This is What Happens When You Drink a Whole Bottle of Champagne While Cleaning and Then Try to Blog

Since Adam has been back from Colorado, my house has been dirty as balls. Filthy. Don’t even wanna look at it. It embarrasses me without anyone even seeing that shit. I mean, I was up to my eyeballs in newborn and preschooler business while he was gone and then he came home and I was crazy busy and also tired as hell. Then August, Halligan and I all got sick and the whole house got covered in a shiny layer of snot. I don’t really blame myself because it  was straight bullshit over here.

Then I decided to drink an entire bottle of $7 champagne by myself tonight and clean and it might be the booze talking, but this house is beautiful and this is the best thing I have ever done. There’s a pumpkin spice candle in my trunk waiting to be the icing on my house cake. It’s raining so I made sure I bought all non perishables at Target so I could leave them in my trunk overnight until a dryer time. My trunk probably smells delicious right now. If you are reading this and a thief STAY OUT MY DAMN TRUNK.

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Just In Case You Don’t Want to Sprinkle Your Environment with Feces

We are three years into cloth diapering. August is potty trained during the day, but he still wears a diaper overnight. We started when he was a baby, and bought a stash of Bum Genius 4.0 diapers. I love them, because they look and work like regular diapers, so there wasn’t much of a learning curve. And they have a million snaps that allow them to grow with your child, so you don’t need several stashes of various sizes.

One of the only complaints I ever had about cloth diapering was the poop. When your kid is older and eating solid food, they mostly have solid poop and you can usually just dump it into the toilet. But babies are gross and have gross wet cement poop that is a total pain to get off of cloth diapers.

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Someone Stop the Damn Bus, Please

I’m being assaulted by a constant barrage of milestones at the moment, all screaming at me that time is moving forward forever and that my babies are growing every second. There’s no stopping it, and one day I’m going to blink and they’ll be fully grown and it will just be me and Adam and Bea and cats. My life is hurtling towards the inevitable decades I will spend trying to fill the hole in my heart with a shitload of cats.

It is possible that I am a little emotional about August turning three and starting preschool in the span of a few days. It’s not helping that Halligan also feels like she’s minutes away from talking and walking and watering down my booze. I want to know how it’s possible that every minute after 5pm is the longest minute of my life until Adam comes home from work, but it also feels like I snapped my fingers back in May and suddenly it’s today and I have a four-month old?


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Wine is Gross But Whine is Great

Greetings from Hell. Adam’s been out of town for two weeks. We still have a week and a half to go. As per the laws of by-myselfness, an appliance kicked it and the kids are sick. I’m trying to keep the house livable and occasionally eating not-pizza and planning August’s third birthday and getting everything in order for him to start preschool . I’ve got beer in the fridge. I have not had time to drink it.

Almost immediately after Adam left, I was heating up some broccoli in the microwave when I heard a ZAP sound. I look over to the microwave and it looks like there is fucking FIRE in there what the shit. Turn it off and open it up, and the broccoli is scorched black in places and smoking. It was in there maybe 10 seconds. Then something shocked me in the lip so I cut off the power supply to the whole damn thing. I felt like Carol Anne was hiding in there and trying to get me to sell my house.

So we have been without a microwave the whole time. I did not realize how heavily I relied on that stupid thing until we didn’t have it. I think the new one is finally coming today so at least I can heat shit up in a timely fashion again. Weirdly, it’s had the biggest impact on me eating healthy. I’m lazy and turn to junk when I don’t feel like putting much effort into cooking for myself. But even at my laziest, I can throw some of those steam-in-bag vegetables into the microwave and eat the whole thing and feel like I did one kind of adult thing that day.

Then a few days ago, we were staying with my grandparents for the weekend and August was throwing way more tantrums than usual. Whoever said two was bad was an idiot because two was a cake walk. I’m staring down the barrel at three and it makes me pee a little just thinking about it. I can already tell three is going to be straight bullshit. My happy, chill little weirdo has turned into this giant turd that goes from sweet to primal screaming on a dime.

Anyways, way more tantrums and a giant grump over the weekend, then a complete slug on Monday. Took the kids to the doctors and August has an ear infection and Halligan has a stomach virus. The good thing is that August’s body is busy fighting germs and it kind of sedates him. Tantrum-free for a couple days. Amen.

So on top of that nonsense, I’m trying to prepare for August’s birthday, which is the day after Adam gets back. His party is the day after that, but all I need to do is bake cupcakes. We are having it at a kid place so he and his friends can climb shit and go nuts and eat pizza and pee on things and I don’t need to abuse Xanax because at the end we just go home. The only part Pinterest will play in this party is helping me choose a cocktail to hide in my thermos.

That cocktail will have lots of friends in the coming days, because August starts preschool a couple days later and I’m already having nightmares where he’s going off to college and marrying an evil idiot and leaving me forever. He was born three days before the cut-off, so he’s the youngest in the class and it feels way too early for him to be big enough for school. Granted, it’s only preschool and it’s only for a couple hours, two days a week. But shit. My baby. My whack job little goob is heading out into the world.

Once it sinks in that his school is across the street from where I get my nails done and that I can finally have some time to get my nails done again, I’m sure I’ll cheer up. And I will especially cheer up once Adam is home because all this is such a shit on a shit-stick. I’m just going to snuggle up to some Ben and Jerry’s and watch Nurse Jackie and figure out which pills sound the best. I’ve never missed my Adderall more in my life. Cheers. Barf.

I Barely Have Time to Put on Pants, But Pants Suck So Whatever.

There’s this window after a new baby, where you’ve got the hang of the baby part and you’re getting crap done again and settling into your new routine, but almost none of that routine involves you. I’m in this place right now where I am getting fairly productive, keeping up with house stuff, on top of August’s and Halligan’s basic ish, running errands with two kids, and making dinner a few nights a week. But, I’m not making it to Stroller Strides, or finding much time to exercise at all. I’m not brushing my teeth or getting dressed or really even eating anything besides maybe a pack of crackers until after August eats lunch. I’m sure as hell not doing my hair, and most of the time my makeup for the day is some Aquaphor on my lips, end of list.

This week, I’m making a strong effort to start getting back to feeling myself. Some women don’t like makeup or styling their hair and some women think it’s stupid to feel like you have to do those things. Me? I love that shit. Days where I have a minute to throw something on my face or shove my head under the faucet so I can blow dry my bangs are days that I feel more like a person instead of a much more tired and less endearing version of that robot maid from The Jetsons. And whenever I can get time to exercise, I kick the whole day in the ass. But most of the time, if I have the time to do something for myself, I end up finding a chore to do or I try to cross something off my to-do list instead. And that is dumb because nothing in my house stays “done” for more than four minutes anymore.

I asked my friend Beth to write a little something for us on ways to squeeze in some time for a little makeup or basic skincare. She’s an amazing esthetician and makeup artist (and nail technician because this chick does all the things) and even gets herself on the news around here all the time because she’s fancy as hell. Enjoy her words.

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Can I Say I’m a Writer Now? Because I’m Saying I’m a Writer Now.

I’ve been at this stay at home momness since I was pregnant with August. I went back to college in my early twenties to major in biology. In my third year, I found out I was bad at it and quit to have babies. The only thing I didn’t fail out of that semester was a writing class that I loved. The teacher was inspiring and encouraging. The class size was small and there were no assholes. And it got me to enjoy writing for the first time in years. When I stopped going to school, I decided to go back to blogging, something I had sporadically dabbled in but never really found a way to enjoy.

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My Kid Likes Boob and Bottles and I’m Dancing a Damn Jig Over It

On my way out of that new baby fog. For the most part, I’m trying to consider the first twelve weeks as a fourth trimester. Recovering. Figuring out how shit works. Working out when I feel like it. Doing chores when I feel like it. Showering when I feel like it. Getting out of the house when I feel like it. Eating healthy when I feel like it. Eating Pizza Hut when I want to feel like a human garbage pail. Mostly living on Halligan’s schedule but trying to make it my own when at all possible.

For the most part, it’s going well. A huge difference between the newborn stage with two versus the newborn stage with one is that this time around, I’m giving no shits about breastfeeding. With August, I beat myself up over it and let it consume my life for months. I tried everything to increase supply but there was just nothing there for him. Like 5ml nothing. He was skinny and hungry and I was guilty and sad and hooked up to him or a pump all freaking day.

Once we stopped and went to formula exclusively, everyone was happy. August was happy because he wasn’t in a constant state of hangry. I was happy because my baby was happy. Adam was happy because his wife and baby were happy and because his wife was showering sometimes instead of power-pumping every night. Also, power-pumping is a section of hell they should reserve exclusively for spiders and former cast members of The Hills.

This time around, I decided before I even got pregnant that I was not going to lose my mind over breastfeeding. If it worked, that would be great. If it didn’t, I would give no shits and happily drink more beers. When Halligan was born, I was pleasantly surprised to have some supply. She was feeding pretty much 24/7, but I had milk for her and that made me over the moon.

But I make some hungry-ass babies. For the first two weeks, I thought the universe was paying me back for August being a cake walk of a child because Halligan was a straight-up jerk. It felt like she was pissed at me all the time. Not even just when she was crying; she was quick to develop some of the best stink-eye I’ve ever been on the receiving end of. If she could read, she would probably turn it on right now for ending that sentence in a preposition. Turns out that she wasn’t a jerk, though. She was just hangry as hell. One night, when I couldn’t soothe her no matter what I tried, I sent Adam to the store at 1am for formula. She sucked that shit down; didn’t even care that it smells just as bad going in as it will coming out.

So I’m still breastfeeding because I’ve got the supply and Halligan still wants to. This child loves to eat and doesn’t care where food is coming from, as long as she’s getting it. She’s probably getting about 1/4 or 1/5 of her milk from me. But the great thing is that our breastfeeding relationship is casual and works for both of us. If she feels like breastfeeding, she goes for it. If I feel like breastfeeding, I go for it. She even seems to prefer the breast when she needs comfort, which I love. After getting three shots at her two-month checkup, Halligan wanted nothing to do with the bottle. She stayed on the breast pretty much constantly for the next day. It made me feel special. And sweaty.

Since we started formula, I have not seen one sign of the jerk-baby I thought I had. I suddenly have this happy little goober that loves smiling almost as much as she loves eating. It makes me feel extra good when she stops drinking her bottle to flash me a huge grin, because I know how much she loves to chug. And big, super, sparkle-bonus? She is sleeping. After we started giving her bottles, Halligan began sleeping through the night. I feel like I shouldn’t say that out loud because I don’t want her to hear me.

It’s so strange having supply now, even a small supply, because it’s physically a way different experience than I had last time. I thought I knew what letdown felt like; didn’t have a clue. Had to google “Why does it feel like my boobs are being stabbed,” to find out what that was. And I have to wear a nursing bra at night so that I can put some milk pads in there and not leak all over the sheets. I thought that after my water broke in bed, I would have a slight reprieve from waking up in a giant wet spot. Nope.

If there is one thing I have learned from my time as a mother, it is that talking about breastfeeding makes people crazy as shit and if your experience doesn’t exactly match someone else’s, you’re somehow invalidating their entire life and must be pelted with rocks and stopped. So let me just end this with saying that this is what works for us, boobwise, and if you exclusively breastfeed until your kid is nine or bottlefeed your kid Pepsi, that’s your truth, man. Live your truth. But feel free to bitch in the comments or shout hooray about your experiences, because I agree with everything now. Breastfeeding rules. Bottlefeeding rules. Bottlefeeding is not a word, according to the little red line under it, but who cares? Not me. I only care that I’m out of the baby stage where I am frantically counting how many times my kid has peed and pooped in the last 24-hours.