I knew, even before I opened my eyes, that it was going to be one of 'those' mornings...you know, the type of morning where, even if you feel out of bed, you'd miss the floor. Murphy's law and all that. It started at about 6:18am, when Sebastian burst into my room, flipped on the light, and yelled, "Mama, I'm awake!" Sigh. For the love.
"OK, well, Maks is sleeping," (which he'd barely done the whole night), "so you need to be really quiet and go back to bed and I'll come get you in a few minutes."
"OK, YOU'LL COME AND GET ME IN A FEW MINUTES?!?"
*Stage whisper* "YES! Now STOP yelling!" Sebastian flipped off the light and left as suddenly as he had come, and it was almost like a dream. In fact, I wasn't sure that it wasn't just a sleep-deprived hallucination, until 5 minutes later, when Seb burst back into the room.
"Mom, look! I have five suckers." I opened one bleary eye, and sure enough, there they were, all unwrapped and sucked on. Good freakin' morning.
Things pretty much picked up from there. I jumped through the shower and put a ponytail in--no time for frills. Then I fed the kids breakfast, and Sebastian only gagged like three times on the pop-tart he asked for, so I felt like things were looking up. I shuttled him off to preschool and returned home with a new resolve: this WAS going to be a good morning. In fact, I was even going to get some housework done. I had Gabriella set up in the playroom and got out the vacuum cleaner--I feel like when your carpets are vacuumed the whole house looks cleaner, so that chore won. I turned the vacuum on and went at it, but the stupid thing refused to pick anything up. Whoever that british (or australian--who the heck knows for sure?) idiot is that does the Dyson commercials is lying when he says *in my best british/australian accent, "It never loses suction." I mean, yeah, when we got the thing you had to hang on tight to the nearest bolted down piece of furniture when you were within 30 yards of it, but now, nothin'. By this point, Maks was screaming and needed to be fed, and I was too irritated to try and fix that spectacular piece of machinery, so I just kicked it instead. And stubbed my toe. Hard. I think it might have even snapped off...but there's no way to know for sure since I literally haven't had the time to check and see. And, if it did snap off it probably gotten eaten by one of the dogs (toes are a delicacy to them). So, I decided 'screw housework" and sat down to hook Maks up to the tap, all the while composing a strongly worded letter to the makers of Dyson in my head...
"To Whom it may Concern:
Your vacuum sucks. Wait, no, no it doesn't. That's the problem. Your vacuum blows. Both literally and figuratively. Clearly, the man who designed this thing doesn't have children or pets, and he probably has a housekeeper and has never actually vacuumed. Therefore, since he can't help his ignorance, I just wanted to make you aware of what a crappy product you're peddaling. That is all.
Sunshine and Rainbows,
Ranae"
(Am I a lady or what?)
Then, while sitting and nursing Maks, and contemplating life in general, I looked up and noticed that the bathroom door was open, and my little girl, who I thought was still in the playroom, had climbed up onto the toilet and was scaling the etegere behind it like it was freakin' Everest--all the while inadvertantly ripping out the slats from the slatted cupboard in a valiant effort to get her toothbrush and toothpaste. I don't know what they put in that "Aquafresh for Babies," but it's like crack to that kid. Being that I had Maks attached to me, I decided to just cut my losses and let her go for it. I didn't have the energy to grab her anyway. Until she climbed down, opened the toilet lid, and started splashing with gusto. The couch is exactly 2.3 seconds from the bathroom...and by the time I got to her, she was soaked. Maks wasn't ready to be done eating, but I knew I had to clean Gabriella up and then get ready to pick up Sebastian, so he had to wait. By the time I got her changed and everyone back into the car, my tiny, sweet little angel had turned into Rosemary's baby. The entire drive to preschool, Gabriella said, "Mama! Baby cry!" (Just in case I wasn't aware).
While waiting in the school lobby for the sucker-boy to come out, I chatted up a mom that I'd met only a few times before but one that seemed like potential friend material. We frequently run into each other at preschool pickup and have kids around the same ages and she always seems so together--I've been trying to trick her into thinking I'm not a total nutjob so that maybe we can get to be chummy and some of her superior coping skills might rub off on me or be tranferred via osmosis. After picking up Sebastian, I loaded everyone in the van, proud of myself and pretty sure that we really connected on some level. Then I looked down and noticed that one of the latches to the cup on my nursing bra wasn't latched--in my rush to get out of the house after adventures at the toilet waterpark, I apparently had neglected this minor detail...which meant that the entire time I was talking to this lady, one boob was substantially lower than the other. Yep, I bet that definitely made her look at me as someone she should spend a lot of time with.
But that was OK. By that point, I was over it. At least my shirt was buttoned all the way, and that was a major accomplishment. *Mental pat on the back* We made it home, and it was then that Sebastian came over to me for a hug. Awww! He wrapped his arms around me and said, "Mama, you smell very good." Melt my heart! He must have been trying to make up for the five suckers. It was working. But then he noticed my glamorous ponytail. He pointed to the ponytail holder. "Can I take this thing out?"
"No."
"Why? 'Cause then all the air would come out of your head?"
Probably, son, probably.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Sunday, October 23, 2011
New Girl in Town
Hi,
My name is Ranae, and I guess you could say that I'm the new girl in town. Well, at least in the "blogosphere" part of town. And at least for this particular nanosecond, until someone else comes along and starts jotting their random thoughts down and throwing them out into the deepest recesses of cyberspace...but that's neither here nor there.
A little bit about me: I'm a 26-year-old mother of three children under the age of four. I know what you're thinking: "breeder!" but no...just certifiably insane. I'm not particularly creative, but I've been dealt four aces in the "humorous anecdote" hand of life, and that, combined with the fact that I find it a positive outlet (read: necessary to keep me from ripping out my hair) to share some of the stories of this dream that I'm livin,' have brought me here. I love God, my husband, my children, and the occasioanl long island iced tea...which I sometimes start fantasizing about by 9am.
At about any given moment of the day (such as, oh, say, now), I have at least one child screaming at me, one doing something destructive, and one pooping. That's just how it goes. Sebastian, my three-and-a-half year old, is convinced that it's time to go trick-or-treating RIGHT NOW (which makes total sense, since it's only a week premature). Gabriella, my 20-month-old, has climbed her chunky little butt into the baby's swing and is yelling "stuck" around the paci firmly lodged in her mouth (guess what THAT sounds like), and is brushing between her toes with her pretty little pink toothbrush...note to self: if I get an extra minute, boil that thing. If not, throw it in the bathtub with her. And Maks, my sweet little 4-week-old, is, well, pooping. See, I told you that someone is always filling one of those three slots.
Which brings me to a popular household phrase for the three-foot and under crowd of the house: "Smell it!" It can be said as a command, as a joyful proclimation, or as a question...but undoubetdly it's said at least once-a-day. For example, a short while ago, Sebastian and Gabriella were playing a rousing rendition of "follow-the-leader." Gabriella was leading in tiny-toddler fashion, and, naturally, Sebastian was mimicking her. Gabriella started crawling on her hands-and-knees, and Sebastian only a hairs-breadth behind. All of a sudden, Sebastian started gagging. "What? What's wrong? Are you sick?" (as a mom, I had to know quickly because if he was going to upchuck, I really wanted to make sure to get him to some sink or hard surface and not just let it hit our poor, pathetic, builders-grade carpet).
"No. Gab's just pooped." He said between gags. Imagine my relief. Thank-goodness! At least I wasn't going to be up all night with a barfing pre-schooler. Poop? Now that I can handle.
It's quite the exciting life I lead. And honestly, I wouldn't trade this for the world. I love being a mom and I find it quite an adventure to play "Survivor, Cleveland Edition" with these beautiful kids. OK, so "Survior" might sound a little harsh. I mean, I'm not trying to be melodramatic, it's not like any of us have to eat bugs...but it's probably a safe bet that some of us choose to.
I could ramble on forever, but now it's time to take my little herd of goats to Wal-Mart so I can find a few Halloween costumes--after all, it looks like we're going trick-or-treating tonight...
My name is Ranae, and I guess you could say that I'm the new girl in town. Well, at least in the "blogosphere" part of town. And at least for this particular nanosecond, until someone else comes along and starts jotting their random thoughts down and throwing them out into the deepest recesses of cyberspace...but that's neither here nor there.
A little bit about me: I'm a 26-year-old mother of three children under the age of four. I know what you're thinking: "breeder!" but no...just certifiably insane. I'm not particularly creative, but I've been dealt four aces in the "humorous anecdote" hand of life, and that, combined with the fact that I find it a positive outlet (read: necessary to keep me from ripping out my hair) to share some of the stories of this dream that I'm livin,' have brought me here. I love God, my husband, my children, and the occasioanl long island iced tea...which I sometimes start fantasizing about by 9am.
At about any given moment of the day (such as, oh, say, now), I have at least one child screaming at me, one doing something destructive, and one pooping. That's just how it goes. Sebastian, my three-and-a-half year old, is convinced that it's time to go trick-or-treating RIGHT NOW (which makes total sense, since it's only a week premature). Gabriella, my 20-month-old, has climbed her chunky little butt into the baby's swing and is yelling "stuck" around the paci firmly lodged in her mouth (guess what THAT sounds like), and is brushing between her toes with her pretty little pink toothbrush...note to self: if I get an extra minute, boil that thing. If not, throw it in the bathtub with her. And Maks, my sweet little 4-week-old, is, well, pooping. See, I told you that someone is always filling one of those three slots.
Which brings me to a popular household phrase for the three-foot and under crowd of the house: "Smell it!" It can be said as a command, as a joyful proclimation, or as a question...but undoubetdly it's said at least once-a-day. For example, a short while ago, Sebastian and Gabriella were playing a rousing rendition of "follow-the-leader." Gabriella was leading in tiny-toddler fashion, and, naturally, Sebastian was mimicking her. Gabriella started crawling on her hands-and-knees, and Sebastian only a hairs-breadth behind. All of a sudden, Sebastian started gagging. "What? What's wrong? Are you sick?" (as a mom, I had to know quickly because if he was going to upchuck, I really wanted to make sure to get him to some sink or hard surface and not just let it hit our poor, pathetic, builders-grade carpet).
"No. Gab's just pooped." He said between gags. Imagine my relief. Thank-goodness! At least I wasn't going to be up all night with a barfing pre-schooler. Poop? Now that I can handle.
It's quite the exciting life I lead. And honestly, I wouldn't trade this for the world. I love being a mom and I find it quite an adventure to play "Survivor, Cleveland Edition" with these beautiful kids. OK, so "Survior" might sound a little harsh. I mean, I'm not trying to be melodramatic, it's not like any of us have to eat bugs...but it's probably a safe bet that some of us choose to.
I could ramble on forever, but now it's time to take my little herd of goats to Wal-Mart so I can find a few Halloween costumes--after all, it looks like we're going trick-or-treating tonight...
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