Category Archives: Princess Peanut

Puddles of Mud

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I’ve been accused of blogging (or playing on second life) too much, while my children light mattresses on fire.

I’ve been accused of NOT paying attention while they say three MILLION TIMES “Mommy watch me! Mommy watch me! Mommy watch MEEEEEEE!!!!”

While I will not indulge you with the details of how I may not exactly qualify for the mother-of-the-year in 2007, I will tell you I had TWO eyes on them and engaged when both of my children did exactly what I told them to and stopped playing in the sprinklers.

Of course I assumed, as I saw the backs of their heads move up and down, that they were playing with sidewalk chalk on my patio…but they were giggling and laughing out loud and seemingly doing what I asked…NOT getting wet in the sprinklers.

When I stopped watching out the kitchen window and stepped outside to see their works of art on the concrete, I was a little…um…well…you tell me…

MUD

When CoSleeping Ends (Part II)

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Put on PJ’s. Brush teeth. Read stories. Get tucked in. Go to sleep.

It’s that FUCKING SIMPLE.

My kids don’t do that. They have NEVER done that. Well, expect for the past three nights.

Cue the choir of angles.

Having been breastfed to bed, co-sleeping babies, our bedtimes habits are a bit…umm, lax. Throw in the usual snots and sniffles and pukes and we had a routine of children either having been breastfed, laid with, or held to sleep.

We slowly made the transition from our bed to their beds with protests. Throw in some parental laziness and bam…four people in our king.

Now that I’m on the mend and the kids had a few night of Mommy gone at the hospital, we’ve decided to re-impliment the “kids go to bed in their own beds” rule. I automatically assumed this would be a total failure. Which is fine. I’m tired. I don’t have the energy.

Turns out we’re on night #3, as I type this…with kids asleep in their own beds. I nearly gave in to the Count because he has a bad cough and runny nose. But I held firm. KNOWING this could go on and on and on until they go off to college.

People TELL me co-sleeping kids eventually leave your bed, but really you don’t believe it. You just assume they will come and go and come and come and come and come and come. And just stay. Forever. Or until they decide to marry or something.

I am still emotional over weaning Princess Peanut. So this whole not sleeping with a kid-leg in my ribs is a little hard for me. I keep telling myself it’s fine. I keep telling myself not to get all crazy/protective/hover mommy.

But none of that really goes away until mindblowing sex, IN MY OWN BED, with the Kaiser.

Emotional crisis over. Cue the choir of angles again.

Penis Envy

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The men are in hiding.

Count Waffles the Terrible is sleeping in a tent in the living room.

The Kaiser has been on the couch.

Houseboy (my brother) took the day off work after a 3am scream session had him tossing and turning.

She pouts. She pleads. She even tries to buy some breast time with kisses.

Sulking for Bup

But the pouting only lasts so long and the sweeter-than-honey attitude is dropped when she asks for a snack, and when given a snack decides its not good enough. The Kaiser had to duck as orange slices wizzed past his head. I nearly lost an eye today to olives.

I WILL you to give me breastmilk!

Weaning. Good times. Gooooood times.

Did I mention my tits are the size of my head? Oh, and hard as bowling balls? And not even regular bowling balls-but those rock ones Fred Flintstone bowled with.

Yes, that is exactly what you think it is

And the bandaid? That serves TWO purposes…she understands the “bup” is “all gone” and they have “boo boos” and it also keeps her from latching-on unexpectedly in the middle of the night or otherwise. They leave lovely skin tears on my nipples.

I’ve also been close to vomiting from the pain. And just reaching for cereal today made me cry.

I haven’t even tackled the emotional part of this yet. This is my last baby. I am done breastfeeding forever.

By far, breastfeeding was the most amazing part of my motherhood experience. These children were attached to me and part of me in so many ways for so very long. But I don’t have time to think about any of it. I don’t have time to be sad or to get weepy. This has to be done. And it has to be done now, not the night of my surgery. I can’t, as a decent mother, leave my unweaned child with her Nana and Daddy to fend for herself while I lay in a hospital for several days. I wouldn’t be able to sleep. I would be so worried.

No. I have to do this myself. I have to make sure she’s ok. I have to make sure she can go to bed and drink enough milk and be stable before I am admitted. I just have too.

I’ll deal with the sadness and mourning later. I’m sure there will be much crying. I’m sure I’ll freak out on my poor husband at some point. I have no doubt I’ll pick up stray dogs and cats from the freeway. If only I see some. I always HOPE to see some so I can save them, yet never do.

It’s a good thing spring is coming. I need to grow something. Anything. Weeds. I need to cry and plant and dig and wonder about all the babies I never had. About all the things I could have done. About all those tiny hands and feet and lips that will never suckle from my breast.

I don’t think I’m particularly good at this Mother thing. I don’t think I’m bad, either. But what I do think, down to my very core, is that it is what I am supposed to be doing. What I was meant to do. What I am here to do. And while there is still much work to be done, a very large part of those early years are officially gone. I don’t know if I thought there would be small ones around here forever-if I would always need the nursing pillow or the tiny, tiny diapers. Or the tiny nose sucker thing. Or those little nail clippers.
It all became such a huge part of my life that I never stopped to think it would soon be gone.

I don’t want to let go. I don’t want to do any of this. I want to peel off this bandaid and bring joy to my daughter and myself and let the milk flow. In many ways, it’s like letting the baby years flow. Just drag them out.

I had to trade in the Johnson&Johnson Babywash for real kid shampoo recently, and it nearly killed me. I miss that smell. I miss they way they looked at me while nursing. I miss the way I could pat their heads or play with their hair or pick their noses while they sucked. They would stay still. And we would just be.

Now she’s mad and everywhere. Healthy, but annoyed. He’s so confident and strong. He asks big boys to play and plays along even when they don’t want him around.

It’s funny. I started posting to try and amuse you and myself with the fun around here. And somehow I just got very…well, whatever. At least I can admit I really like showing the internet my boobs. If only I were 10 years younger I would show you everything. Inside and out. That’s just me.
Surgery is on the 30th. I have no doubt my strong daughter will have no trouble with any of this by then. She’s like that.

Me.

I’m not so sure.

Of Cabbages And (pre)Cancer Cells

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I write this with cabbage caressing my tits.

The stank of what I normally associate with my grandfather’s cooking, my mother’s horrible diet soup, and St. Patrick’s Day is wrapped, snuggly, around my chest.

This cabbage is my only relief. I would hump this cabbage if it were a person, that is how much I adore it’s leafy goodness.

So why do I have veggies on my boobies??

We’re weaning.

I’m not happy. The Princess really isn’t thrilled. But Mommy needs to have her neck cut open in a few weeks and at almost 2-years-old, it seems silly to put it off.

My son thinks the doctors will be beheading me and then reattaching my head to my neck. He is concerned I will “talk to the rest of the body” while my head is off.

In reality, my thyroid will be dying. Alison once offered a funeral and I believe I may take her up on that nice gesture. The Chief of Head and Neck Surgery over at UCLA will have the honor of navigating my neck. His job is to make sure all the bad stuff comes out and I can still deliver a newscast like a pro when all is said and done. He took care of Wayne Newton’s pipes, and what’s good enough for Wayne is good enough for me. Danke shen you very much.
I get an all insurance paid stay at the lovely UCLA Medical Center which may only be about 35 miles from my home, but will take loved ones at least an hour to travel. The Queen Mother if flying in and will make sure my house doesn’t turn into Lord of the Flies.

Adding to my severe engorgement are migraines and sinus issues from hell due to 85mph winds-in Southern FREAKING California. The headaches are the good part. I have a large patio umbrella in the bottom of my pool and the table was only saved by it’s varnish.

How does one go about getting an umbrella out of the deep end while swaddled in cabbage leaves??? 

So please forgive my blogging respite. Once the head and tits are under control, I’m sure I’ll be writing all about my anxiety over dying on the operating table and if the Kaiser will then (and only then) let the children have a dog.

Let’s not forget the drama that is weaning a daughter. My son cried. My daughter is trying to manipulate me.

Stay Tuned.

Dammit.

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I was so proud of myself for going to the gym today that I came home and ate the rest of the Christmas fudge.

Dammit.

I also worked really hard to keep the kids from watching tv today. They played most of the morning in our playroom, quietly. I just assumed they were fine without Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, Cars, and Doodlebops because of the mound of presents Santa left. Turns out they spent the morning hiding behind the Christmas tree sneaking candy canes, M&Ms, and swedish fish.

Dammit.

I happily sang to myself earlier while putting dinner in the crockpot. Not only had I remembered to take the chicken out of the freezer the night before, but I was thrilled to have remembered to get the slow cooker going at 9am. It’s now after 3pm and I just noticed the crockpot was never plugged in.

Dammit.

I’d go take bath or have a drink or something, but my daughter has fallen asleep (3 hours later than she should) on my chest and won’t be moved.

Dammit.