Valentine's Day? Heck Yeah!

Of all the holidays that exist in Western civilization, the one that appeals to me the most is the one that should appeal least to a mean, cynical, jaded miscreant like me. Halloween should appeal to me, but for reasons far too stupid to mention, I hate Halloween.

Fact of the matter is, I freakin' love Valentine's Day! I would totally wear a heart-themed "ugly" sweater I wasn't too cheap to buy one.

I think I've always loved Valentine's Day - ever since I was a kid and we had our little class parties with the stupid decorated shoe/mail box. My best friend Sarah and I would always go all out and get each other special presents like a half-heart necklace. When joined together, it reads Best Friends. It was the most important thing I owned in 6th grade. (Yes, I was very much like Sue Heck. Still am.)

So now that I'm a mother and I have a kid who is finally at the age where we can do cool things together (hang me if I don't find chasing him all over a playground a cool thing to do), I decided to go all out for Valentine's Day.

Although it's easy to marginalize my son's interest by just saying he's into 1969 Type 101 Von Rolls (yes, still) and trolleys, he also really likes piñatas, cupcakes, and painting - all three of which were part of my mega Valentine's Day party plan.

Since #2 is only 15 months old (still not walking, but we'll save that drama for another day) and is definitely not at the age to do cool things, I figured I would squeeze our Valentine's Day party in while he was sleeping. He takes long naps. Just like me.

John was going to be out playing paintball so it was just gonna be me and #1 and a whole lotta fun.

But then my sister-in-law called to see what we were up to. Hell yeah, her kids are also at an age where they can do cool things so they scored an invite to our little Valentine's Day fiesta. And this was the agenda:

1. Make Valentines for loved ones.
2. Hit the piñata.
3. Eat cupcakes!!!

I don't like to brag, except when it comes to me and my piñata-making skills. Because #1 is really into Von Rolls, and that was the theme for his third birthday, and it would be deplorable on my part if there was no piñata at his birthday party (having a piñata was actually the reason we decided to have a birthday party in the first place), we needed something special. Let me tell you, don't expect to roll into Party City to buy a Von Roll piñata. They don't exist. Well, they don't if you're a regular dude. They do if you're my kid, because I, very quickly, thanks to the aid of Norma, learned how to make one. And it was pretty bitchin'.

So now I'm very cocky about pinata-making because I busted out a Valentine's Day pinata in less than 15 minutes. It wasn't crazy or anything, just an Amazon box and some tissue paper, but you should have seen the look on #1's face when he saw it. I practically had to restrain him with zip ties to keep him from whacking it until the cousins arrived.

Anyway, the party went down without a hitch. The kiddos had a blast making Valentines and hitting the piñata. I debated having them decorate their own cupcakes. Ultimately, I said to myself, "Settle down, Ace of Cakes, they're only three years old."

High from our successful little soiree, I had visions of doing little parties like this for all the holidays - St. Patrick's Day, Easter, May Day to celebrate the proletariat. Alas, my high eventually wore off and now I have returned to my usual, crabby self. But I'll see the Valentine-loving giddy me aproximately this time next year. Hope you had a Happy Valentine's Day too.

Fireworks on the Freeway

Every once in awhile, I'm called upon to do something millions of mothers do every day without incident. For some reason, I find it to be one of the most painful tasks conceivable. I'd rather spend some drill time in a dentist's chair than do this: pick my kids up from the sitter.

I work from home and I totally get that I'm blessed, my boss is the greatest human being ever, yada yada yada. But sometimes it is unavoidable - I must swap out my PJs for real people clothes and work off premises. This is all good and well until our beloved nanny Norma - a person that is on the short, short list of human beings I cannot live without - offers to take the kids home with her. I can just swing by and pick them up on my way home. This is very generous on her part because it usually means she hangs on to them longer than she should.

HOWEVER.

Every time I pick the kids up, #1 freaks out because he simply does not want to go home with me. He wants to stay and play with Norma and I have to hear him scream and cry about it all the way home. There's a couple of key things to consider here before passing judgement on me. 1) I pick them up right during the heart of rush hour traffic. The ride home usually lasts anywhere from 45 minutes to an hour, and #1 doesn't usually calm down until we're pulling up to the driveway. 2) Although I know how to get to Norma's house, I don't exactly know how to find the freeway from there. And so you say, "Hey dumbass, why don't you just retrace your steps from how you got there?" To which I would reply, "Because then I'd have to go north to go south and I hate backtracking more than I hate that you just called me a dumbass." So I end up driving around, trying to figure out where the hell I am, weaving in and out of good and bad neighborhoods, all while #1 is saying things like, "No Mommy! Stop the car! I want to get out now, please! I want Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooorma!"

Sometimes I turn the music up louder, but then I feel bad for #2 who is patiently waiting for me to find my way. He gets me. He lets me be me and figure out my way in life, unlike #1 who has already told me, at the ripe age of 3.5, that he doesn't like me anymore. They grow up so fast, don't they?

Anyway, after going through all this drama a few too many times, I finally figured out what the hell will calm the little maniac down. For some reason, brake lights remind #1 of fireworks, which prompts him to ask me to sing the Fireworks Song. Do you know that one? I bet you do. It's a little number by Francis Scott Key, AKA The Star Spangled Banner. By the way, I happen to think The Star Spangled Banner is one of the most beautiful songs ever written. I get teary eyed even when I sing it (just so you know, my vocals are akin to Alfalfa from The Little Rascals). Some day I dream of doing this songs justice by learning all the actual words.

Anyway, tonight after I sang it about twenty times and we were driving up the hill, 60 seconds away from our house, #1 said, "Mommy, I'm not sad anymore. I'm happy now."

And I was happy too. Happy for my kid. Happy for America. Happy to be home.

Thanksgiving Too Shall Pass

Not being the parental/maternal/mommy type, when my kid gets sick, it's the end of the world. You might be the parental/maternal/mommy type and when your kid gets sick, it could be the end of your world. You can write about that in your blog. But this is my blog and it's about me and the people I know, and the mothers I do know seem to handle their children getting sick just fine. For me, however, it has ruined my Thanksgiving. My first born is experiencing his first real-hardcore-snot-and-fever-fiesta-type virus.

Thank you, preschool. Or the zoo. Or the playground.

He even looks weird - like he's been mainlining Benadryl nonstop for 72 hours. His eyes are all droopy and he's just been in the craziest mood - erratically mellow, but then erratically cuckoo. The worst part of it is that although normally, his screams are incredibly piercing and awful, his screams now are muted and bizarre. It has come to this - I miss his shrieking. If he could scream like he did last week, at least I would know that he was normal again. He also looks thinner, which is bad since he's already a scrawny dude.

There is no middle ground when I worry about something. I've managed to convince myself he has the plague and if he overcomes this, it will be with less brain cells, or impaired vision, or a complete defiance towards afternoon naps. There will be a scar and it will be permanent.

Let's discuss Thanksgiving. No one died. We still have a roof over our head. There was no great tragedy other than the fact that I only ate half a plate of food and no dessert (not by choice, although I'm sure it didn't hurt me).

The first part of Thanksgiving was at my in-laws. That sucked because that's when I first noticed he looked high! He was in a crappy mood and didn't want to eat. He wanted to go play in the next room and I had to be the bouncer that made sure he and his cousins didn't terrorize each other. (Is it possible for three-year-olds to coexist harmoniously???)

Ate about a quarter of a plate at that dinner.

We left before dessert to squeeze in a nap before having to go to my mom's. I hoped he would just sleep it off and be fine when he woke up. He slept for a little while, or I did while I laid next to him. I'm not exactly sure if he got any sleep, but I got in about 45 minutes. That's the only good thing about the kid getting sick. It sort of justifies falling asleep in his bed with him ("I'm monitoring the fever"). Then at my mom's house, just as we were sitting down to eat, the housekeeper said, "He's got a fever."

Ugh.

We bust out the thermometer and it's 102. Ugh ugh ugh. Off to Wal-mart to buy drugs and Gatorade. I'm shoveling food in my mouth as we're packing the dudes up.

Ate about a quarter of a plate at that dinner as well.

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. It is the day when, as far as I'm concerned, the best food is cooked and the best company is kept at my mother's house. However, I realized at 10PM last night as John and I were peacefully eating leftovers that my mom sent us, we are about five years away from being able to enjoy a peaceful and fun Thanksgiving. If it's not a sickness that throws a monkey wrench into the festivities, it'll be a bedtime, or boredom, or some other crazy thing that infects those little maniacs we call toddlers.

The doorbell rang this afternoon. There were flowers at my door. Made my Thanksgiving and my year. The note said, "This too shall pass." Thank you, Amy.

Scream if you're done with screams

One of my best friends is having a baby tomorrow. We know this because it's a planned c-section but it's made me a bit nostalgic about #2's birth, because it was more recent than #1's and because it was sort of documented on Facebook so I could keep clicking the Older Posts link to find the magical day. I don't think I was hip on the 'book when #1 hit us like a ton of jagged bricks.

Anyway, we're wrapping up year one with #2. This is a graduation of sorts for us. No more stupid Dr. Brown bottles with a million components, no more formula (although since we went all Up and Up on that shiznit, it's not such a hit to the wallet), no more awkward infant car seat, but best of all, no more BABIES!!!

I'm ashamed to say I don't remember too much about it, only because mostly what I can recall of this year is #1's high pitched screams. 2010 was definitely the year of the scream. Will 2011 hold the same fate for us? Let's hope not, since we've pretty much adopted a zero tolerance policy for screaming.

And this is how much I've changed since I became a parent. No longer am I embarrassed by #1's screams. He can scream all the way to the ENT to check the nodule that I'm sure is imminent, and I will remain calm and unfazed. And what's more, when homeboy is screaming in public that he wants an ice cream or cookie, I ignore him until we get to the car and then I take great pleasure in saying, "Remember what we talked about earlier today at Target? Remember quid pro quo? Yeah, no cookie or ice cream for you!" And more screaming ensues. From him, not me.

But at the end of the day, the monster (again, him not me) goes away and #1 becomes the super cool little dude that I adore. Is this what this parenting scam is? It's strange and exhausting 85% of the time and platinum 15% of the time. Pure, premium, platinum. I guess I'm a sucker for precious metals.

My Scream King

One of my personality traits is that I have incredibly high expectations of the people I surround myself with. I know that it is sometimes difficult to be my friend, but it is probably even more difficult to be my child. No one is perfect and it disappoints me to know how easily I forget that. #1 is two years and eight months old. He is right in the thick of things as far as toddler insanity goes. He can be set off by the word "NO" or just enjoy the random Code Red, Hurricane Level 4 tantrum.

Up until a few days ago, I started wondering if there was something psychologically wrong with him. Then I talked to some people at work. It's normal. This crazy, irrational behavior is totally normal - which makes me feel like an asshole because when people ask how the boys are doing, I say the baby is awesome (I cannot imagine a better baby) and the older one is like a little terrorist. You cannot reason with a terrorist.

Truth of the matter is that while #1 certainly throws his share of tantrums and has the kind of piercing scream that can make dogs within a three mile radius vacate, he is a beautiful, sensitive little dude. He's never tried to beat up or bite his little brother. He has a wonderful sense of humor. He's incredibly logical and strategic. His passion is not Barney or Yo Gabba Gabba - it's the Von Roll Type 101. He's goddamn brilliant. I need to remember this when we're at Walmart and he wants to go right when we need to go left and the screaming ensues (my little Scream King).

This too shall pass.

Intervention: It begins TODAY

As much as I love the A&E show, this post is not about the season premiere. After suffering a HELLISH weekend with my beloved toddler, John and I have decided to stage an intervention.

First, let me give you some backstory, #1 SUCKS at eating. He didn't use to. He used to be the awesome kid who would eat all the fruits and veggies you pureed for him. At eighteen months, he staged his first food revolt. It's been a downward spiral ever since.

I wish I could say, "At least he eats chicken McNuggets." No, he does not. He doesn't like Chicken McNuggets. (What kid on planet Earth does not like Chicken McNuggets??? Yes, I know Chicken McNuggets are shit. BUT at least they have *some* protein. We can all agree that some of it does come from a chicken, right?)

Oh sure, give him cookies and cake and he's king. Until he turns into a little psycho that is reminiscent of Regan from The Exorcist. I don't think it's the sugar fallout that makes him go nuts. I think it's the fact that he won't eat anything else.

Forgive me if I'd rather let my child starve than nourish him with cookies and ice cream.

We had a great week last week. He was eating his food. He was super well behaved. Then we went to a birthday party on Friday night. Fruit punch, cookies, cake. You name it. Saturday was ok. Sunday was a disaster. In between his bouts of psychosis -the only substantial piece of food he ingested yesterday was half a banana.

We used tough love and strategy to get the dudes to sleep through the night at three months. It's time to stage an intervention and get this kid on track. I'll keep you posted on how it goes.

Wish me luck.

Public Service Announcement

Now see here, pregnant woman, or someday pregnant woman, learn from this. I wish someone had told me how smug I was. It's too late for me. But you can still be saved.

On the Record

Check this out. A few months ago, we took #2 to the doc. It was a late afternoon appointment. Normally I keep all doc-related things in a special briefcase-like contraption, but this time, since I had all this stuff to carry, including #1, I just put everything in my purse - brilliant move. Of course, the inevitable happened. The immunization record got lost. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The next appointment rolls around and I cannot find the stupid card. At the doc's office, I do the whole, "Oh shoot, I forgot it!" Well knowing, nope, didn't forget it. Intentionally didn't bring it because it's lost. But it was the nurse who was asking for it. Then the doc comes in, sees the kid, yada, yada. Before he leaves he says, "We'll just update the shot record at your next visit." DAMN. I was hoping he wouldn't find out. I realized then that I have this fear of disappointing the doc - the doc who I love and is pretty much the only reason I endured sharing a room after delivery of #2. I could have changed my insurance but I said, "No way, man. I love our pediatrician." (I also feel like somewhat of an elitist because he's not taking any new patients.)

Then I had to clean out my car. I found the shot record under the driver's seat. Yippee! Everyone rejoice!

So #2's appointment is this morning. Ask me. Go ahead. Do you have your shot record?

Here we go again. Cleaning out my car is something I rarely do. I had to be designated driver for some dinner party so I figured I might as well give the passenger a lesser-gross experience. Thing is, I was hurrying up and then running late so in my haste, I cannot, for the life of me, remember where I put the goddamn shot record.

Of course, I spent all of last night looking for it, trying to visualize my steps that night, everything - to no avail. I'm ready to throw in the towel, get a new shot record card, and never lose it again. You have my word in writing.

I googled what to do if you lose the shot record. Apparently it's not that big a deal if you've had the same doc - which we do since the dude has only been around for four months. I found myself on eHow reading about it. Then I glanced down at the article of the day. How to Work Through Feelings of Social Isolation. Was this all an elaborate ruse courtesy of the universe to get me to learn how to make friends?

Universe, the jig is up. Please give me my shot record card back.

Update: It really isn't a big deal to get a new shot record. I envisioned a smack down from the nurse, or at the very least, a disappointed frown. When I told her it was lost, she nodded and said, "OK, I'll get you a new one." The card stock is not the same caliber as the original but it's yellow and up to date. It'll do.

The Pot Calling the Kettle Black?

So I was messing around on the World Wide Web looking at other people's blogs about their families. They were pretty boring. I want to say that people should only write about their kids if they have funny stories about puke, or their kids shoplifting, or how they think the urge to have children was a momentary lapse in good judgement. But these boring blogs are strangely fascinating.

I was reading this one blog where the mom was talking about the kid's baptism. Who cares? Does anyone really care (aside from the numbers people at the Catholic Church who are worried about a drop in, well, numbers). I'm fascinated by the fact that this lady thinks people care, or more so, the possibility that some people do read and do care. And what about the jerks like me? People who don't care and read ONLY to make fun of others. I know, fucked up, right?

Here's more fucked up stuff. They had all these pics of the kids on the blog. The kids were ugly. I'm sure they'll grow up to be incredibly handsome, bright human beings, but they're just not enjoying their most photogenic years so far. So how fucked up is that? Some complete stranger/asshole (me) is looking at their blog, making mean-spirited remarks, and posting it on her blog. Where's the humanity in that?

(This is precisely why I don't have any pics of my kids on this blog. I am afraid of Internet Deviants who will Photoshop mustaches and devil horns on my kids.)

P.S. I know, I know. To each his own. Lord knows people don't need to read about my IUD or how I'm short-changing #2 with generic baby products.

On the Up and Up

Let's talk about Target. There are people out there that swear that Target is one of the greatest contributions of modern man. The fact that you can get an Isaac Mizrahi blouse, motor oil, and Cadbury Cream Eggs all under one roof is the stuff dreams are made of. I didn't used to be one of those people. Walmart is down the street from me. The service can drive me bonkers but driving the extra ten minutes to get to Target just wasn't worth it.

And then I had a baby during the Great Recession.

Actually, I shouldn't put it all on the new baby.

I procrastinate. I am a SUPER PROCRASTINATOR. In all aspects of life. This includes buying essentials for the babies - like diapers.

I used to buy Huggies diapers at Costco. I hate going to Costco by myself and because John hates going to Costco period, I kind of ran out of diapers. So I scrambled up some Target coupons for Pampers but the coupons were the kind where you had to buy wipes and diapers to get a measly $4 off. The total transaction would have been way more than what I would have paid at Costco but since I waited until that absolute last minute, I was screwed. So off I go to overpay for these Pampers. When I get there, I notice that (yes, I know I changed tenses. Eat me.) there is a mustard yellow package with a nice clean design. It's Up and Up - Target's new generic brand. I think to myself, "Screw it. I'll just buy these for now since they're super cheap and go to Costco in the morning."

I never went back to Costco for diapers. My kids' hazardous waste goes exclusively into Up and Up diapers and they are AWESOME. And CHEAP. I wish they had super jumbo packs (like Costco) but other than that I have only kind words to say about these diapers.

BUt that was only the beginning. I started exploring other Up and Up products for the babies. As of today, we use the following Up and Up products: Diapers, baby wipes, baby laundry detergent, baby corn starch powder, AND (drum roll please) FORMULA!

The decision to move to Up and Up formula was a hard one to make - taking about four minutes in the formula aisle. Normally, we get #2's formula in Tijuana - Enfamil Premium at a whopping $19 for the mega can (vs. $35 at Costco). Again, I ran out and waited til the last minute when it was raining and super inconvenient to go to TJ. I gathered my coupons and hopped off to Target at night. I was standing there with my friend Anne, showing her the price of Enfamil vs. Up and Up. She asked why I couldn't just get the Up and Up. To which I responded, "YOU DO NOT MESS WITH FORMULA." If it works, let sleeping dogs lie. If you change it, you could open the flood gates to a night of HELL - crying, gas, CRYING. And then it hit me. Big deal. If #2 doesn't take to the formula, I'll just switch back to Enfamil. But if he does take to it, this could save me a bazillion dollars. Here's why. The Up and Up mega can is (another drum roll please) $16 and change. No crazy trip to TJ required AND cheaper!

Fortunately, #2 didn't skip a beat. He's been on the Up and Up for about a month now. Still thriving, still loving life.

Which reminds me, I have to go to Target right now. I don't think I have enough formula for tomorrow.

Status Update

ball, bowl, help, hat, hand, monkey, apple, cool, bubble, cake, cupcake, sit, walk, go, mine, fall, shoe, nose, mouth, eyes, TV, eat, food, out, up, down, bath, hot, cold, mama, daddy, dude, moon, goat, panda, dog, cat, bed, water, cookie, please, yes, no, fish, head, open, poop, car, milk, pop, one, two...

Dally has over fifty words now and can identify the letters of the alphabet. His teacher thinks he's going to be a really good reader because he sounds out letters when he sees them. She's also convinced that he's brilliant - something we already knew but nobody else did because he didn't talk.

Whaddup now, bitches.

The Five-Year Protection Plan

Gas to go to the doctor's office = $20
Co-pay = $15
The possibility of not having a period for five years = priceless

Since dudes can write about their intimate experiences at strip clubs, I'm going to write about my intimate experience at the gyno's office. TMI my ass - this is a public service announcement.

A friend of mine who is also totally done with being pregnant had told me about how completely awesome the Mirena is. Mirena is an IUD. I didn't know exactly what an IUD was other than that its failure was the reason yours truly is alive today. (Shout out to my mom for being in the 1%.)

But my friend said, "It's like I don't even have periods anymore!" My ears perked up. No more periods, you say? Now that's a cause I can get behind. So I was all on board to get it.

Then my other friend got the Mirena. Concurring with the first friend, she said it was a painful insertion process. But hers was also followed by tremendous cramping that had her taking some serious muscle relaxer/vicodin/ibuprofen cocktails. She ultimately had to get it removed. Turns out, you really should think long and hard about getting it if you've never pumped out a kid - apparently that can make all the difference.

Not taking that into consideration, I chickened out. I don't like pain, and I especially don't like feminine pain (read: menstrual-type). After I had #2 I had the most painful cramps I've ever had in my life and I had no intention of revisiting that so soon again.

Then I got my period.

Goddamn, getting your period sucks. I forgot how much it sucks, having been pregnant and all. That's like the only good thing about being pregnant, that and the baby that you eventually get, but only if it's not a little butthole (as #2 is not).

So I phoned my health care provider. I asked for an appointment to get the Mirena put in and they told me there was nothing available for the next month; someone would call me back. Cool, I thought. This would give me plenty of time to change my mind. Not more than 15 minutes later, they called back and said my CNM could see me tomorrow at 1:15pm. Shit.

Fortunately, it was an otherwise busy and stressful day so I didn't spend the morning fixated on how sucky an evening I might have, how it might affect my P90X performance, and how I might be super cranky or high on painkillers that night.

I went in and unknowingly took a pregnancy test. Damn right it was negative. Then the nurse took out what looked like a tie box. It was like 20 inches long.

"This is the Mirena."

So I'm thinking to myself at this point, "Holy shit, how's that supposed to fit inside??!?!!?"

She smiled and said the CNM would be in shortly.

Now my CNM is the coolest chick ever. Aside from the fact that she rocks, she also happens to think I'm funny - which means a lot to me because John thinks I am not at all funny. And everyone thinks he's super funny. So as we're having this conversation about how I should be a stand-up comedian - her idea, not mine - she says, "That's it. It's done."

Which makes me think she scammed me. She probably doesn't even think I'm funny. She just knows me really well. (Excuse me if my idea of a good time doesn't involve latex gloves and a speculum.)

So whatever. I'm not funny; John's the funniest guy ever. But the bottom line is I've got no cramps, no spotting, no nothing! I may not have a period for five years and for that, let us rejoice.

Muffin Anyone?

The good news is that I can get into *some* of my pre-pregnancy jeans. The bad news is that it usually involves a disgusting muffin top - which, ladies, if you didn't know, really means just because they zip up, it doesn't mean they FIT you.

During the latter portion of this last pregnancy, my insomnia drove me towards several interesting infommercials. The best one? That's a toss up between the Magic Bullet and P90X. Since I already owned the Magic Bullet, I became fixated on P90X - an extreme workout regimen that lasts 90 days. It's easy to talk a big game when you look like a minke whale but have the excuse of impending childbirth to keep you from doing significant exercise. So I was talking all kinds of smack.

"2010 is the year of great weight loss."

"I'm gonna bring it."

"As God as my witness, I will never be fat again!"

Then the baby was born. I was all excited at first because the pounds seemed to be dropping like prom dresses after midnight. I was thinking, "Dang, if this keeps up, I'll be back to normal in like three weeks." I thought it was all baby weight. Overgrown uterus and shit.

So #2 will be eleven weeks old in two days. Things have slowed DRAMATICALLY. And by dramatically I think the word STAGNANT is in order. This leads me to believe that I can no longer blame this mess on the baby. Nope, this is all me now. And a thousand slices of pizza, about five hundred gallons of ice cream, and fifty pounds of Snickers bars.

For awhile I felt like shit. But then, one day, as I was shopping with my sister, it dawned on me that I don't have to be thin to feel good. I just have to buy bigger clothes. And so I did. I bought bigger jeans and bigger slacks and assorted bigger tops and accessories because those, thankfully, are One Size Fits All.

Here's where this story gets interesting. Remember when I was all pregnant and talking smack about P90X? I just started week three of P90X and the jeans are fitting a little looser.

Things are looking up.

Evolution of a Blog...

As a metaphor for one's expanding family

The URL for this blog used to be knockedupmabel.blogspot.com. Then it became thedallyfiles.blogspot.com. Now, we rest at ialmostfailed.blogspot.com. In case you're new to this rag and you don't want to read the very first post ever, it's based on an episode in my life when I almost failed Human Reproduction - rumored to be the EASIEST class in the NYU catalog. (Gross fallacy.) I have no idea how I passed.

Luckily, I did not fail at actual human reproduction as I managed to squeeze out two unapologetically dashing little monsters. This journey into motherhood has so far yielded a crapload of harsh opinions, strange observations, and plain old smack-talking.

So if you're new, welcome. If you're old, I promise to update this thing more frequently. Maybe.

In a Nutshell

So let's catch up. Since the last publication, I popped out #2. The delivery was fine. I pushed for six minutes. There were about ten hours between when I got to the hospital and when they actually handed me my baby. I was mostly bored and hungry during that period. When they handed him to me, he was peeing AT ME. But the good news is that I was back home 25 hours later.

The dude's name is Braulio and since he's now in the picture, this blog won't be called the Dally Files for very much longer, lest we give #2 a complex.

Since we have this habit of referring to each child as THE DUDE, I now feel it necessary to refer to them as #1 and #2. (Hopefully THAT won't give them a complex.) I know I can refer to them by their actual name but I have had difficulty calling people by their proper names ever since high school when I thought it would be funny to call this one kid Emerson Peabody (real name: Mark). It's been downhill ever since. My sister suffers from this handicap as well.

Everything has been pretty smooth so far. #1 took well to #2. No jealousy or otherwise a-hole behavior. #1 remains super awesome. He is a mexcellent role model for #2. #2 ain't too shabby either. I can already tell he will be brilliant. He's got a good look about him. His birthday is the day of the enthusiastic overachiever. Great things will come. For both #1 and #2.

No more weekend nanny. It just didn't work out.

I have to lose about 35 pounds and have reverted to drinking Diet Coke - neither of which I am too happy about.

But I am happy that I will never be pregnant ever again.

The End is Near (Thank God)

I just saw myself in the mirror. REALLY saw myself. Holy shit. No wonder people pretty much daily ask if I'm carrying twins.

Could I possibly be carrying a 10+ pound baby? What the hell happened to me? Why do I look like an alien?

At my last doctor's appointment, she was even parading me around the office like a freak sideshow attraction, pointing to my stomach and saying, "Look at that!"

I'm thinking to myself, in two weeks or so things will be back to normal. I'll be able to fit into t-shirts and normal-size pants. The reality is it'll be awhile but at least I'll be able to fit in my "normal" maternity clothes - the maternity clothes that got me through the 9 months with Dally but stopped short at 6 months with Juan Pancho.

I just ate a really big burrito and now I feel sick.

Fall On Me (The Future Version)

I was looking up pumpkin pie recipes this morning. I can't wait until we get to that point where I have to make cupcakes and other assorted baked goods for the little dudes. I love this time of year and it's going to be THAT much better when the little hooligans are in school and they have all the classroom parties and holiday shows. I'm going to join the PTA just so I can hijack the Winter Show. Under my command, we'll rival Radio City.

I got big plans for the next 10 years.

Fall On Me

We're getting into the spirit of the fall. I think it's because we found the summer heat really aggravating. Today, we took Dally to a pumpkin patch and it was totally awesome - until Dally wanted to play on the ridiculously unsafe old tractor and John removed him from the insidious vehicle. During this endeavor, John received a solid size 6 Vans to the face. I saw it. I heard it. Sounded painful.

This morning, John suggested we dress Dally as Max from Where the Wild Things Are for Halloween. We already have a costume for Dally. He was going to be a giraffe. I was going to be Mother of Giraffe. But, suckered into the hipster hype of the upcoming movie, I now want to dress Dally as Max. And I'd be the Mother of Max who sends him to his room without dinner (not unlike Dally's real life).

John researched where we could get a Max costume and just found patterns and how-to instructions. Given last year's fiasco with the Yoda ears, this is not something I am remotely considering.

I went on eBay and saw costumes anywere from $70 to $250. I did find a pajama sleeper for $50. But A) Maybe there will be no Halloween this year (maybe I'll go into labor and deliver a pumpkin) and, more to the point, B) I'm a freakin cheapskate. I want the $15 version of Max, so it looks like I'll be Mother of Giraffe afterall.

Night Glee

I woke up at 2am today and decided to do some work. In the midddle of my efforts, it seems that the company servers went down so I decided to research a toddler behavior that has been causing me to scratch my head at 3am at least once a week.

My office is right next to Dally's room and I just heard him wake up. This isn't an isolated incident - like I said. It probably happens once a week. He'll wake up around 3am and start laughing and chatting. Sometimes he'll jump on the bed or do sprints back and forth. (One of the many joys of a big boy bed is a longer track.)

I googled "Toddler wakes up laughing" and I got all these hits for night terrors, so I started looking into night terrors. This is my recommendation for new moms: look this up because when you wake up one night to the terrifying screams of your little beloved you'll know what the hell is going on when they don't seem to recognize you or cannot be soothed. Apparently, it's some weird-ass dream state akin to sleep walking, but clearly a lot freakier.

Seriously, LOOK THIS UP.

The general (Internet) consensus is that you should make sure the little dude can't hurt himself but don't try to talk to him or comfort him. At best, he won't recognize you and at worst, you'll scare him even more. These episodes can last from a few minutes to a half hour or more.

Dally has definitely experienced this. When I'd rush in to rescue him, he was like a zombie and nothing I did would make him feel better until he was totally awake and I was exhausted. Fortunately, that hasn't happened in a while and now I know to just let him work it out on his own.

I couldn't find anything about laughing. I think he's currently in a phase enjoying the opposite of night terrors - night glee.

Research period is over and servers are still down. I'm going to bed now.

AKA Juan Pancho

Juan Pancho, who will be referred to as such for the remainder of this pregancy, and probably the rest of his life, will now have a proper name! And the way we got the name is kind of weird and hopefully it won't jinx anything but it was inspired from an episode of one of my favorite parenting shows (as in how NOT to parent) Intervention. Remind me to tell you this story once we've gone public with the name, which, as with the spawn before him, won't be until he makes it out of the tunnel and into this gritty, messy, thankless world.

Yippee! We have a name!