The truth about co-sleeping.

Since Babybabypants was born I have come to a few conclusions about co-sleeping.

1. Without co-sleeping, many babies turn to military sleep-deprivation tactics. If you want sleep, accept the fact that there's going to be an 8-pound addition to your bed.

2. With co-sleeping, many toddlers turn to military sleep-deprivation tactics. Unless you like to wake up with a crick in your neck, foot-shaped bruises on your hips, and "Mommy, I need milk" on continuous repeat, leave your toddler in their bed.

3. If your pediatrician lectures you on NOT co-sleeping, they have never had children.

4. If your husband lectures you on NOT co-sleeping, let him sleep on a single mattress without a comforter and see how long it takes him to beg to come into bed with you.

5. Those early morning hours when you're shoved to the edge of the bed with two children separating you and marital bliss are the best hours of the day.


With Babypants, co-sleeping became a habit when I would fall asleep while nursing her in bed. When the weather turned cold it became a must for our fat-free baby. She just couldn't stay warm, no matter how many layers she had on, without snuggling in the middle of our bed. Even after she out-grew her need for co-sleeping, I didn't. The morning of my first post-Babypants miscarriage. Daddypants, unable to find a way to comfort me, asked what he could do. "I need Babypants" was my immediate reply. Somehow, with her snuggled in on one side and him on the other, I was able to calm my sobbing and dry my tears. At least for a few seconds.

This time around, I gave in to co-sleeping much quicker. The first week it was just when I couldn't convince Babybabypants that her bassinet was indeed her bed. After her hospitalization co-sleeping became routine. Even with the apnea monitor, it is much easier for ME to sleep with BBP tucked in beside me. Having her within my physical orbit soothed me and feeling her milky breath against my cheek reassured me that she was indeed breathing.

Whether or not co-sleeping will outlast the apnea monitor (still trying to convince the pediatrician that we need the monitor until she's about 14 years old), I will enjoy every snuggly second of it. Now, I'm off to find the number of a good chiropractor to fix this huge kink in my neck.

Olympics

Chris is a big fan of the Olympics. I even caught him watching table tennis. Table tennis, really? Like in Forrest Gump? Ping pong? How do you get into a sport like that? At an olympic level? Apparently speed walking is also an Olympic sport. Weird, huh? My friend Erin's mom should totally start training, she's a kickass speed walker. Anyway. I, too, was enjoying the Olympics, table tennis and all, until the other night when beach volleyball was on.

Let me tell you two things about beach volleyball:

1. The chicks wear tight white bikinis and look completely awesome.

2. The guys wear shorts and tank tops. And you can't tell if they look completely awesome or not. I mean, seeing as how they are athletes (just as the ping pong players are) they probably look completely awesome, but you can't tell because of the tank tops.

Let me tell you two things about the previous two things:

1. Watching hot chicks jump around in tight white bikinis is NOT a good past-time if you are 9 months pregnant and as big, or quite possibly bigger than, a cow. Even the cheesecake won't make it seem any better.

2. It would be a much better deal for everyone involved if the men were wearing less clothing. I'm not saying they, too, should be in tight white bikinis, but I wouldn't argue with them losing the tank tops. It would put things on an even keel. At least in my house.

Another interesting fact I learned about the Olympics is that for some reason, athletes seem to be convinced that they won't get caught using steroids. I read an article saying that some shooter was disqualified for using steroids (just what we need, a guy with a gun using 'roids) as well as a gymnast. The gymnast was in last place prior to being disqualified. I'm thinking those steroids probably didn't do her any good. And, while I'm on the topic of gymnastics, I'll jump on the "The Chinese are Cheaters" bandwagon. I understand that gymnasts look way younger than they are; my younger sister was an elite gymnast so I know about these things. BUT, really? That one girl looks 12. Which would put her, in gymnast years, about about 14.5 years old. I'm not buying it.

Now I will go back to watching a true sport: swimming. Where the men show much more skin than the women. And, just for the record, Michael Phelps' diet makes mine look wimpy. In case you were wondering.

Traumatizing my child.

Well, I think I have recovered emotionally to the point where I can write about my traumatizing experience. Or, to be more exact, Babypants' traumatizing experience. It started with a haircut. A simple trim to help minimize the mullet. It ended with a panic attack.

Daddypants and I decided that the birthday girl deserved a special haircut at Snip-Its, a kids-only salon. We had heard great things about it, complete with lollipops and prizes. Perfect. What's not to like about candy and presents? Well, apparently gay men are not to like. Our stylist took "she's a little shy, it might take her a couple minutes to warm up" as "please attack my ridiculously shy child while shrieking at her." Total meltdown ensued. Screaming. Clinging. Panicking. "Mommy no mommy no!" The works. So, thank you for traumatizing my child. She is going to never let anyone near her hair again. I guess she might some day learn that gay men are a girl's best friend when it comes to hair, but until then, we'll stick to Mom's Salon.

After getting the screamer calmed down, we headed over to Claire's because Babypants was still convinced "pretty ears" where going to be much nicer than a quick trim. Who knew that a two year old would be right about this? The girls let her hold a teddy, pick out her colors, draw with the marker, and play with bracelets. Yes, she cried when they actually put the earrings in, but the pain was quickly forgotten when she caught sight of herself in the mirror. While I got care instructions and did a quick search for Disney Princess bracelets, BP pranced around the store in search of every single mirror, just so she could admire herself. She was rather pleased with herself, as was I. I might have tortured my child by getting her hair cut, but, much like the Great Cat Swap, she was easily distracted. Now I just had to find a way to tell my husband what I had done. And prepare myself to find a good divorce lawyer.

I decided that the easiest way to break it to him would be for him to see how ecstatic his daughter was about her "pretty ears" and then hope against all odds that he wouldn't murder or divorce me. A quick call to his office got us a parking lot meeting. I think his first instinct was murder, but luckily he has a little more of a level head than I do. He told BP how pretty she looked (I must admit, as a totally and completely non-biased party, that she did look absolutely adorable), exclaimed over new new Princess bracelets, and gave me the obligatory "it's fine, Jess" before sprinting back to the office. I'm sure his stress ball got quite the workout.

Haircut: semi-check. Still needs to be repaired a bit.

Ears: check. She shows everyone she meets.

Husband: check. Still coming home after work. I think.

Isolation

I never knew how much motherhood would change me. I also never knew how much motherhood would change my relationships. I suppose that if my friends and sisters were at the same point in their lives it would be a different story, but I'm thinking none of them will have kids for years to come. Which is probably a good thing, if I'm going to be completely honest.

And now that I've been thinking of the best way to write this, I can't. I can't explain my relationships with my sisters, friends, or parents. There are no words for the way my family functions. Well, "disfunctional" is a great start, but we'll just leave it at that. I will, in Long family tradition, keep it in and leave it at that.

Must Love Dogs

Every day I scour craigslist in hopes of finding an ad that goes something like this:

"Desperately seeking over-anxious, hip-replacement-surgery-needing, screen-door-slaying, tireless boxer. Separation anxiety and through-the-roof vet bills a must. Non-chewers need not apply. Will pay top dollar."

I have yet to find such an ad. After all, most want ads are for the perfect dog, not your below-average, dumb-as-a-box-of-rocks dog.

He crashes through the screen door just because it's there.

He can't be out in the dog run unsupervised for more than 30 seconds without jumping in the water trough (summer or winter) or breaking off a branch of the now-dead tree.

He is terrified of rat dogs but will happily challenge anyone his size or bigger to a boxing match.

He has chewed two holes in the drywall, while we were home.

He introduced himself to the new neighbors by plowing through the fence and jumping up on their sliding glass door.

He put teeth marks in the siding of the house.

He has come within inches of knocking over our daughter at a full-run.

He's tireless. He may get tired, but only for approximately 33 seconds.

Yet, for all of his faults, I can't bring myself to get rid of him. Thanks to pregnancy hormones I have loaded him into the car to take to either the vet or the pound for them to deal with, but I have yet to leave the driveway. Insetad, I find myself pleading with him. Crying into his fur, asking him why he has to test me on a daily basis. Just when I really am about to call the vet to come pick him up (our vet, for some insane reason, loves him), my daughter, aka his accomplice, will save him. She'll wander over to the dog bed, plop herself down next to him, and lean over to give him a kiss. Either that or he'll snarl menacingly at the creepy door-to-door salesman and save me $20 of unneeded magazine subscriptions.

And now, it is time to call the vet, not to try to pawn him off, but to spend $250 on his medicine. Maybe they will throw in a few tranquilizers for free, seeing as how we have single-handedly paid for the entire staff to spend a week in Hawaii. After that, he will get his second bath of the day before being allowed back inside to sprawl on the carpet, leaving his wet-dog smell wherever he lays.

Serenity Now.

Dear Pregnancy Hormone Gods,
I pray that you give me the strength to make it through the day without crying, yelling, or murdering anyone. I also ask that you stop sending me mini-meltdowns, meltdowns, and major-meltdowns. The infections aren't really my thing either, so I would appreciate a break from being sick. I'll even take a week of feeling good. Even just feeling okay. Please save my sanity, my family, and my body. As of now, all are about to leave me. Amen.

Mrs. Green

I filled up my car with gas this weekend. By car, I mean enormous soccer-mom-SUV. So, I was minding my own business, pumping gas, playing peek-a-boo with my daughter through the window, and I was suddenly attacked by Mrs. Green. If you have not come across Mrs. Green, she is a well-intentioned woman that drives a matchbox car, carries reusable grocery bags everywhere, and is a recycling nazi. Mrs. Green thought it would be helpful to point out what kind of mileage my car gets and how I am hurting my wallet and the environment by driving an SUV.

"Wow, you must pay a fortune in gas!" she exclaimed, looking horrified.

Actually, between my husband and I, we pay less than $200/month for gas, thank you very much. Our gas budget has gone up in recent months, but I'd say we're still doing okay.

"You'd be better off with a car or hybrid" she helpfully informed me.

I happen to like The Beast that I drive. It's comfortable, it fits in as many carseats as I need, the dogs can ride in the back, and I can run just about anyone off the road. I'd love it even more if it was a hybrid, but as of now, Nissan and I don't see eye-to-eye on that matter.

Mrs. Green did to me what I do to others in the grocery store: Judge. I guess I got my weekly dose of Karma.

Don't judge me by my SUV. Judge me by the cloth diapers in my diaper bag. Or by my compost bin. Or by my clothesline. As Dr. Evil once said, "I'm hip, I'm with it." He wasn't referring to living green, but I like quoting Dr. Evil whenever possible, so it will have to do. Just as a morning workout cancels out ALL calories throughout the day, my other green habits cancel out The Beast. Or at least that is what I tell myself.

Mrs. Green, wherever you are, I appreciate your motives, but until you want to hand me the keys to a hybrid SUV that can fit 3-4 carseats and my dogs, please keep your comments to yourself. Even I don't make comments about my grocery store victims.

Marriage

I think I just realized about 37 minutes ago that Chris and I are very different and that's an okay thing. I mean, two of me would be hell. No one could survive that. What brought this realization you ask? Golf. Yes, golf.

Chris likes to golf on the weekends. In my pregnant, over-reacting state, I take this as "I really can't stand to be around you all weekend long so I am going to go drink beer and golf instead." Now, I do realize that this is NOT true, I just tend to react before thinking. So, I put my guard up, pout, and become even more emotional than usual-something that yesterday I would have told you wasn't possible. We tip-toed around each other last night and this morning, but finally had The Discussion during C's lunch break.

I see him golfing as wanting to golf rather than spend time with Alexa and I (can you really blame the guy?). Really, he just likes to golf for a few hours. I would probably do the same thing if I liked golf. So, when we can some day afford to buy another horse, I will probably be the one escaping for a few hours. Until that day, Chris will golf and Alexa and I will feed the ducks and dream about horses.

I also feel guilty spending "extra" money, even if it's on something we need (sheets, for example). I think that guilt came along at about 12:35am on July 28. Somehow, becoming a mom changed my spending. Yes, I'm still the impulse shopper that salesmen prey upon, but my impulse buys tend to be splurges for Alexa or for the house, not for me. But, for the most part, the guilt keeps my spending in check. I'll keep my $50 hair cuts (which I obviously don't get every week, or even every other week) and Chris can keep his $40 golf games.

Will I ever stop taking things, such as golfing, personally? No. Well, maybe. I guess we'll find out when I'm not a bundle of pregnancy hormones. Will I make an effort? Yes. No maybes, yes. I will make an effort. I will realize that Chris and I are different. I will realize that just because he wants to do something he enjoys, it doesn't mean he doesn't enjoy his time with his family. Blowing the cotton out of the yard he might not enjoy, but watching Alex shriek in delight when he pretends to get blown away he does enjoy. And as long as we're both enjoying something, golf, horses, ducks, or haircuts, we'll be fine. After all, two of me really would be hell.

Re-negotiating my contract.

It has come to light that Chris has quite a good job. They've bought him a new phone and laptop and all of his "meetings" seem to happen at the golf course or the bar. His office is close to home (but not so close that he's within tantrum-range), his cubicle is air-conditioned, and there are people over the age of five to talk to during the day. Not a bad gig, in my opinion. Not to mention the regular I-Don't-Work-At-Home stuff: lunches that don't involve leftovers, lunch-hour gym trips, and a regular paycheck.

Meanwhile, I talk in mainly toddler-ese, change diapers, and regularly climb the mountain of laundry. My lunch hour consists of doing dishes and eating whatever leftovers (many times the crust of a PB&J) can be found. I think I'll stick with my job though. I get to throw parties over pee-peeing in the potty, meet my co-workers around the kiddie pool, and my paycheck might not be regular, but it gets delivered with a hug and sloppy kiss. Instead of a raise, I get to watch Alexa learn new things-such as how to most effectively throw a tantrum. I'd take a two-year-old tantrum over a relaxing margarita at the bar anyday. After all, my name is Mommy.

Appendicitis, Kidney Stones, and Gang Fights

This was supposed to be an Alex-and-Mommy week. We had all sorts of fun plans: Toddler Time at the library, picnic at the park, dog walks, etc. We made it through one morning of our Alex-and-Mommy week before things fell apart. At least it was a fun morning though, right?

Since our fun-filled Tuesday morning, Alexa has been left to wake up to someone that is most definitely not mommy or daddy, been to two hospitals, witnessed gang activity, and sat in many waiting rooms. And, although she might not agree, she got the good end of the deal.

Tuesday during nap time I was doing all those domestic-goddess-type-activities when I was hit with a huge wave of pain. I half-crawled back to bed before I realized that our phone is now across the room from our bed. So I was stuck laying in bed with no phone, trying not to throw up. I seriously considered yelling until Alex woke up from her nap so she could bring me the phone.

A few phone calls later and I was on the way to my OB's office, leaving Alexa with a friend. Another doctor in the office examined me and decided I needed an ultrasound to rule out appendicitis. To be seen in a timely matter, I was sent to the smaller hospital's ER. A quick stop at home to pick up Alexa and we were off once again. Our wait-time was approximately five minutes; it was a good start. Unfortunately, our luck ended there. The ONE ultrasound machine was broken.

Chris and Alexa headed home to pack a bag and have a snack and I was sent BACK to the other hospital. In an ambulance. Overkill? Yes. No more waiting rooms? Yes. ICU/Trauma Unit? Yes. Hospital on lockdown thanks to gang gunfights? Yes. Super fun? Yes.

So there I lay, in the Trauma Unit, listening to doctors shouting orders for emergency surgery for the shooting victims. Two hours later I finally got in to the ultrasound. Of course, seeing how awesome my day was going, the ultrasound would turn out to be totally inconclusive. I don't think the surly tech even found my appendix. The Trauma doctor and surgeon argued over whether or not to cut me open anyway while I begged for food. A quick call to the OB and everyone had finally agreed: Send me home with no diagnosis but still in one piece.

Yesterday I finally got to see my own OB, the fabulous Dr. Jacobs. He decided that since my appendix is apparently MIA, it must be my kidney. I attempted to jump off the table when he hammered on my back, which also probably pointed him in the direction of "kidney issues." This would make a bit more sense, seeing as how my older sisters both have had major kidney stone problems. He looked up the results of the urinary analysis. Oh, wait, he DIDN'T see any results, seeing as how the first hospital never ordered a UA and the second hospital assumed they had. You'd think that'd be a pretty easy test to run. I guess I'm not a doctor though.

Our last stop on the Disaster Journey was the lab for a UA. Still haven't heard the results. And, at this point, I can't say I really care. All I care is that I'm sitting on the couch, snuggling with Alexa. I have laundry piled up, a dishwasher to unload, and the living room resembles a disaster area, but here I sit, watching Handy Manny.

The Mommy 'Do

Somehow, most moms end up with the same hairstyle. Medium-shortish. Usually brown or another boring natural shade. Quick to dry. Still can be put up when needed. Easy. BORING.

What does my hair look like? Medium-shortish. Brown.

I attempted to get the "in style" bangs to at least mask the mommy 'do. It worked for a while, but, like trees, hair grows. I haven't seen my stylist since...possibly February? Sad. Very sad. Needless to say, I'm overdue. Luckily, Karen will be put to work tomorrow at 12:45pm. Little does she know that, as of now, I plan on marching in and saying "do what you want" and letting her go to work. She hates me for it, and I love her for it.

Do I let it grow and just get a trim? Or do I get a few inches taken off and be brave? This is a momentous decision. The pressure is unbearable. Do I go with the theory that you have more options with longer hair? Or accept the fact that short hair dries quickly and is lighter for summer.

Chris is no help. "I like it all ways" is his stock hair-question answer. Smart man. Do I believe him? No. Will that effect (affect?) my decision? No.

I guess Karen is my only hope. I'm guessing I'll have two more chances to get my hair done before BBP shows up. She has two chances to make me happy. Her success rate is 100% so I suppose I'm in good hands. Now, what will she choose? I guess, with BP as an accessory (yes, I just called my child an accessory, I carry her more than a purse), I'm doomed to have a mommy 'do forever. I might as well just accept my fate.

Are people really this stupid?

I thought this only happened to Britney Spears.

The crappy neighbor backed into the nice neighbor's son's friend's car. He got out, looked at the (obvious) damage, and got back in and drove away. Did he really think they wouldn't notice a huge dent in the hood of the car? Did he really think that, in the middle of the morning in the middle of our neighborhood, no one saw?

Now, if it was MY car he backed into, I would have called the police. I tend to be a bit bitchier than most, especially in my present knocked-up state, but seriously. Come on. At least leave a note with your name and number. I understand about being in a hurry, hence backing into a BRIGHT RED car, but it takes about 13 seconds to jot down your number and leave it on the windshield. Trust me, I know. I left my number on my husband's car after I met him at the gym.

To add to the drama, when the owner of the car, his dad, and our neighbor's son knocked on the door, the people refused to come outside or give them the guy's phone number. Now, at this point, if I hadn't already called the police, I would have right then, on their porch. And I would have called the home-owners, seeing as how the house is rented by about 15 people.

I guess some people, possibly even most people, are nicer than me. Now I'll just sit back, relax, and wait for the drama to unfold when the driver of the Jeep gets home.

Someone hand me the chainsaw.

As I type, the tree guys are busy chopping down trees in my yard. Yes, I am a tree killer. And I'm having a really hard time not going out there to ask if they can kill off a few others for me. Our yard is in total recovery mode.

FYI: Trees grow.

This is a fact that the old owner's never knew. They planned the landscaping around the cute little baby trees that they brought home from the nursery. Now we have trees planted 3 feet apart, shrubs about 6 inches apart, and flowers fighting for space. Not the best design in the world.

To attempt to regain control over the backyard, we are having two mid-size trees removed, one little tree removed, and the neighbor's two trees trimmed before they completely take out our fence. Next up is sod over the little tree's grave, removing the shrubs in the corner to make room for our (I really do mean Alex's) new playhouse, and attempting to figure out what to do with the patio. The patio is a story for another day. It's also an expense for another day.

Someone please come remove my checkbook from my hand and remind me that it's one project at a time. And right now it's ice cream cone project time.

Proud Grandma

I am now a proud grandma. How, you ask, is this possible at the ripe old age of 24? It is possible due to the fact that my husband had weekend coverage at work.

Chris went to the office around 7am on Saturday to get it out of the way. Babypants and I went grocery shopping at about 8am on Saturday to get it out of the way. We were wandering through the pet aisles looking for a pinch collar in a desperate attempt to get Linus to behave on walks when we found ourselves in a sea of blue. The Fish Aisle. Alexa, of course, went nuts. Figuring that I should at least "ask" Chris before purchasing a fish, I whipped out my cell phone. When he agreed to the fish, I don't think he pictured quite what I did. Instead of one boring beta fish and a little tank, we walked out with TEN fish, a ten gallon tank, rocks, coral, food, filter, net, and one deliriously happy one year old.

At one point we were up to eleven fish (apparently getting an algae-eater-fish-guy is a good thing). Now we have eight. I think. Maybe only seven. And now that daycare boy stuck his entire arm in there and tried to catch one, I'm thinking our number might be even lower. I feel like Darla, The Fish Killer, from Finding Nemo. The fish that have survived the first few days are already plotting their escape. Unfortunately, all they will find out the window is the dirty fronch porch and most likely the neighbor's cat. As for the arm-dunker, you will be happy to know that I am already planning a trip to PetCo tonight to get a lid for the tank. I am sure the fish will be grateful.

RAGE

The next person that says anything along the lines of "You're so tiny, I hate you" or "You don't look six months pregnant!" is going to get their face ripped off. Who cares if I don't "look" six months pregnant, I know when I'm due, I'm not going to lie, so stop making me feel worse. You have no f'ing clue how this pregnancy is going, so back off.

When you meet me on the walking trail and I have three large dogs and a toddler with me, don't say "Boy, you sure have your hands full" in a condescending tone. Especially if your tiny rat-dog is trying to attack my dogs that are sitting nicely by the stroller looking mildly interested. I might accidently drop a leash and your dog might accidently get eaten. Or I might just try out my mace.

I realize it's only 9am and I shouldn't have quite this much rage this early in the morning, but at least my chocolate chip waffles calmed me down a bit. And I've only cried once so far today, which is quite the improvement off the last month and a half. I'm also feeling rather defiant, as in "Yes, I have prenatal depression and no, it does not make me an awful person. It just makes me super fun to live with." Why shouldn't I admit it? I know for a fact (at least if my OB isn't lying to me) that it is more common that most people let on, so why shouldn't I be the lone pissy pregnant person to stand up (behind the mask of the internet) and say yeah, there is such a thing, people deal with it, it totally sucks, but we're normal.

I will now go back to my regular scheduled day. Bath time for BP, then smoothie to share.

The Morning Battle

The morning battle starts around 7:15am. I am fresh out of the shower, bundled in my fluffy bathrobe, staring at the clothes in my closet.

There are a few new sections in my closet:

Never going to fit again (yet good for motivation after Babybabypants comes)

Fit last week but not yesterday

Maternity (97% too big still)

I stand for a few minutes contemplating just how motivated I am to wear something other than sweats (not very) before giving up and heading back to bed. Maybe, just maybe, if I lay down for a few more minutes, someone will invent a size 32F bra that doesn't look grandmother-ish, and perfectly fitting clothes (not sweats) will appear. Or at least Alexa will bring me my socks.

Introductions

Well, I guess this is it. The Introduction. The part where I tell a slimmed-down version of my life story. It sounds rather boring, to tell you the truth, so instead, I will just brag.

I like to think that I'm still considered young, but some may disagree. I'm 24 years young, "just a spring chicken" according to my grandma, and have a stubborn, impatient, absolutely perfect one (almost two!) year old daughter. I've been married to Mr. Right for 2.5 years and we all live in Nevada with our three unruly dogs and one somewhat creepy cat. We are awaiting the arrival of Babybabypants, due September 11. I don't think that date will come fast enough.

As of now, I am a licensed home daycare provider. Meaning I am absolutely insane. I only have a couple extra kiddos in my care, but some days it seems that I am slowly losing control. Funny how that happens. I also write, obviously, for fun, and I have an online baby store that's more of a hobby than anything. Especially considering the laptop with all of my information just died. And my sewing machine crapped out. When it rains, it pours, right?

I also must admit that I am nowhere near a perfect mother. I have come to the point where I no longer even know what perfect means. To me, the fact that my child survives solely on Mac n Cheese, waffles, and PB&J's is irrelevant. At least she's eating. And there's dairy in the macaroni, protein in the peanut butter, fruit in the jam, and I'm sure those other food groups are in there somewhere. I let her dance to rap music, make huge messes that only a bath and/or hose can clean, and choose her own clothes (unless of course we are going out in public, then her choices may be vetoed). I pick my battles wisely. As long as she's happy, I consider my job done. She says "peese" and "tank you" many times a day, she has only bitten one child today, and she tells me "I wub you, too, Mommypeepants" before bed. I'd say I'm at least average.

Welcome to my life.