Funky Town

I have zero idea why Fort Worth is called Funky Town by some, but I've never really enjoyed the nickname.  But this post isn't about the beauty of Fort Worth--less about town, more about funk.  I'm in a funk.  There I said it.  Not depressed, exactly, just blah.  Exhausted.  I need to work-out and knowing I'm not a morning person, not to mention being responsible for getting the tribe out the door each morning, I feel like the evenings are doable.  I've worked-out successfully at this time before and it worked. Problem is that currently by 7:30 or 8:00, I'm done.  D-O-N-E.  Exhausted.  Antisocial.  It's like my job and parenting responsibilities have sucked every last ounce of energy out of me by 8pm.

I realize I have 3 small children and a full-time job, but seriously, I am chronically feeling sleep-deprived, even when I'm getting plenty of sleep.  I also realize this could just be life, could be stress, could be medical. I even took a pregnancy test, just to make sure, despite my husband having the big V last year.  Yeah, desperate, panicky measures.  I think I've now decided it would be prudent to actually find a PCP since I'm done bearing children & have been relying on my (wonderful) OB-GYN  for this job.  The last true physical I had was in 2011. . . and that was a well-woman check, no bloodwork.  Yeah.

So, hypochondriac?  Lazy?  Real disorder? I don't know.  This post is a total going-out-on-a-limb moment because if my mom reads this, she will ask me daily: a) "How are you feeee-ling?" and b) if I've actually made the appointment.  Sometimes my own policy of "it's always good to be honest" policy gets me into trouble.

I'm Not Ready (The Hard Things)

Hard parental discussions are framed in my head by children than are ages 10 years old and older.  I figure my crowd, the under 5 crowd, should be filled with questions about where candy comes from, when can we ride a tractor and when can I get married.   Can I get an amen on this one?

Things I didn't bargain for?  A 4.5 year old that is far too perceptive and inquisitive for his own good.  So perceptive, in fact, that he asked me yesterday morning in the car why there were so many flags out.  Seriously?  This is where my commitment to be honest about all the things to the point it's appropriate seems questionable (I'm looking at you Mom, Ms. I-don't-know-what-bastard-means).  Turns out 9-11 is a tricky thing to explain to an anxious, perceptive, sensitive kid.

Time will tell on if I gave the right, or enough, or too much, information.  I told Ell that some bad guys killed a lot of people because they didn't like our country and that the flags are the way we can remember them. He accepted this, we moved on to discussion of Goofy throwing up in my car. . . until this morning.

"Mommy, why do some people have to die before us?"  Death is a common source of questions in the mind of a 4.5 year old, so I answered that we are all going to die someday and no one knows when that might be.  "Why did those bad guys have to kill all those people? What happened to the bad guys?"  Twenty-four hours later and his wheels still turning, trying to make sense of the unreasonable.  Raising children in a world of uncertainty is tough, but the world is no more uncertain than it has always been.  The question is how to balance protection and honesty, to raise bold & brave children not cowed by fear of coulds and might happens?  Right now my answer is simplified honesty.  I don't know that it's right, but it's right for right now.

Poopy. Say It.

Elliott had a fab day yesterday and Saturday, but the attitude was back in full-force today. He was repeating "poopy" over and over on the way home. And over.  And over.  I counted him, he quickly earned a time-out and we had to get off the phone with Glammy (the tragedy!). He still didn't stop--kept egging on Brooklyn to say it. Say it.  

I got stern and showed him how irked I was--major mistake; he laughed (the little shit--pun intended). This makes my head spin around, so it was a good thing that I had the rest of the drive to calm down. Had we not been in the car I'm afraid I would've spanked him, which is not what we want to do as parents although I was second-guessing that decision. I  acknowledged I couldn't make him stop saying it and told him not to worry about his consequence in my best Love and Logic attempt at parenting. It gave me time to plot with Chris via text at red lights. Because he couldn't make good choices around his brother and sister, he had to eat by himself in his room and then go straight to bed. He was quite devastated for the moment, crying, screaming & bargaining.  In turns I felt sad for him and glee at finding a consequence that meant something (momentarily).  I'm often consulted at work for how to treat children with  more challenging behaviors, so I'm convinced that this child has been sent to me for lessons in becoming humble.  

I Guess This is Really Happening

It seems I might really be having a baby sometime soon. I vacillate between eagerness and anticipation to downright terror.  Not terror of giving birth.  It's the terror of being alone with THREE KIDS UNDER THE AGE OF FOUR.  Damned reality rearing it's ugly head.

I know it will work out, just like I know the first 6 months are going to be filled with exhaustion.

I know we will make it work, just like I know it will be immense work.

I know there will be moments filled with laughter of three children, just as I know there will be moments where our home will be filled with the wails of three crying children.

I know our home will be filled with love, just as I know that there will be moments full of stress.  So long as the love wins, I figure we're on the right track.

I know there will be unmet needs:  Brooklyn's, Elliott's, Kellen's, Chris' and mine.  I also know that my amazing friends will force me out of the house for girl-time, helping me to be a better spouse & parent.

I know there will be moments of "heated discussions" between Chris and me, but I also know that we will work to make our marriage a priority because a strong marriage makes for a stronger family.

I see a lot of prayer in my future.  Not so much sleep.  I see my heart expanding as my budget shrinks.  I see that we will find a way because there are so many people who do more with much less.

Okay.  I get it.  This is happening.  I should probably pack a bag or something.  I did manage to pre-register for the hospital, so there's that.

Once Kellen arrives, please feel free to visit.  With a casserole.  Or two.

So Now What?

I have gotten more response from my post  about my experience with bullying than any other in my little blog's history.  Not necessarily in the comment section, but some heartfelt responses on Facebook and in person.  I must say that if any post were going to garner attention, I am both quite pleased and uncomfortable.  Pleased because with a rash of suicides, I can't think of anything more important.  Uncomfortable because it is an episode that caused me much pain in shame and writing about it required quite a bit of vulnerability and openness on my part.

Someone whom I admire quite a bit, commented yesterday about how much he liked the post and felt it was important.  Important because perhaps our work as adults shouldn't be on eradicating bullying--it has existed since the dawn of time--but more about equipping our children with the support systems to weather this pain.  He cut so quickly to the heart of what I was trying to say:  that the bullying occurred because of the unfortunate choices of others, but that I survived thanks in large part to my parents and the sense of connectedness.  My parents couldn't save me from the cruelty, but had planted the seeds from my earliest days to know that they were interested in me, invested in me, and in being so, surrounded me not just with their love, but with other people who appreciated the me-ness that made me, me.

That is our challenge, not to let our youth slip down the deep hole of anonymity and be buried by dirt of pain.  Finding a voice for our own empathy so they can learn.  Finding joy in our own friends, so that the importance of being connected is modeled.  Appreciating quirks in each other, in order that they can appreciate differences in others.

I'm Kinda Gross

Remember when I tried to stop using regular shampoo and totally failed, but said that I would try to find an alternative.? I've been determined to use less shampoo.  My solution has been to wash my hair every-other-day and when I wash my hair, only applying shampoo at the roots.  Then I use conditioner at the ends.

Let me just tell you that the method is not foolproof.  Today was day two and as I took my ponytail down, I found a really greasy and nasty patch.  For real.  So either one part of my scalp produces enough grease in two days to fry an egg OR I am completely inept at washing my hair.  Or both.  Sigh.  I fear that's the real answer.  Feel free to judge me now.

Sometimes the Universe Laughs. . .

and you have no choice but to sit back and grin.  Even when your first reaction was the F-word.  Yep.  That was me.  You see, I'm a planner and when things don't go according to MY plan, then I say the F-word.  A lot.

Well, about a month ago when the pregnancy test showed two lines and then again when the second and third test showed the same, I was saying that word a lot.  A third child was NOT in our family plan.  This is where that 'universe laughing' thing comes in.

I've stopped saying the F-word.  Sure, I'm worried.  Having 3 kids under three and a half is quite a daunting thought, but at this point, I know we'll survive.  What's one more in the chaos, right?

Mental Health in a Vibrating Chair

Today my Heather came over for a visit.  It had been a ridiculously long time since I had seen her, but no worry, my 2 year old immediately recalled that she's the number one person willing to play hide-and-hide with him (no editing mistake--he only wants to hide and be chased).  Eventually poor Heather got to sit and even got to take off her impervious-to-cold soccer shoes.  That's when Ell busted out with this, upon seeing her feet and pointing,

My Mommy don't have those anymore.  

 Yep.  I still have feet.  Toes even.  What did I not have any longer?  Painted toenails.  This wasn't because I took the polish off--oh no.  This was because it had been so long since my piggies were painted that it had all grown off.  Even off the big toe. Sad.  That's what happens when you have two kids and a full-time job during a recession.

That moment is when Heather and I looked at each other and we knew. . . we KNEW our destiny.  Pedicures.  Sometimes that vibrating, massaging chair and some girlfriend-time is all you need to make you forget about re-arranging the garage.  Trust me.  Totally rationalized worth it.

Adventures in Poop, Vol. III

Today's adventure is brought to you by the concept of wiping.  Yes, wiping someone's arse, other than your own.  It's not my favorite job, but after 3 years of day in-day out wiping, I'm kind of used to it.  Enter in the Standing Wipe.  The Standing Wipe makes things challenging, but it can  be done.

After 3 years of the wiping, you would think the arse of the person being wiped would understand the concept. The answer to that assumption is no, a resounding NO.  How did we learn this, you may ask?  As my husband was on poop-patrol, it was by accident that I found out this horrific lesson.  It was as I heard,

No, Elliott!  We don't wipe our face after we've wiped our hineys.  

Yep.  You got it.  Post-hiney wipe on.the.face.

Boys are Gross.

Making the Switch

So today I'm waxing poetic on exercising my parental rights.  I mean, seriously, aren't we conditioned to think that the words of a doctor are just to the right of God?  Right?  In my world growing up, doctors were pretty fancy, not people who moved in our social circles or went to church with us.  Heck, there wasn't even a doctor in the nearest 4 towns until sometime around the year 2000.

But I'm on a roll, y'all.  Granted, the roll is moving at a snail's pace, but I've moved on from 3 different doctors in less than 3 years since I've been a parent and I feel like a rebel.  (You can laugh, I know I'm not really a rebel.)  I made the call and cut the ties with the third doc today. . . I write that like I marched into his office and gave him what-for and fired him.  Yeah.  That didn't happen.  I just followed my instincts and called another ENT for my Monkey.  Old ENT none-the-wiser, but mama feels a whole lot better.

I guess the point of this post is to say, do it. If something doesn't feel right, don't swallow it and think that maybe you are blowing things out of proportion or are being too sensitive or expecting too much.  What I've forced myself to think?  The doctors once so infallible?  I realize now that they work for us.

The "You Should Switch Doctors IF _____" list 

(in the vein of Jeff Foxworthy's "You might be a redneck if. . .")

1. You tell the pediatrician that your child might have reflux because there is spit up on every.single.item. in your home.  About 50x per day and the doctor responds, "Oh, that's NOTHING!  My sons were way worse than that!"  Not. Helpful.
2. You get into the car after an appointment and burst into tears because the doctor made you feel worse instead of better about something.
3. The doctor is in the examination room for less than 8 minutes while discussing a surgical procedure (albeit small) on your CHILD.
4. Questions feel like an imposition.  You know, like if you ask questions you are somehow implying they don't know anything when really you just want to make sure every possibility has been explored because, I don't know, it's your CHILD?
5. Diagnoses don't come with a discussion.  Like when the specialist looks at the notes and says, matter of factly, "Oh, so we have a purple-horned unicorn disease here" with no respect or concern that purple-horned unicorn implies that there is something seriously going on with your child that perhaps you've missed until now.  
6. Even though you explain that you actually have experience in child development, the answer is "hmm" and then they move on to the next topic.
7. If you call because the plan suggested by the doctor is leading to a side effect, say stopping up of 'pipes,' suggesting a small explosive to clear the clog might be failing to individualize care.  
8. Not to say appearances are everything, they aren't, BUT there comes the realization that every doctor is getting the same reimbursement from insurances.  So when you are a factory for small surgical procedures,say, removing purple horns from unicorns, and your office hasn't been updated since 1986, I wonder where the money is going.  I'm guessing it isn't being invested in state-of-the-art equipment. . . or even state-of-the-decade equipment.
9. The office staff is rude.  If you forget your insurance card, yet everything on file is current and they still threaten to cancel your appointment, then chances are they hate their job.  
10. You feel rushed.  Last time I checked, doctors are still part of the helping professions.  Helping takes at least two people to be involved.  Every family is different.  Every body is different.  Of all people, a doctor should know that.  Minimizing my child's difficulties because there are kids much worse off doesn't make me feel anything but neurotic and pushed aside.  I am there because I'm worried about my kid and health and well-being, how this will affect them later-- and on and on.  And the thing is?  I want the doctor to be worried about my kid, above all else, in that moment, too.  

I'm confident and brave enough to say that if my needs aren't met, I'm out.  Sionara.  Check ya.  

Privacy?

Our house has no privacy.  None.  It's a good thing that my husband still loves me after witnessing me birthing two darling children, because there are horrific moments when he's seen me pee.  On the toilet.  Which makes me think our marriage is doomed just like Janene Garafolo's character proclaims her parents' to be in the ultimate 90s movie, Reality Bites.

All of this is to say that my. . . ahem. . .you know. . .my period is back.  Shh.  This makes me blush like an 8th grader.  I promise that I only share this news for the purpose of humor.  My child is the epitome of curiosity.  For the first time in what I am sure will be a long, long tradition--I stumbled over the answers to his questions.  Stuttered.  Sputtered.

"What dat, Mommy?  What dat?  Dat for me?"

"Uh. . . it's for mommies.  It's just. . .a. . .thing."

"What for, Mommy?"

Silence.

"What for, Mommy?"

Now I know why my mom used to say things like, "I just want to poop in peace."  No 2 1/2 year old BOY is ready for the truth about tampons.

My Dirty Little Secret

Turns out my dirty little secret isn't dirty and it isn't all that little:  Piles of clean laundry are taking over our home.  Slowly encroaching on ever surface available.  We leave the house dressed, kids well fed, homemade formula in tow but our house is a ginormous mess.  The kind of mess that would make me want to slam the door in a friend's face should someone drop by unannounced.  Playroom strewn with toys, all my maternity clothes laid out on the playroom couch left over from my failed attempt to sell them on eBay, hallway full of dirty clothes, laundry room with a substantial pile of clean laundry wedged into a corner so that the garage door may be opened, master bath unable to enter the closet due to the sorted dirty clothes and, finally, the living room with two full laundry baskets and another pile of clean clothes.  My current mantra is: "This stage won't last forever and my kids and taking time to rest are far more important than a perfect house."

I think the house is just a symptom of juggling everything required to be a working mom.  This week has left me longing for days with my kids, uninterrupted by duties and errands and work.  I am fairly vigilant about making sure we keep to some kind of sleep schedule for my wee people and committed to performing my work duties with competence.  These certainly don't always mesh.  Especially when my wee-est wee one goes to bed between 6:30 and 7:00, leaving me only an hour of time with her each evening.  Suckety-suck-suck.  The amount of "The Guilt," as the ladies from Rants from Mommyland call it,  is rampant on this front.    I could keep going on this train of thought, but in hopes of preserving my sanity and the need to finish my glass o' wine are making me stop.  Stop.  No really, Courtney, STOP.

Say it with me now:  "This stage won't last forever and my kids and taking time to rest are far more important than a perfect house."

"This stage won't last forever and my kids and taking time to rest are far more important than a perfect house."

"This stage won't last forever and my kids and taking time to rest are far more important than a perfect house."

Did it help?  I know.  We need practice.  

Like Mama? Disturbingly so. . .

I'm clumsy.  Disturbingly so.  I hoped, oh how I hoped, that my children would inherit Aunt Manny's athletic prowess.  After attending two gymnastics classes, I can say assuredly that Ell did not inherit those skillz.  Anyone I've told this to says, "He's just two!"  or "I'm sure everyone is like that."  Chris attended yesterday and looked at me and said, "I get it."  This is certainly a good use of our dollars each month, because we now know that he's more like mommy than just in looks and having the memory of an elephant.  Further proof:

The Sad Truth

Pintrest and the darn default categories have made me realize I have turned into something:  someone with no style.  In the "My Style" category, I realized that t-shirts and pajama pants probably aren't re-pin worthy.  Then I realized that the only clothes I have purchased for myself since the arrival of Baby Brook-Brook are a pair of check shorts and navy v-neck tee to go with them.  Oh, and I scored a Big Sam shirt from Camp Carter.  I'm pretty sure that shouldn't count.

I am one of those moms.  You know, the ones who have children that are dressed remarkably cute and sassy and then you look at the mom and wonder what the whuck?  Doesn't she realize?  Then think to yourself, she could be so cute if only she would ______.  Yep.  That's me.  I will even openly admit that the large majority of my clothes are hand-me-downs from my mom.  My mom.  Yes, she has style, but still.

Here's the thing:  I only half-way care.  My mother (the one with the style) will be horrified when she reads this because she so desperately wants me to care more, but alas, I'm stuck at the half-way point.  Why half-way?  I like to look cute, but the reality is:

1. I have a NEED to be comfortable.  Need.  It hasn't changed since that shabby, sloppy royal blue jogging suit I wore in 7th grade until my mom said I couldn't wear it out anymore.  It also counts for shoes.  I like heels on other people--I do.  But I need my toes to be comfy.  
2. Clothes shopping is depressing.  I don't like my size and therefore purchasing clothes in that dreaded number is just further reminder.
3. I am cheap.  I love a good bargain.  Turns out that grown-up clothes that look nice are pricey.  
4. I hate to iron.  The last time I ironed was 3 years ago.  I'm fairly certain that wasn't an exaggeration.
5. I'm doing well to get out of the house looking presentable.  This means my jewelry hasn't been unpacked since we moved.  In April 2010.  

 These new shoes might be the prime example of my half-way cute, comfortable style:

Hrm.  Now I just seem fat and lazy.  Oh, and sloppy.  Oh well.  I only half-way care.

Oh. THAT Phase.

I knew it was coming, I just thought maybe we had until closer to three. The phase? The one where my child speaks the plain ol' unvarnished truth. (The scene: Breakfast room table. Breakfast with Ell-man and Mommy. Brooklyn in small rocker next to the table.) Elliott: Mommy have bih-oof. Mommy: Heh? Elliott: Mommy's big-oof. Mommy: ???? Elliott: Mommy have big teef (while pointing to his own teeth) Mommy: (smothering dejected laughter) You're right, Ell. Mommy does have big teeth. It's true. Bugs Bunny and I evidently have the same ancestors. I'm not sure where this particular trait originated, as my parents have normal-sized teeth. You, dear reader, are probably thinking that I'm speaking in hyperbole, but alas, I speak only the truth.

See? I've read some studies that show people with big teeth are perceived to be in good health, or something along those lines, and if that's the case people should perceive me to the epitome of health and to live forever.