Awesome sauce

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Things at the EdelSpot are generally pretty awesome.

I realize that if you just glance through my posts, you may see a disgruntled woman complaining about life, her children, her life with her children. That couldn’t be further from the truth and if I don’t say it, I am doing you all a disservice.

I love my life. I love everything about it. From the messiness, to the lack of sleep, to the days I want to tear out my hair or run away to Argentina, I love it all. Because it is perfect in it’s lack of perfection, and it is MINE.

I once met up with an old friend that I hadn’t spent much time with since my children were born. She reads (or used to read) The EdelSpot. And at some point in our conversation, she made an offhand comment about how I don’t even like my own daughter.

Pause for righteous indignation.

Actually, pause for an internal brain explosion. HOW COULD YOU THINK I DON’T LIKE MY OWN DAUGHTER? Clearly, we are not close friends any more.

But the truth is, she had a point. I probably spend most of my time sharing about the latest shit storm or parenting fail over here. But that is because NOT EVERYONE NEEDS A RAINBOW. Seriously, when you are having a hard day, and you feel overwhelmed and you haven’t showered in a few days and you have to yell at  your daughter that if she wipes another booger on the furniture SHE IS GOING TO TIME OUT UNTIL SHE IS 20, the last thing you want to do is see how FUCKING AWESOME another mom is doing. Because then the shame spiral kicks in and  you are forced to pour cereal into a bowl for the kids and turn on some Dora so you can go lie in the bottom of the shower in the fetal position and cry because WHHHHYYYYY????? WHYYYY is it SO EASY FOR THEM AND NOT ME?!?!?!?!

Or maybe that is just how I handle a hard day.

The point is, I actually LOVE my daughter beyond all words. I love my son. I am madly in love with my husband and we have been given riches beyond my wildest hopes and dreams. Are we perfect? Nope, not a single damn one of us. But we have our good days and our bad days. Our good moments and our bad moments. And we support and love each other through this life.

One of the things people say to me is “Thank you,” for being real about the challenges of being a parent. But I’ve realized that maybe I give a really one-sided version of the story. With B’s birthday this week, I have spent a lot of time reflecting on how lucky we are. And I decided I need to sprinkle more of the good in with the bad. Even if the good is a little less entertaining, at least it is 100% real.

So get ready. It’s time The EdelSpot blows a little sunshine and roses up your behinds my friends.

Because life is good.

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Potty Mouth

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Happy Throwback Thursday friends! Todays #tbt comes to us from October 11, 2011. To set the stage, B was just two months old and I was, um, er, coping. Sort of. Enjoy!

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It came to my attention a few weeks ago that when I am sleep deprived, I have the humor and vocabulary of an adolescent boy.

It all started when I was reading a new book to Kate. It is about a princess who outsmarts a dragon, and at the dragon’s door she uses the knocker to announce her arrival. And for some unfathomable reason, when I got to the word “knocker” I laughed my ass off. Which then sent me into a shame spiral because, I mean, SERIOUSLY?

I can only think it had something to do with how tired I was (and am). Also, since I’m still nursing, the word knockers seems pretty accurate for how heavy and awkward and just plain unsexy my boobs feel. KNOCKERS aren’t something you dress up in lace and shimmy at your husband. KNOCKERS are stout things that you stuff in thick cotton bras and hide in a t-shirt that has baby drool and last night’s dinner smeared across it.

I have knockers. And I found that to be freaking hilarious (because lets be honest, if you don’t laugh, you might just have to cry about something like that).

A few days later I experienced another “I’m a ten year-old boy” vocabulary melt-down. This one came about thanks to a “I’m new to being the mom of a boy” moment. When something new, er, popped up, I decided to turn to my trusty friend, Google, for answers. I sat down with my computer and typed in “Why do baby boys…”

I couldn’t finish the question. My brain was so tired, it had shorted. My entire vocabulary had just up and vanished. I just stared at the screen for a short while and then the only, and I mean ONLY word I could think of to describe what I was trying to research was this:

“Why do baby boys get BONERS”

(head slap)

WHAT IN THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME? I may be irreverent, and silly and sometimes crude, but ladies (and any gentlemen who actually kept reading past the section about my hooters) if my brain were firing on all cylinders I would NEVER be stupid enough to do a Google search about BONERS. Let alone baby boners. I’m nearly positive that I’ve now been flagged on some FBI database, but what shocked me was that GOOGLE KNEW WHAT I WAS TALKING ABOUT. Without blinking an eye, Google provided me with results from various parenting forums about the medical reasons a baby gets an ERECTION (OHHHHH riiiiiiight. Erection. THAT is the word I was trying to think of.)

But more shocking to me than Google’s understanding of the terminology is the fact that of all the words in the world to describe what I was searching for, I chose to use the word boner. Which, I have to be honest, I think I’ve used, like, um, NEVER IN MY LIFE. Its just not in my vernacular. Honestly. But when existing on only a few hours sleep, apparently its the only word to surface through the haze.

I’m so proud.

And THAT, my friends, is why you might not be seeing me in public for awhile. My knockers and I have to get some rest before I’m allowed in polite company again.

It is enough

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You know what really hacks me off?

Well-intentioned people who write meaningful articles/posts about parenting that are supposed to inspire you, but really just make you feel like you still aren’t doing it right. Like, you just need to TRY HARDER. So maybe, just maybe, if I do EXACTLY what the parent in this post did, I MIGHT be able to NOT SUCK. It will be, like, SUPER easy to be the best parent on the planet, if I just follow these FIVE SIMPLE STEPS. WINNING!

SCREW THAT. I am trying my ASS off with this parenting thing, and sometimes, it feels like a big fat pile of steaming failure. AND THEN! Then someone posts or reposts something about how you shouldn’t check your email when your kid is on the swing set because you are teaching them they are unimportant, or maybe you shouldn’t tell your kid to hurry, because you are RUINING their little lives with the request for some hustle. Or maybe you just read a post about how you need to nurture your children and not force them to grow up so quickly, but then there is that OTHER post that condemns the way you help your kids climb the monkey bars, because, COME ON! Kids are CAPABLE and if you help them you are actually STIFLING THEIR GROWTH AND (again) RUINING THEIR LIVES.

Listen.

I just got home. Where was I? Let’s call it HELL. Because, when it is more than an hour past your youngest child’s nap time, and both kids are hyped up on sugar and you are in a busy mall because you thought taking them to a movie would be a fun outing, it could be the closest thing to Hell that is on this Earth. So lets say you are trying to get both to the car without a) losing one, b) losing your mind, c) accidentally stealing something from the Disney store that is located STRATEGICALLY next to the elevator by the food court by the HOLY GOD THE CAROUSEL, WE MUST RIDE THE CAROUSEL, yet Beckett, he is melting, he is MELTING INTO A GIANT TODDLER-SIZED PUDDLE of GET ME THE FUCK TO SLEEP. But a preschooler doesn’t give a wit that her brother is now burrowing into the tile floor of the food court and that I can’t chase her down because he is officially limp noodle on the floor, incapable of standing on his FEEEEEEET, because he is TIIIIIIIIREEEEEEEDDDDDDD.

You know what? I get that there is probably a great and delicate way to handle this situation. Someone, somewhere has probably even written a post about how to gracefully wrangle your hellion children at a mall. But you know what? I DIDN’T handle it gracefully. I handled it with some harsh words, some threats, some tears, some pleading, some forcefully dumping into a stroller, some hissed words under my breath and maybe a stare that would have frozen my husband in his tracks. THAT is how I handled it. And all those bloggers and writers with all those good intentions and ideas and ways to be a GOOD PARENT can bite me.

Because parenting is HARD. It isn’t always graceful, and it isn’t always well done. Sometimes, it is done very, very poorly. But I am TRYING.

As parents, I think we should all stick together. And continue to just TRY.

It is the best we can do. And whatever anyone says, or however inferior they make you feel, trust me. Our best… it IS enough.

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Photo by Flight Path Photography

Happy Birthday B

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Two years ago today, Beckett was born, and he changed us all.

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He made Kate a big sister.

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He made us a family of four.

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He made us laugh.

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He created new love for us all.

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And he continues to touch our hearts in new ways, each and every day.

Beckett,

You make our family complete. My favorite sound is your laugh, the deep belly one that you reserve for when Kate delights you. Only her. Your love for your sister, and her love for you is one of the greatest gifts I have ever known.

You bless us. You have taught me a new patience. You have evened out my rough edges with your big hugs, your kisses and your unwavering love. I am learning big lessons from you daily little man. And while I will make it my life’s work to raise you to be a good, and thoughtful, and loving man, please know that you have already impacted the world around you.

I love you. I will pray for you daily for the rest of my life. May God bless you this year, the year after that and for a lifetime. Remember to look to Him and you will be on a path to greatness.

Happy birthday my son. My little B.

Mommy loves you.

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Bait and Switch

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Happy Throwback Thursday friends! This is the day of the week that I am allowed to be lazy and post an old post from back in the EdelSpot files instead of a new one. But it’s okay! Because it’s Throwback Thursday! Todays #tbt comes to us from July 24, 2009. And for all my new friends, LOOK! Proof I’ve been this neurotic and hapless for much longer than I care to admit. Enjoy!

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Last night, we tried giving Kate formula for the first time in her life. It reminded me of another experience I had several years ago with my dog Jackson.

When Ben and I were still just a hot young couple in love (not the current semi-hot late 20s couple in love with a mortgage and a baby) we often took walks in our neighborhood with my dog Jackson. He always knew that likely the walk would end in his favorite park, where we would throw the tennis ball for him until our arms got tired. Because, he never EVER tired of chasing the tennis ball.
So one Saturday morning, after my annual pumpkin carving party (I’ve mentioned how I totally geek out for Halloween haven’t I? If not, you now know my dirty little secret) Ben and I took Jack to the park. Being the responsible early 20s version of my current self, I a) was hungover and b)couldn’t find a tennis ball, so instead of actually MAKING AN EFFORT and going to buy one, Ben and I grabbed a small mini-pumpkin about the size and heft of a ball. Genius right?As soon as we got to the park, Ben let that pumpkin fly. Jack caught up with it just as it was hitting the ground and when he pounced and closed his mouth around the foreign pumpkin instead of the familiar tennis ball, he reacted like he had been soaked with a hose and then attached to a car battery. In one fluid OH SHIT moment, all four paws left the ground as he leaped straight into the air like he had pogo sticks for legs. The look on his face was priceless. I laughed my ass off.

It was a classic case of bait and switch. And it just shocked the hell out of Jack.

Last night, Kate experienced our bait and switch tactics, and she was none to pleased. Finally at rest with the idea of supplementing with formula, we decided to try her first bottle before she went to bed. Ben bathed her, read her a book, got her all snuggly in her footy pajamas and settled down in the rocker where I normally nurse her. When I handed Ben the bottle she looked a little nonplussed that she wasn’t getting the boob, but since she is a greedy little thing she lunged for the nipple and began boisterously sucking away.

You could see in her face the exact moment she got a mouthful of formula. If she had the required muscle control she would have leaped straight of Ben’s lap, grabbed the bottle and possibly bitch slapped him for putting that CRAP in her MOUTH.

I guess you could say it didn’t go well.

She jerked with shock when she first tasted the formula instead of the milk she expected. Her eyes widened, her mouth opened, she spit out everything she could and began crying. I had to leave the room. This continued for maybe three minutes while I sat on the sofa in the living room in the fetal position and rocked myself. When I couldn’t stand it any more, I went into the nursery, scooped Kate of a miserable Ben’s lap and popped her on the boob. She began to eat furiously, making grunting, snuffling noises and if she could have talked I swear it would have sounded something like, “Oh, hm, yeah, oh yeah, um, this is good, snarf, this is really good, this is what I wanted, what is that other crap, keep that other crap away from me, bullshit I say, oh, God, yum, yes, this is the ticket, hmmmmmmmm, miiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiilk.”

So I’m a formula failure. In my defense, Kate had a rough day with her shots and wasn’t feeling great, so I decided that it wasn’t the time to insist on formula. She needed both food AND comfort and I knew I could give them to her. I plan on trying again today though. Jackson ended up playing a nice long game of catch with the pumpkin once he recovered from the shock of it all, and I have high hopes for Kate too.

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Driven to distraction

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I have three identical scars on my arms. Two on my left arm and one on my right. Just three straight lines, all on my forearms. It kind of looks like a wrestled a tiger. Or maybe I saved several children from a burning bus by punching out a window. Yeah, either of those sound good. You know what DOESN’T sound interesting or heroic? That I burned myself, three separate times, on the racks in my oven. Nope. That is not at all what happened. Because that would be DUMB.

Okay. So yeah. That IS what happened. And I can’t even say it was when I was a young whippersnapper, just transitioning off my Easy Bake Oven. All three times have been in the last year. So I’m giving my oven the evil eye the other day, thinking “What the hell is our problem Mr. Oven?” and then Kate comes crashing into the kitchen screaming about something or another and Beckett trips in after her ranting in his half real words/half toddler gibberish and they start wrestling over some toy like oversized obnoxious puppies and I’m all, “Ohhhhh. Yeah. Sure, thats it.”

I’m distracted.

Like, ALL the time.

It is fairly common for Ben to ask me what is up with our friends when I come home from a play date. It is also fairly common for me to stare blankly at him for about 30 seconds and then report something like, “I have no idea, but Beckett pooped whole blueberries and Kate got in a fight with a little girl with pigtails. Oh, and the kids both hate the color green now.”

Because I haven’t had a full, uninterrupted adult conversation since 2009. I’ve also decided it’s a miracle I am alive at this very moment despite all the distractions in that tiny metal hell hole on wheels we call a car. Demands for dropped toys, drinks of water, fights, screaming, singing, repeating a single word over, and over (and OVER), all coming at you in rapid fire. So yes, I may have swerved into your lane sir, but I was just reaching for the Buzz Lightyear in the floorboards of the car because OH MY GOD HE WONT SHUT UP UNTIL BUZZ IS IN HIS SWEATY TODDLER HANDS I’M GOING TO LOSE MY MIND GAAAHHHHH.

… uh, where was I going with this?

Oh, yeah. So if you see me out and about and I ignore you, or if I forget a birthday or text you my grocery list, please give me a pass. At least for another sixteen years or so.

I’m distracted.

Just a little leak

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I’ve suffered a lot of indignities since becoming a mother. It’s all part of the deal. I’ve spent a few days sitting on an icepack while my husband asks me if my “junk” is feeling okay. I’ve had toddlers pull on the neck of my shirt and expose my bra… in church. I’ve had my skirt pulled up so my underwear could make an appearance… in a gas station. I’ve had to start wearing THREE sports bras to the gym because my previously perky breasts are now roughly the size and shape of a sack of flour poured into two knee socks.

Sure. Not ideal, but I got two awesome kids out of it, so I just kind of go with the flow. Besides, I’m never going to see those truckers again, and I WAS wearing my good underwear (the ones without holes) so whatever. You just approach life as a mom with a sense of humor and an ability to laugh at yourself. Like, a lot.

Which was always my philosophy. Until I peed myself at the gym today.

Yeah, you read that right. Halfway through kickboxing I realize that I have peed myself. Just a little, but still. I guarantee you THAT would never have happened in my 20s. Honestly, as soon as it happened I immediately thought, “FREAKING KATE AND BECKETT.” Like, it’s their fault (lets be honest, it is) and my second thought was, “Gotta go, gotta go, gotta go…” as I skipped out on the second Turbo to race to the bathroom. Which ticked me off even more, because now I just assume everyone in the class thought I couldn’t hack it through the hard parts. And I’m all “I JUST WET MYSELF EVERYONE. NO WORRIES THOUGH BECAUSE I REALLY CAN MAKE IT THROUGH THIS CLASS.”

Whatever.

The upside is that I learned some valuable lessons from this experience. First off, I need to change my circuit to include some new exercises. Squats, lunges, push-ups, kegels. Kegels, kegels, kegels. Repeat.

Second, yes, my babies are worth every moment of embarrassment and pain, but there are some things that I plan to hold against them. Like, for life. Losing control of my bladder just a teeny, tiny bit? At the top of that list. I’m just imaging the first time teenage Kate screams at me, “I HATE YOU!” and I’m going to be all, “YEAH?? Well you made me PEE MYSELF, so NOW we are square.”

Third, no matter how low you have sunk, there is ALWAYS the opportunity for it to get worse. So don’t complain when you eat a bite of pre-chewed brownie or have to clean sunscreen finger paint off the side of your car. Just think.

You could have peed yourself.

Welcome to the EdelSpot 2.0!

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Did you know I have a blog. Uh-huh. A real live blog, with words and pictures and other bloggy stuff. Sadly, that blog was a little… neglected… when B was born. The kind of neglect that would probably get you arrested if the blog was a kid, or a dog. Luckily, last time I checked I am NOT going to get arrested for being a lazy writer. Although, actually, being arrested for 24 hours or so doesn’t sound half bad. Like a stay-cation. I mean, yes, the jumpsuits and tuna sandwiches aren’t exactly the Four Seasons, but I’d get to eat sitting down. I wouldn’t have four pair of tiny, sticky hands pawing at me constantly. I’d get to spend all day watching TV, and chances are it wouldn’t be animated. And since I’m used to no privacy when going to the bathroom already, that is kind of a wash.

And now you are wondering how I know what jail is like, and I’m all, “Uh, hmmm. Blog post for another time friend.”

But I digress.

So I have a blog. Its called The EdelSpot. I started writing it when I was pregnant with Kate and pretty much stopped writing when Beckett came along and NEEDED stuff from me, like, ALL THE TIME (infants, yeesh). So when I decided it was time to get back in the saddle I realized that my old blog, was, well, old. So welcome to EdelSpot 2.0. If you’ve followed my blog in the past you will notice I’m at wordpress now, so you’ll want to change your bookmark (ha. see how I actually think I still have readers who have my blog bookmarked?) Also, I’ll be sticking to the whole #TBT phenomenon, and will be running old EdelSpot posts on Thursdays to catch up friends who are new here.

So anyways, hope you guys enjoy our journey. And here is to hoping I can actually find the time to blog now that I’ve committed to it again. Cheers!