Questions I can't answer

• Why aren't there arm restraints for children in shopping carts?
• Why are store aisles so narrow?
• Why do I let my children convince me to get the plus sized shopping cart that seats three and is about four miles long, every time?
• If I accidentally injure a store employee while trying to maneuver my gargantuan cart down a miniscule aisle, while attempting to prevent little hands from stripping every item they can reach off the shelf, is it really my fault?
  
• Why is the alarm button on the elevator always right at toddler level?
  
• Why are the hairs that grow out of moles so disturbing and wrong?
• Why do I have one of those moles on my face?
  
• Why can't my children wait for me to finish pulling my pants up before opening the door in a public restroom?
• Why do my child's diapers sometimes smell like cat poop even though, to my knowledge, she has never eaten cat food?
• Why does another child feel it's her personal duty to do her doodie in every public restroom we visit?
  
• How can my children completely thrash a perfectly clean living room in the time it takes me to walk into the kitchen?
• Why, when I am the least physically capable of doing physical labor, do all the things I need to do in a day involve physical labor?
• Where do I find a doll who's hair doesn't immediately turn into cotton candy mess as soon as my children open the package? Was doll hair that much better when I was a child? (When I was nine I had a really cheap set of wigs to put on my Barbies. They were all short and curly, and I used to plop them on top of my Western Barbie's long hair to make her look like Dolly Parton. Barbie wig mullets. True story).
• Should I put my short wig on top of my long hair and rock a killer mullet for Halloween? I could wear a snug tank top over my super squishy, hopefully postpartum body. Has inspiration just struck?
• Will any of my creative energy return once I'm done channeling every ounce of possible inspiration into creating this new little person?
• Will I leave the hospital with a child without a name?
• Did I really hear my child say a word, twice, during a recent temper tantrum, that she shouldn't say, that I know she learned from me?
• What is it about being a vessel for an angelic creature, straight from heaven, that makes me want to curse like a sailor?
• What is stuck to the bottom of my foot? I can't see down there.
  
• I have been very grateful that my children wake up early, and that getting them up for school won't be much much of a struggle, but how on earth can I survive not sleeping in until 8?
• Why are my recent early morning dreams always accompanied by house/techno music? Is my subconscious attempting to prepare me for the day I'm going to have, or is it merely the most appropriate closing credit music for insane dreams I've been having lately?
• Why would a child who has just been injured by another child, keep putting herself within arms reach of the injurer (who is in time out)?
• When can I go to bed?
  

Ketchup and Mustard

School is starting soon at our house. Chloe will be starting first grade and Addie will be starting preschool. There have been preparations made, including buying new socks and underwear. The girls old unders were looking a bit dingy and worn, and some were rather stained, and they all were snug. The practical part of me considered just passing Chloe's underwear on down to Addie. But then I reconsidered. After all, everyone likes to have new skivvies to wear. And since Addie prefers to wear dresses everyday, people tend to see her underwear a lot.

So now I'm left with a bag full of used girls underwear. And I don't know what to do with them. There is still some life left in them, and there may be a family out there who would benefit from them. I grew up in hand-me-downs, and so have my kids, and I would love to be able to share our excess with someone else. But underwear?

All this pondering of old undies brought up a very specific memory from my childhood. Our family had been given a bag of used clothing. The bag was emptied and sorted into the appropriate genders/sizes. I can't remember what all came in the bag, but I do remember one particular item. It was a pair of boys underwear, red with yellow trim. I remember thinking, "Really? McDonald's themed underwear?" And then I didn't think much more about them. I know I folded them when they came out of the laundry, and that they seemed to need to be folded quite often, but that was it.

Years later I found out that this pair of underwear had been dubbed "Ketchup and Mustard," and were quite the hot ticket amongst my whitey-tightey clad brothers. I know at least two of them would race to laundry and fight over who got to wear them next. At least I hope they waited until they'd been washed to re-wear them. I don't want to think too much about it. All I know is by the time those pants were finally retired, they probably deserved a 21 gun salute. They had done their duty.

None of the recently retired underwear at my house is as colorful or as memorable. I tried posting them for free on craigslist, but immediately my ad got flagged as inappropriate. Really? Who has the dirty mind now? So I guess the panties will just go to Underwear Heaven, if there is such a place. Maybe they will run into Ketchup and Mustard there.

Toast

This morning, at half past breakfast when my tummy rumblings had started to escalate, I gracelessly heaved myself off the couch and headed to the kitchen. I popped one slice of bread in the toaster for Maggie, and one for Addie. Chloe, preferring her daily breakfast of chocolate shredded wheat, declined. The toast popped up, I buttered and jammed it, cut it into triangles and passed it to the girls. I then put two pieces of bread in the toaster for myself.

No sooner had my toast popped up when I heard, "Mom, I'm done, I want more!" from Addie. Being the noble, self-sacrificing mother that I am (and because I had not yet entered the "I'm going to pass out if I don't eat right now" stage of pregnancy hunger), I passed my first piece off to her. I then prepared the second piece with butter and a generous helping of strawberry freezer jam. As I brought it to my mouth to take my first delicious bite, I heard, "Mom! I done! I want more!" from my littlest daughter. Again, I passed my breakfast to my starving offspring. I sighed, put two more pieces of bread in the toaster, and waited for them to brown.

As soon as they popped up, Addie again asked for more. This time, I declined her request and directed her back to the half eaten apple she had abandoned earlier because it, "Made her tummy hurt. " Apparently it was still not a good option because then she turned her eyes to Maggie's still untouched second piece of (my) toast. Fighting ensued. And so I excused myself to the other room and enjoyed my toast at last, whilst ignoring the bickering from the kitchen table. I finished my breakfast, returned to the kitchen and found they had abandoned the table for the great outdoors. The toast sat on the table, seemingly untouched. I remained in the kitchen and washed the dishes while chatting on the phone with a friend.

When the kitchen was clean, I started to walk through the dining area to check on the backyard. To my horror, I discovered half a dozen very gooey, very jammy footprints on the floor. Where had they come from? Where did they go? HOW DID THE BOTTOM OF FEET GET COATED IN JAM? The toast looked untouched, and each footprint seemed to contain an amount of jam equal to the original jam on the bread. Horrified, I checked the carpet but could see no continuation of the trail. It was a mystery, one I'm afraid I will never solve. However, I will ponder it every time I stick to the kitchen floor until I finally am grossed out enough to mop it.

I can tell you the final ending for that last piece of toast, though. Hours later, Addie rediscovered its existence and asked if she could have it. Maggie saw that Addie was eating it and was immediately enraged and desperate to eat the toast herself. Addie shared, a little. Both parties ended up wholly unsatisfied with the results, which led to yelling and threats, which I may or may not have participated in.

Tomorrow I will tell them we are out of bread.

Some moments of late

It's been a while since I've blogged. We have been up to many things, most notably, moving from Citrus Heights to Concord. And let's not forget that I am still pregnant and woefully unmotivated. Today I felt very vindicated in my laziness, though, since my decision to not shave resulted in my wearing my longest and most attractive maternity dress, and my decision to put my wet hair up in a bun before bed resulted in nice wavy hair.

But, in an effort to overcome my blogging ennui, here is a collection of moments from our recent life that don't warrant a blog entry of their own. (And so you know, I just typed "glob" twice in a row while trying to type blog.)

Here is Miss Addie, very focused on a foam block sculpture. I was very impressed with the thought that went into her design.
Chloe has lost two more teeth, for a grand total of four. Now, I knew kids with missing teeth was cute. And I knew little kids with grown up teeth was not so cute, but a necessary part of growing up. However, I was totally unprepared for the awfulness of loose top front teeth. Chloe does not want any outside help with her teeth coming out, so those two front teeth got looser, and wigglier and moved around in her mouth. At times she looked liked Nanny McFee with one tooth peeking out from between her closed lips. I really couldn't look her in the face. Finally I convinced her to let me have one try, and I got the top right one out.
Yet still, that left one hung in there, pointing sideways at times. And she wouldn't let me touch it. I was awfully grateful for our 60 degree pool party with Josh and the monkey business that finally knocked that tooth out. Thankfully Chloe was not upset about losing her tooth to the depths of the pool. And the tooth fairy accepted her note in place of the tooth, although it took a panicked 5:30 am wakeup for the tooth fairy to remember her job.

My little toothless vampire in the pool. The first front tooth is making its way in, and looks like the poor girl will be inheriting my special front teeth.

This is a picture of the saddest end I've ever seen a ladybug come to, even worse than the weekly lawnmower massacres.

Why is it that a child who screams and fights to get out of her car seat for the entire trip, will refuse to get out of the car once we arrive at our destination?
Look, Mom. I helped Maggie get dressed! And I dressed myself!
Do not interrupt me when I'm reading.

Yes, I loaded up that truck and drove it 90 miles by myself. Because I'm nuts. And a bit of a Hoarder.
Chloe's last day of school. Awfully bittersweet. How dare she grow up so much?
Dear Maggie, thank you for being so entranced by the TV, for at least a few minutes, while I packed. P.S. You are cute.

"Mom, MOM!!!" calls Addie as I attempt to sneak off to the bathroom. "Maggie's dead!" In vain I scream back, "No she's not! DO NOT WAKE HER UP!" I return from the bathroom to find a very much alive, very sad Maggie.
Pretty solid photographic evidence that Maggie is her Daddy's girl. And still, very cute.
Our new back yard is significantly smaller than our old one. It also has significantly less grass. Like none. I made the mistake of setting up the wading pool in the dirt. Did you know that the dirt in Concord is much lighter and softer than the dirt in the Sacramento area and turns into great mud with very little effort?

I won't soon forget.

Addie thinks it makes a great facial.
I love that Chloe can read now. So does Maggie.

Our Lady of Perpetual Packing, as recreated by Addie. That's an upside down wall sconce with a washcloth wimple.
Gee, I wonder what Maggie would like for lunch?
Hopefully there will be many more blog entries to follow in the near future. And they may even have individual themes. Or, I may just take another nap.

A few things on my mind today II

For those who are interested, it's been a long time since I've shared a "few" things. The first time was here. I'm pretty sure there's less of a theme to this list. But after all, I'm pregnant.

• The girls are currently playing some sort of prison game. I'm sure there will be a riot soon, but for now, all is quiet. I would like to join them. I would be the model prisoner. They could lock me in my room all day and I wouldn't make a peep. I'd even give myself a homemade tattoo. To the outside world, it might just look like stretch marks, but I'd know it signaled my membership in a pretty hardcore gang. Plus, I already go the bathroom prison style.
  
• I'm thinking hard about packing my clothes today. On the surface, this seems like a pretty easy job, but there are categories of clothing that need sorting. So far I've come up with Small Maternity, Large Maternity, and I Really Don't Care Anymore Maternity. Though, I did catch a glance of some overalls on a cute girl on 90210 the other day (the new 90210, not the old one), and thought, "Shoot, now wearing my overalls everyday come September is going to look like I'm still trying." After the maternity clothes comes Large Nursing, Smaller Nursing, Attempting To Do Weight Watchers, and Will Number 4 Wreck Me So Badly That I Will Never Be Able To Fit Into These Clothes Again and Should I Just Give Them Away Now?
• I sat in the bathroom, contemplating packing while picking my toes and my thoughts wandered to the Pioneer Woman, who also waxes contemplative while picking her toes. I realized the train of logic must go as follows. Pioneer Woman picks her toes. Pioneer Woman used to be a ballerina. I pick my toes, ergo, I am graceful. It makes perfect sense.
• I had a big achievement in the bathroom the other day, and no, it has nothing to do with with my Hoarders problem. Lately, the shower has had a hoarding problem, and despite my best attempts to get it to drain and large quantities of hair removal, nothing has worked. Saturday I busted out the adhesive floral clay. 1 ball of it on the end of a hanger grabbed the shampoo lid Maggie had dropped down the drain. 2 balls on the ends of a pair of tongs secured the toothbrush. So now I have fixed a washing machine with floral wire, and plumbing problems with floral clay. Ladies, forget becoming photographers on the side--become a part time florist.
• I discovered the origin of the giant pile of dry baby wipes that keeps mysteriously appearing behind the trunk in the living room. I entered the room the other day to finding Addie cleaning her hands with a wipe. I then asked her to help me with something and she said, "Just a minute, Mom. Let me throw this away." And then she tossed it in the corner. I love when my children have been doing something the wrong way for so long that they will now blatantly do it in front of me.
• Here's another logic problem for you. If the maternal grandmother of your baby is the second of four sisters, and the paternal grandmother of your baby is the third of four sisters, how high is the probability that your fourth baby will be a girl? Or we can approach the problem from a different direction. If your husband is known for being incredibly consistent, a man of deliberateness and routine, was there any chance that after he produced one gorgeous little girl, he would try anything else?
  
• Do you know what's worse than trying to scrub dried shredded wheat cereal sludge off the inside of your sink after a helpful child has dumped her bowl all over the sink? Discovering that the child didn't make it to the sink and not only didn't eat any of the second bowl of cereal she requested, but managed to spill it all over the floor, the cupboards and the trash can on her way to the sink. And then you left the house without seeing the mess and returned 2 hours later to find it had permanently adhered itself to those surfaces. At least it wasn't this again.
  

Hy-PO-tension

If any of you had been here this morning to witness the little meltdown I had (and I'm awfully glad you weren't), you would probably be certain that I had a problem with high blood pressure, a.k.a. hypertension. Truth is, it was probably the closest my blood pressure has come to normal in a few weeks. Like 19, if you're counting. Every doctor's appointment I go to, I'm complimented on how great my blood pressure is. And I nod, and laugh, and quip the same joke about how hard I work at it. I'm starting to rethink that response. Because low blood pressure doesn't always equal great blood pressure.

I remember waiting in line to pay at a store when I was about this pregnant with Addie and suddenly feeling dizzy and faint. When I mentioned this to my OB, she told me it was just my blood vessels relaxing in anticipation of the increased blood volume that my pregnancy was bringing. Because it was my second pregnancy, my vessels already knew what to do and were either

1. Eagerly anticipating their increased job responsibilities.

Or, and I feel this is the much more likely option,

2. Slacking off and "relaxing" early just because they could. Incidentally, they decided to get my intestines in on the action. Those intestines of mine are so relaxed about doing their job I'm thinking we could shoot a whole episode of Hoarders up in there.

My blood vessels have gotten increasingly lazy with each pregnancy. With Maggie, I ended up needing to teach all my lessons at church while sitting in a chair because I couldn't stand for more than a minute without feeling woozy. But this little fetus has taken it to a Whole. Notha. Level. It has completely cut off the blood supply to my brain.

This pregnancy, I get light headed when standing still for seconds. Without the movement of my legs, my body can't be bothered to get the juices flowing all the way to the top. I end up bending down quite regularly to "play with my kids" while waiting for Chloe after school when in reality, I'm debating just completely laying down on the sidewalk to clear my head. For the last 4+ months, I've been too lazy to even get mad at myself for being so lazy. I sleep 9 hours a night and wake up craving a nap. I stood under the water in the shower this morning, rinsing my hair, and couldn't remember if I was rinsing it in anticipation of washing it or if I was rinsing it because I had just washed it.

I leave gallons of milk on the counter for hours. Last night I put the dinner leftovers away in a container, then brought the pan over to the sink to wash it, along with all the pots from the last three night's dinners. I'm hoping I actually remembered to use soap when I washed them. When I finished, I turned around to find that despite thinking I had put the leftovers away, I had actually left the container on the table with the lid off. I'm sure pretty soon, something I've forgotten in the kitchen is going to give me a nasty case of salmonella. But hey, that might be the wake-up call my bowels need.

Even funner, I've been getting some really nasty headaches throughout this pregnancy. I've come to realize it's not my body telling me how desperately badly it wants Dr. Pepper and is actually my brain telling me it needs blood. Then, just this week I've started having a stiff neck and upper back pain. Initially I thought it was because I was spending too much time playing Bubble Blaster on my phone, but on a whim today, I googled "pregnancy hypotension" and guess what? Fatigue, light headedness, headaches, stiff neck and sore upper back are all symptoms. So, I took my afternoon rest with my feet propped up on the back of the couch. And now my back doesn't hurt as much.

Basically, I'm just looking for a way to justify all my bad behaviors this pregnancy. I'll keep googling until I find a diagnosis that also covers "extremely short temper" and "loss of ability to cook." But in the meantime, expect to find me lying on the couch with my feet over my head, cursing at angry birds while something in the kitchen smokes.

(And I will bring it up with my doctor at my next appointment, though I'm sure the response will be, "Just take it easy and drink more water and have your partner give you a back massage.")

Booger McSnottyface

For the second week in a row, I took Maggie home from church early because I didn't want to share the products of her nasty nose with the rest of the nursery. You're welcome. I will also admit I was eager to come home early myself because

1. I had the beginnings of a really special headache coming on.
2. Sacrament meeting had run about 20 minutes over, which in kid time equals 3 extra hours of trying to keep them "reverent."
3. I love to ditch church. Yeah, I said it.

I still wasn't clear as to whether or not my motives in coming home early were entirely pure (i.e. Maggie really was sick) until this morning. Here's the thing. Maggie gets colds like I get colds. We both start to feel rotten for a day, maybe have a scratchy throat, a little mucous, nothing super specific.

But day two, the faucet opens. Seriously. My nose runs so hard and fast, it's all I can do to stem the tide. The snot pouring from it is the consistency of water, and if I don't keep a tissue in hand at all times, is likely to just flow forth onto all surfaces. I once had a roommate remark that I wasn't using my tissues very "effectively" because she couldn't believe how many I was going through. During this portion of my colds, I have often had to resort to sticking tissues up each nostril just to do basic household tasks, or even go to sleep. You're right. I am very, very sexy.

After day two, the tide usually stems and the flood thickens, allowing me to function for a couple days until it thickens so much that it glues my throat shut and I have moments where I can't breathe. On those days, I use one of these. If you haven't tried one for allergies/colds/sinuses, you really should.

Today when I went in to get Maggie up for the day, I knew I was right in keeping her home from church. Because she looked like this.

Like an old man in a toddler suit. I say old man rather than old lady because her hair growth still puts her more in the old man category. Although Maggie is usually very willing to let me wipe her runny nose, and can even blow it when I ask her to (Unlike Addie, who still sucks in. Special.), I am not there to help her in the night. And in the night, she rubs that runny snot over every last inch of her face, right up into her hairline. And as a result, when that mucus dries and cracks, she looks like she's aged 70 years.

I've spent all day chasing that little monkey with a tissue, but I'll admit, I haven't worked very hard at cleaning the rest of her face. I'm kind of hoping if I let it build up, by tomorrow morning I will be able to find her work as a circus freak.