Non-Maternal Instincts

Mommy makeover shows are for the birds.

You know Mike Rowe, the crazy host of Dirty Jobs? Well, I'd like for him to join me for a day.

No, I take that back. Five minutes is all he would need to get some footage.

You see, yesterday, as I was rushing to get my kids out the door, I scooped up Harper and ran upstairs to change her diaper. We quickly bounced back downstairs, and as I made my way over to her car seat, I felt it. And I heard it.

Splat.

She puked. All down my back and all over the floor.

It was typical baby vomit - curdled and stinky.

And here's the best part. I was so far past the point of caring that I grabbed the grungy washcloth from the kitchen sink and haphazardly wiped it up. I didn't even change my shirt. Nor hers. Take that, Mike Rowe!

After my I-don't-care-if-I-smell-like-vom clean-up job, I grabbed my son to put on his shoes, and "Ka-Choo!"

He sneezed all over the front of my shirt, covering me with green snot boogers.

Lovely.

And once again, I grabbed the grungy, baby vomit stained washcloth. I really didn't care.

And this is why mommy makeover shows make me batty. Because they grab these snot-covered, sweatpants-wearing moms from the grocery store and transform them, making them unrecognizable through designer clothes and hair dye. But the reality is that no mother is ever going to look like that on a daily basis. And no mother is going to stop living her vomit-soaked reality because she smacked on some department store grade make-up (seriously, why is make-up sold from behind a counter under lock and key?) No practical mom is going to allow her makeover-show, fancy-expensive outfit to be covered in vomit and snot. Heck no! That's why we wear our grungy sweatpants everyday (that and because we can't fit into anything else, but that's another post).

So Oprah can go on making mommy's look all hot and stuff, but those mommy's are just going to sell those clothes on eBay when they get home. Trust me. If I looked so bad that some t.v. show producer had pity on me and awarded me with a $500 outfit from Nordstrom, I'd swap those overpriced clothes for something that could really make a difference.

A maid.

Non-Maternal Instincts

Desperate.

I was so desperate that I didn't foresee the aftermath.

Of course he was happy, so I accomplished my goal.

Yet the mess and clean-up that followed sent me right back over the edge.

But when two babies are screaming and the dog just puked up a sock, momma will do anything to bring peace.



And let's face it, chocolate is peace.

Non-Maternal Instincts

I swore I wouldn't be this way.

Having spent two years studying childhood development, specifically the personal, social, emotional, and academic development of children, I became quite disgusted with parents who overbearingly forced their children to be (or to not be) a certain way. For instance, the mom who shows up at school in hysterics when her daughter doesn't make the cheer squad in seventh grade. Yeah, it sucks and it hurts, but seriously lady, who wants this more? You or your working-on-building-self-esteem, yes-I'm-going-through-my-awkward-stage pre-teen? Dude, just give her a hug, let her shed a few tears on your shoulder, and help her move on. Don't make it worse.

And I think it can be even uglier with boys. Let's face it, most dads don't want to see their sons playing dress-up with mommy's lip gloss and stilettos. But it happens, trust me (Sorry, honey, that's just what the little guy does to stay entertained while I'm in the shower.)

But I swore I would not be that way. I would not flinch when my son started trying on my bra or asking to paint his toenails. You will not hear me say, "No, buddy, boys don't wear nail polish. Boys wear dirt and play games that result in bruises and blood shed." No, ma'am. I will let my son explore life no matter how, no matter what. Let him play with dolls and try-on jewelry. He's only a kid. So what?

Ha.

Ha.

Look what happened when I found this picture on my sister's facebook wall:

Ali Hooper

Is Henry playing with a princess crown?

about an hour ago · Delete

Morgan Nameth

He was taking the stickers off Ellas crown

about an hour ago

Ali Hooper

Okay, so he was destroying the pink princess crown? And that baby doll in the corner, I take it the boys were playing WWE and she was an innocent bystander. Am I right?

15 minutes ago · Delete

I couldn't help myself. I saw my boy, I saw the pink crown, and I just had to know. Had to.

And I swore I wouldn't be this way.

I'll just chalk this up to one more thing that I swore I wouldn't do once I became a mom. But now that I am a mom, that list was sent out with the dirty diapers. Also on that list was co-sleeping, letting my kids watch cartoons all day long, feeding my kids processed and pre-packaged foods, and allowing my kids to play with the dog food and water. I could go on and on. It was a mighty long list.

But let me make one thing clear. I will never be like that mom who freaks out when her daughter doesn't make the cheer squad. That is where I draw the line. Why? Because my daughter would never try out for cheer, that's why.

{wink}

Non-Maternal Instincts

I wrote this post yesterday afternoon.



I screamed this morning.

For no good reason other than I wanted to scream. I needed to scream.

Because as of 10:00 this morning, I was certifiably going crazy. Like off-my-rocker send-me-to-the-asylum crazy.

Have you ever felt that way? It's a terrible feeling. Actually, it helped me to empathize with people who really are insane. Like diagnosably insane. I think I just made that word up. Diagnosably. Use it anytime you like. You're welcome.

Anyway, this morning was rough. Ugh. Mom FAIL. Jesus Save Us All. R-O-U-G-H.

From 7am, when the kids woke me up, to 10am, when I screamed, the following mess ensued:

• Two dirty diapers.
• Two hungry kids (requiring me to quickly throw something together for Henry so that I could assume my position on the couch to nurse Harper).
• Violently vomiting baby - crap spewing out of her nose, and all - requiring a bath on the spot and an emergency load of laundry (Baby throw-up is one of the most horrible smells. I can't tolerate it. Never have. The soiled items could not wait until later.)
• Poopy toddler. Another diaper change.
• And since Harper emptied her belly, she needed nursed again. Back to the couch.
• CHALLENGING toddler. Henry insisted on getting into anything and everything - cable box, blinds, outlets, matchbox cars across t.v., dog food, I could go on-and-on.
• So I literally was running around the house, disciplining Henry one handed while cradling Harper who was latched on. I can only imagine what that looked like.
• Henry pooped again. Bath this time. Very necessary considering his poop was F-U-N-K-Y.
• And as I plopped Henry in the tub, Harper wailed and wailed because she was not done eating nor did she appreciate me putting her down.
• After a quick bath, I snatched Harper back up, latched her on, and found Henry banging on the pantry door (Translation: I want snack).
• I gave him his favorite, marshmallows, because his sugar consumption was the least of my concerns at that point.
• Rather than eating the marshmallows, Henry mushed them all up so that they were sticking between his fingers. Once again, time to unlatch Harper. This time so that I could clean up sticky fingers.
• As I was returning to clean up the rest of the marshmallows (Henry had thrown them across the floor), Harper began wailing and Henry began whining because I was throwing the remaining marshmallows down the sink.
• AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Yes, that is when I screamed. I had to. It was either scream or walk out of the house. Seriously, I was front-door bound.

But the screaming didn't help. Not that much, anyway. Rather it released something totally unexpected. Tears.

There I was, standing between a wailing baby and a whining toddler, with tears streaming down my face. Ugh.

Mom Fail.

But the tears provoked something that I should have done a long time ago. Prayer. I had not called out to God once during my three hours of hell.

So I prayed. Nothing pretty. Nothing eloquent. Just a desperate and tear-stained, "Oh Lord. Please help. Please. Give me sanity. Give me strength. Give me what I need to survive this day. And give me what I need to show my children love. Please."

It wasn't instant. I still had two unhappy children. But in time, things calmed down. And in time, I calmed down.

And for no other reason than that we have a merciful God, my day got better. It really did. Who knows if things really got better or if my attitude simply changed, probably a bit of both, but I was humbled as I realized that my three hours of mom hell were simply a part of my blessed life. Seriously.

Later, I sat with my son cuddled under one arm and my daughter nursing on my other side, gazing into each of their beautiful eyes, thanking God for giving me two beautiful babies who are totally worth it.

Can you hear me screaming now?

Because I am.

Blessed. I am so blessed.

The blessings of . . . mastitis?!

Warning: Dad, if you are reading this, Stop Now. I know that you would like to believe that we ordered an infant from a cabbage patch, and a stork conveniently delivered a baby girl to our home nine months later, and with a sprinkling of water and a dose of sunshine, she thrived and grew and blossomed into a delightful garden flower. But let me remind you of the time we saw the equine students artificially inseminate a horse or the many times we witnessed the cows in the milking parlor on your aunt's farm. Because the conception, survival, and nurturing of your grandchildren involves most of the same principles also witnessed in the animal kingdom. And that includes the crusty, dried-up leftover umbilical cord that took weeks to part from Harper's darling navel. It's still oozing, by the way. You've been warned.

Breast-feeding. I know, I know, it's a beautiful thing. I, the proud milk-bearing mother of my sweet gift from God, have the honor and privilege of bonding with my daughter in a unique way. I, sore-chested and well-endowed, am the sole provider for my baby girl's health and crucial weight gain. I, crack-nippled and oh-so-saggy, am chained to my daughter's cry or an obnoxious breast-pumping device every 2-3 hours around the clock. And as if all that wasn't glamorous enough, the exhausting efforts of my upper-half ultimately led to a terror that left me bedridden and downright ugly for most of a week.

Mastitis.

It sounds like the title of a cult horror flick, doesn't it?

But this is real life horror, y'all. Mastitis takes precious bonding between mother and child and turns it into a painful, aching, infected, and downright dreadful experience.

But thanks to the magic of forty green capsules and the grace of the good Lord, my mastitis was blasted from my body in a week's time. Thank you, Jesus!

But guess what? And you won't believe what I am about to say. The mastitis turned out to be a blessing.

Yes, I said a blessing. In all seriousness, I learned a lot about nursing because of the infection. You see, I was required to nurse through the mastitis, and in an effort to rid my body of the infection for good, I revisited my grad school days and hopped on the research train. I read and read and read about nursing, latching, milk supply, and anything else related to da boob. Forget La Leche League, I am a breast-feeding extraordinaire!

Now there is no guarantee that the mastitis will never return, but I now have a much better idea of how to prevent it. And if I suspect that I am getting a blocked duct, I have an arsenal of weapons for nipping it in the bud before it gets worse.

And because my dad is a dad and wants to remedy all my problems, even those that have nothing to do with carburetors or accelerator pumps, he did offer me some help through all this. (It's important to note that my Dad has an extensive background in agricultural sciences.) But because he would never speak to me directly about issues concerning my upper-half, he called my mom and had her deliver the following information. First he assured me that cows often get mastitis. Then he went on to say that farmers often treat the cows with a warm compress and medication (medication that he even offered to get for me, implying that I could take cow pills?)

Thanks, Dad. That really helped. As if I didn't already feel like a first-rate dairy cow. Now I might as well sprout udders and wait, what's that?

Moo.

Non-Maternal Instincts

You know you have a toddler when . . .

His forehead (and elbows, knees, shins, and hands) require you to constantly tell of his most recent tumble simply so that no one suspects you of child abuse.

Your husband comes home from a long day at work and says, "Somebody's been sitting in my chair." (Shh, don't tell.)

You experience a moment of, "Oh Dear Lord, I've lost my child!" only to find him giggling away right under your nose.

You find him watching cartoons from the most unusual of surfaces.

And in the most uncomfortable of positions.

Once again, you think that you have lost him and will surely find him knocked unconscious somewhere in your house only to find that he's wiggled his way onto the back porch and is having the time of his life.

He begins to emulate you. (You might find this to be cute at first, but it soon becomes frightening.)

Your dining room table was last seen in 2008 and can now be found buried underneath this:

You begin to accumulate items such as this:

You often find your dog communicating to you, "it wasn't me this time, I promise."

Your once well-fed dog has given up on eating and drinking for fear of what he might find in his bowl.

So instead, he has retreated to this:

Non-Maternal Instincts

Originally posted in January, 2009



Irony.

I had an epiphany this week.

Motherhood and pregnancy don't mix.

Ironic, dontcha think?

Ironic but oh-so-true.

Here are only a few reasons why motherhood and pregnancy don't mix:

1. At the exact moment when my son is having a complete meltdown, I am also having a complete meltdown. Together we are crying and screaming, "da-da." Usually "da-da" isn't home, so we end up getting funny looks from the dog.
2. Poopy diapers make for a LOT of gagging. At least once a day, I am a reflex away from puking all over my son.
3. Constant hunger means that I am constantly nibbling on devouring my son's food. On the average day I consume a 1/2 box of goldfish, a cup of Cheerios, several packages of fruit snacks, a box of macaroni and cheese, a value-size Hershey's bar (not my son's, but if I pretend that it's my son's, I don't feel so guilty eating it), a couple of Nutri-Grain bars, loads of watermelon-flavored yogurt, animal crackers galore, a value-size Hershey's bar (What? My dad was raised in PA; it's in our blood), and enough cut-up fruit to feed my ever-expanding gut. And that's only what I eat off of my son's plate. That doesn't include the five "real" meals that I eat everyday. As I quickly resemble Violet Beauregarde after she eats the three-course meal chewing gum, my son is beginning to resemble the flytrap plant in Little Shop of Horrors ("feed me").
4. It is not exactly safe to "watch" a child while falling asleep. Let's just say that I spend most of the day attempting to NOT fall asleep. I might have woken up to my son pulling down the blinds yesterday. I'm pretty sure that wasn't a dream (as evidenced by the blinds on my floor).
5. My son has begun this thing where he hits me. Not in a mean way, just in a hey-I-know-how-to-make-noises-when-I-smack-my-hands-against-your-body kind of way. Pregnancy makes my chest tender. Combined with my son's new game, my chest is VERY tender.

Dear Lord of Creation,

I know how much you love irony (Abraham and Sarah, David and Goliath, The Book of Job), but motherhood and pregnancy? Really, God?

Okay, fine, joke's on me. But wouldn't it be cool if pregnancy turned moms into these super-human creatures, like unicorns, who could defeat the monsters under the bed while creating another little monster deep inside their bellies. Wait a minute? That's basically what I am doing. I am a super-hero to one baby (two if you count my husband, and yes, he does count) while miraculously creating another baby (yes, Lord, I know, that's your miracle, not mine. Shout-out to the Big Man).

Okay, fine, I get it.

I am super-human, and there ain't anything ironic about that! {wink}

Non-Maternal Instincts

Inner-monologue at nine-months pregnant.

{Huffin' and puffin'} Now why did I come up here? I know I came up for something. Hmm, can't remember. Phew, I better sit down.

{Plops down on unmade bed} WHOA! Those are my feet? What happened to my feet? Why didn't anyone tell me?! I mean, where are my ankles? They're, they're, they're gone! I don't have ankles and my feet are huge. Like puffy huge. No. Those can't be my feet.

Gee, this bed is soft. Cozy. Pillows. Fluffy pillows. But it's only 10am. Ugh. Stupid insomnia. Stupid insomnia equals Ali and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

Can't sleep now anyway. I need to pee. Didn't I just do that? Yeah, I went before I came upstairs. I wonder if I can talk my doctor into giving me a catheter for the next month. I need to talk to him about that. Better write that down.

Wait a sec, who's that? Me?! No. That can't be me. Darn it. Why'd I look in the mirror? I might be carrying this baby in the front, but apparently I'm also carrying one in the back. Dang, girl. No wonder my clothes don't fit anymore. Not even my maternity clothes. Bah.

Oh, baby powder, my best friend. Is that why I came up here? No, that wasn't it.

Now what was it? Ouch. Cranky. Stop. Ouch. Better sit down for this one. Stupid Braxton Hicks, you're such a tease.

Wait. Yuck. Gag. Why is my throat burning? Burning swords attacking my throat. Oh! That's it! I came up here for Pepcid. Love me some Pepcid. Yes, please, I need Pepcid!

{With Pepcid in hand, waddles back downstairs for glass of water}

NOOOOOO! What did I do? I dropped it. No! Dagnabbit. Now how am I going to pick that up? I can't bend down there and pick up that little pill.

Ah, forget it. I need ice cream.

Non-Maternal Instincts

Originally posted in Janurary, 2009

My Husband, the Potato Chip Runner

Once again, this week's post doesn't quite fall under non-maternal. Or maybe it does. What do I know? I'm just some crazy pregnant lady. But I warn you, don't mess with the pregnant lady.

If you have ever been pregnant, or hormonal, or menstrual, or, well, just a girl, then you know what it's like to crave potato chips. I don't know any girl who doesn't like potato chips. And if you are a girl and you don't like them, then you are probably really a man.

So yesterday, around dinner time, I WANTED potato chips. And I wanted them NOW (imagine Fat Bastard as he looks at his fried chicken, "Get in my belly!" Except that I didn't have any potato chips to threaten). So I unbuttoned a few of the buttons on my polo turned on my most pathetic and whiny voice and said, "I really want potato chips."

Hubs responded to my declaration, "I can go on a potato chip run." {ain't he the greatest?}

"Are you sure? You don't have to if you don't want to." {lying}

"Honey, I'm sure. What kind - Ruffles, Conn's, or Lay's?" {WOW, this guy is good!}

"Ruffles or Lay's," I responded excitedly.

"Okay, I'll be right back." {we live only a few blocks from a convenience store - it makes for a very convenient nine months}

5 minutes later

Hubs walks in the door, "I hope you like my selection."

He shows me a bag of Wavy Conn's potato chips.

I look at him, I look at the bag, and then I look at him, "I said Ruffles or Lay's."

He looks confused. "I thought you said Conn's."

"No, I hate Conn's." {I really don't care for them - they taste like old socks, whatever that tastes like}

"But, these are from Zanesville. I really thought you said Conn's." {okay, you just heard Conn's because you wanted Conn's. I don't care if you grew up near Zanesville. I'm pregnant, and I WANT RUFFLES OR LAY'S!}

And that's when my hormones exploded. I really tried to suppress them. But they weren't listening to me. It seems that the fig-sized being growing deep within my womb spits out hormones at cosmic force.

And then I throw a fit. You know, the usual girly game of, "No, don't go back out just for chips," "Okay, I really want chips," "No, I'll be fine," "Okay, I want Ruffles, please."

My potato chip runner then leaves for the second time that evening. But this time he's not back right away. It's at least fifteen minutes before he returns. {and don't think for a minute that this hungry preggo wasn't starting to really jones}

As it turns out, the convenient store down the street was out of Ruffles. So my I-better-get-it-right-this-time hubby drove all the way to the next nearest convenient store just to find the perfect potato chip.

He scored. {thank you, Jesus!}

And since he is all about staying out of trouble making me happy, he picked up a bag of Skittles and Sour Patch Kids while he was there.

Except that I was now craving Gummi Bears.

Non-Maternal Instincts

My son gets shots today.

Crap.

I'm dreading it.

Last time he got stuck, he clamped onto my neck and body for his bloody life, clawing my neck. After she stuck him the first time, he went from cute-little-baby-boy to deranged Vietnam vet watching over his back for even the slightest move.

He screamed. He turned purple. He shed a month's worth of snot and tears.

I think I heard him hiss at her. Or maybe that was me.

I'm gonna be talkin' to Jesus a lot this morning. I hope He doesn't mind if I clamp onto His neck. I promise not to claw.

Or hiss.