pre-rinse all of my kid-soiled linens and clothes, you know, in the name of eco-consciousness.
I bathed my daughter for the second time in less than an hour and trucked her back to bed, but not before having a whole bunch of water. She was completely silent, as is often the case after one of her Super Mega Vomit Tantrums and she apologized as I snuggled her back to bed.
After replaying the scene in my head later that evening, I realized that she was still throwing up when I came upstairs and kept drooling and gagging while I got her undressed. And then it dawned on me: holy crap, she didn't do this on purpose. I think it was the perfect storm of screaming and getting worked up and then putting her thumb in her mouth that led to the Big Event. I felt terrible and about two inches tall; here I'm angry with my child because of actions that were not, in fact, intentional but rather entirely situational. And from a situation that I had created with my Genius plan for thumb sucking eradication. Lesson: learned. In spades.
I went upstairs right away and removed the polish, feeling more guilty by the minute. I spent the next two days apologizing profusely, owning my wrong-ness and vowing to be less shitty. As of today, Sweet T is a happy-go-lucky thumb sucking 3-year-old; for my money, she can suck that bad boy until she's 35 if she feels so inclined. As for G, he's moved on to sucking the life out of his bottom lip and won't dare chance tasting the "toe-polish." I'm pleased as punch and he's pretty proud of himself, as well. So I guess we'll always have that, right?
Monday, July 16, 2012
Scar-fading Miracle Mask?
I'm always up for trying homemade beauty treatments. I mean, who wouldn't want to claim responsibility for the production of their own beauty regimen resulting in beautiful, clear, porcelain-esque skin? I decided to try out a nutmeg-honey-lemon-cinnamon mask that promised to rid my face of any acne scars and clear up/prevent future blemishes. Knowing that all of the aforementioned ingredients are renowned for their healing and beneficial properties, I was sure that this one was going to be a keeper.
To start off, making the mask is a giant pain in the ass. Honey and lemon mix together just fine; add in the cinnamon and nutmeg and you might as well be trying to get oil and water to play nice. I tried stirring it together; then I used a whisk; then I tried to break up the powder bubbles with my fingers. Eventually I gave up and just stirred the whole concoction with my hands, kneading it like bread dough. Note the hot mess that ensued from the preparation.
And I like nutmeg just as much as the next girl; I'm a big fan of freshly grated nutmeg sprinkled over my fettuccine alfredo or in my hot chocolate on a cold day in the fall. But that's where my fanaticism ends. Turns out, the incredibly strong scent of nutmeg radiating from my face for 30 minutes was enough to trigger a migraine. No joke, I kept sniffing around my house, trying to find what smelled like mildew until I realized it was my own face. Just wash it off! you might be saying. Nay! I will suffer endlessly for the sake of genuine experiences in the name of journalism.
The original blogger, whose recipe I used, does make note of the fact that the mask burns "a little." Yep, I was gritting my teeth and my eyes were watering the entire time. My face was really red and irritated when I rinsed off the mask and it took two days before my skin felt normal again.
All in all, this magical scar-fading mask ate up an hour of my life that I will never get back and gave me a headache the likes of which made me want to vomit. I'd have to say, this one didn't make the cut.
Link to original Pin
To start off, making the mask is a giant pain in the ass. Honey and lemon mix together just fine; add in the cinnamon and nutmeg and you might as well be trying to get oil and water to play nice. I tried stirring it together; then I used a whisk; then I tried to break up the powder bubbles with my fingers. Eventually I gave up and just stirred the whole concoction with my hands, kneading it like bread dough. Note the hot mess that ensued from the preparation.
And I like nutmeg just as much as the next girl; I'm a big fan of freshly grated nutmeg sprinkled over my fettuccine alfredo or in my hot chocolate on a cold day in the fall. But that's where my fanaticism ends. Turns out, the incredibly strong scent of nutmeg radiating from my face for 30 minutes was enough to trigger a migraine. No joke, I kept sniffing around my house, trying to find what smelled like mildew until I realized it was my own face. Just wash it off! you might be saying. Nay! I will suffer endlessly for the sake of genuine experiences in the name of journalism.
The original blogger, whose recipe I used, does make note of the fact that the mask burns "a little." Yep, I was gritting my teeth and my eyes were watering the entire time. My face was really red and irritated when I rinsed off the mask and it took two days before my skin felt normal again.
All in all, this magical scar-fading mask ate up an hour of my life that I will never get back and gave me a headache the likes of which made me want to vomit. I'd have to say, this one didn't make the cut.
Link to original Pin
Friday, July 13, 2012
Mug Shot
Anyone who knows me well is aware of my affinity (bordering on problematic obsession) for coffee; strong, dark and black. Along with my coffee love comes an adoration for great, unique mugs and other coffee vessels. I like to buy a mug any time I take a little trip or vacation; it's a memento that will be used often and keeps the memory of the trip fresh in my mind. I find myself sitting with my morning coffee, reflecting on the times had; good, bad and shit-show ugly, it all goes down a little easier with great coffee in a fun mug.
With this love in mind, I squealed (audibly, at work) when I found an amazing Pin with links to 50+ high-end-retail-knock-off DIY projects. The picture below was my first inspiration, a place setting from West Elm. I love the imperfect perfection, simplicity and cool calm of the dark blue on stark white.
50+ Retail Knock-Offs Pin
So I dug around through my vast collection of DIY Pins and mashed together the ideas from several similar themes; here's what I came up with: porcelain paints on dollar store mugs, baked at 375 degrees for 35 minutes. I picked up the paints on clearance at Michael's; they were $2.49/ea and the mugs were $1/ea. Quick note on the mugs: minimal selection (obviously; it's the dollar store) and one of the handles broke while I was painting it. So I ended up with only one mug, but that was fine for my first experiment. The project was surprisingly easy, with minimal set-up/clean-up and took less than 30 minutes, start to finish. Once you get the hang of it, I'm certain you could bang out a set of four in less than an hour.
Sharpie on Porcelain Pin
The hardest part for me was deciding what sort of style/pattern I wanted to use for the mug. (Visit my Pattern Possibilities Board if you get stuck!) I was nervous about ruining the mugs but the paint is easily washable, before it is baked. I tested out a few designs and found that it's a bit challenging to get the hang of the flow of the paint and the curvature of the mug. I did a few trials on plain paper and then let the paint fly in a lovely, imperfect pattern that turned out exactly as I'd hoped it would.
Below you can see my results of my own, original design as well as a picture of the specific paint used for this project. I didn't use the pewter color, though it is shown in the photo. I let the paint dry for 24 hours, per the directions, and then baked the mug according to the specs on the paint packaging. I was absolutely thrilled with the end result and gave it as part of a house-warming gift. This is, to date, my favorite Pinterest production.
With this love in mind, I squealed (audibly, at work) when I found an amazing Pin with links to 50+ high-end-retail-knock-off DIY projects. The picture below was my first inspiration, a place setting from West Elm. I love the imperfect perfection, simplicity and cool calm of the dark blue on stark white.
50+ Retail Knock-Offs Pin
So I dug around through my vast collection of DIY Pins and mashed together the ideas from several similar themes; here's what I came up with: porcelain paints on dollar store mugs, baked at 375 degrees for 35 minutes. I picked up the paints on clearance at Michael's; they were $2.49/ea and the mugs were $1/ea. Quick note on the mugs: minimal selection (obviously; it's the dollar store) and one of the handles broke while I was painting it. So I ended up with only one mug, but that was fine for my first experiment. The project was surprisingly easy, with minimal set-up/clean-up and took less than 30 minutes, start to finish. Once you get the hang of it, I'm certain you could bang out a set of four in less than an hour.
Sharpie on Porcelain Pin
The hardest part for me was deciding what sort of style/pattern I wanted to use for the mug. (Visit my Pattern Possibilities Board if you get stuck!) I was nervous about ruining the mugs but the paint is easily washable, before it is baked. I tested out a few designs and found that it's a bit challenging to get the hang of the flow of the paint and the curvature of the mug. I did a few trials on plain paper and then let the paint fly in a lovely, imperfect pattern that turned out exactly as I'd hoped it would.
Below you can see my results of my own, original design as well as a picture of the specific paint used for this project. I didn't use the pewter color, though it is shown in the photo. I let the paint dry for 24 hours, per the directions, and then baked the mug according to the specs on the paint packaging. I was absolutely thrilled with the end result and gave it as part of a house-warming gift. This is, to date, my favorite Pinterest production.
Thursday, July 12, 2012
Cutting Continuous T-Shirt Yarn = Frickin' Rad
I came across this Pin a few weeks ago and could hardly contain my excitement. With this simple trick, I've been able to filter through the piles of clothes that I no longer wear and combine two of my passions: crocheting and re-purposing of everyday items. The tutorial from the video is clear and easy to follow and I didn't have to change anything. The process is a little time-consuming but pretty mindless and not challenging at all. My kids were with their father for the weekend and I ended up with the stomach flu (awesome, right?), so I spent all day Saturday on the couch, watching bad movies and making yarn.
The only issue I encountered, happened when I didn't leave a large enough space at the top of the fold; make sure you leave a solid two inches, otherwise you'll end up with too-thin strips when you're finishing with the scissors and the fabric will rip when you go through the stretching step. I also found that tissue-tees/burn-out tees don't work because they are too thin to sustain the stretching step.
I started with 14 ratty, ugly old tees and long-sleeved shirts and ended up with 12 balls of t-shirt yarn in varying colors; the bottom picture is the finished product. One tissue tee didn't work and another long-sleeved tee was shot; rather than curl up when I stretched it, it simply expanded into a sad, wide strip that was unusable. I'm going to start by making some fun rugs for the bathrooms and kids rooms; they'll be washable and absorbent and better yet, Free!
The only problem now is containing myself from going through every item of clothing in our house and tossing everything in my to-be-cut pile. So you can bet your sweet ass I'll be trucking down to Goodwill this weekend and picking up some XXXL ugliness on the cheap, all in the name of homemade handicrafts. (Napoleon Dynamite reference, anyone?)
Link to the original Pin and video tutorial
The only issue I encountered, happened when I didn't leave a large enough space at the top of the fold; make sure you leave a solid two inches, otherwise you'll end up with too-thin strips when you're finishing with the scissors and the fabric will rip when you go through the stretching step. I also found that tissue-tees/burn-out tees don't work because they are too thin to sustain the stretching step.
I started with 14 ratty, ugly old tees and long-sleeved shirts and ended up with 12 balls of t-shirt yarn in varying colors; the bottom picture is the finished product. One tissue tee didn't work and another long-sleeved tee was shot; rather than curl up when I stretched it, it simply expanded into a sad, wide strip that was unusable. I'm going to start by making some fun rugs for the bathrooms and kids rooms; they'll be washable and absorbent and better yet, Free!
The only problem now is containing myself from going through every item of clothing in our house and tossing everything in my to-be-cut pile. So you can bet your sweet ass I'll be trucking down to Goodwill this weekend and picking up some XXXL ugliness on the cheap, all in the name of homemade handicrafts. (Napoleon Dynamite reference, anyone?)
Link to the original Pin and video tutorial
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