You Know You're a Mom (of a Sick Kiddo) When...

Week of July 30 - The Sick Version

1. You've changed your clothes (with some bathing in between) at least three times before 8:00 a.m. due to projectile activities occurring in the home.
2. Your greatest fear for the day is giving your child 1 oz. of liquid.
3. Your 8- hour work day stretches into 20 to manage the rockings, ounce-givings, wardrobe changes, bathtub dipping, floor and carpet cleaning tasks.
4. The only food in the house consists of baby rice cereal and Pedialyte. You decide that this is also an acceptable breakfast, lunch and dinner for a 30-year old Mom of one.
5. You text a disgusting picture of the aftermath of the "try one ounce of liquid" approach to your husband, further proving that he needs to come home and help out. Immediately.
6. You secretly adore that your child needs his Mommy above all else during this rough time period. All that rocking and cuddling is worth the endless baths and cleanup!
7. You stalk the Price Chopper parking lot before 6:00 a.m. with hopes someone will toss you out Pedialyte, Gerber crackers and throw in a Snickers for your sake...all before the doors open.
8. Your house becomes deserving of a "condemned" sign for the amount of aromas rising from its rooftop (blech!).
9. You, your hubby and even the pooch catch the same virus and are bedridden for two days, trying to care for a near toddler. Of course.
10. Regardless of it all, there is no where else you'd rather be, no one you'd rather nurture, and no one else you'd rather be than Mom during this tough time. Ok, maybe a healthier version of Mom, but Mom nonetheless...
Bonus: You know you're a Mom of a sick kiddo when: it took you five days to post this vs. the five minutes it generally does. Yowzer! Guess that provides you a vision of how the rest of our household is coming along at this point!

Money Matters

“Can you believe this?! He actually sent a CALENDAR INVITE. Via OUTLOOK,” I say to my friend Sarah, who paused thoughtfully while helping me hang yet another stack of pictures in my office. “The boy never accepts my invites and chides me for over-communicating our family plans, yet HE sends ME an invite. To my work nonetheless!”

The subject line: Budget Meeting.

Augh.

As a gal who’s most likely in a committed relationship and understands when another pair of black shoes really is a necessity, you get my anxiety in going home for this “meeting” today. At least he had the courtesy to schedule it around “The Bachelorette Tell All” show I have slated for this evening.

My response: “Propose New Time” – to NEVER.

Yeah, that didn’t fly. So 7:30 it is. Me. Husband. Dave Ramsey. And a whole lot of numbers, analytics and things that will only better our life but that I will still never care for or understand.

Must stop at liquor store on way home…

How to Make a Man Smile

Ok, don’t even go there…this isn’t that type of blog! Though I’m certain that will work 100-percent of the time, and a clean house, fresh-cooked meal, guys’ night out and a Sunday full of sports would work too, but instead of going the hard route, I made my man grin with:

A home brewing kit.

He went straight up bananas over this. Sure, I was expecting he’d like it and get a kick out of the tie in to the “modern” gift of a four-year wedding anniversary as an “applicance,” but I never expected him to respond with: “I don’t even want to go out anymore tonight. I just want to stay home and read the books and brew!” Ok, not the ideal response when you’re awaiting your first date night in several months, but a positive reaction to a gift nonetheless. Normally I get something more like: “I told you not to get anything! How much did it cost?” Sigh. Not a gal’s favorite retort when her love language is gifts.

So, this relatively inexpensive, not too time consuming but diverting enough hobby begins. I highly recommend making the trek out to the Homebrew store in Olathe, where a very friendly gentleman awaits your questions on hopps, yeast, boiling and more. Plus, he’ll nearly convince you to support your wine habit at home by throwing some mathematical equations at you with the money you’ll save. I said almost…

Happy brewing to you, my hubby of four years. May it bring you the kind of joy nail painting, sparkly shoes and oodles of jewelry and champagne brings to me. And yes, I’ll take down the “honey do” list for a few hours so you can enjoy…but you’ll owe me some of those five gallons.

P.S.: The first of his masterpiece will make its debut at L’s first birthday party in September. It will be affectionally called “913” both for our Joco area code and the little man’s birth date. Now that’s fatherly love…

All Hands on De(i)ck

“This is exactly why I was meant to have a girl first!” I say to Mike, my face blushing with I don’t know what emotion as I watched my son wriggling on his back, exploring his new found parts. “I know it’s natural, but come on! A-w-k-w-a-r-d. You talk to him!”

As Mike worked to compose himself, I attempted to fold L’s clothes quickly and deposit them in his closet, avoiding the “manly conversation” that was occurring at the changing table nearby.
“Let’s at least try to use clinical terms, ok?” I say to Mike, who is getting way more of a kick out of this whole situation than I am apparently.

Preparing to exit the room, I couldn’t help but stifle a chuckle myself, because the little dude just looked so dang happy with his discovery. Sure, he doesn’t know what it is, why it’s there or what it’s meant for (thank God!) – to him, it’s just another super cool part of his day. And the day after. And the day after that. In fact, last week I caught him chewing on the remote with one hand, his other lay resting outside of the diaper you know where.
Wow.

Knowing men, I imagine I have a lifetime of this ahead of me.

I’m not going to pretend to understand because I just don’t have something that super cool dangling from my body (and no, the parts of the female body that gravity has taken over doesn’t count), but I will respect the process as it occurs…

for what I anticipate may be the next 40 years. Or 45. Perhaps 50. We’ll see…

PS: At least I’ll have this post down the road to mortify him when he starts to learn appropriate from not so much. Then I can at least have my little minute of torture. After all, I hear one of the reasons to have children is to embarrass them, right?!

A Moment of Weakness

Tomorrow marks the fourth year anniversary of when the hubs and I decided to tie the knot. Above a Tanners. Downtown. Very classy…

In all actuality, it was an evening filled with the kind of moments that, to this day, people start sentences: “remember the night of you guys’ wedding when…” Now what could be better than that? And to clarify, it was at Club 1000, a tasteful joint lit with white lights, harps playing in dimly lit corners and a DJ that knew how to keep the party alive until we were kicked out. And ran the rental car into a stone wall…but that’s a story for another day.

Again, I digress…

What I really want to rave about for a moment is my wish list item for this anniversary. Now, I know I should be my normal self and get all sappy about how much I love M, the amazing life we have created in our near-decade together and so on and so forth. But let’s be real for a second…L had a successful surgery today, we’ve been up since 4:30 a.m. and Momma’s tired. I’ll go sappy on you tomorrow.

For now, join me in ooohhiing and aahhhiinngg over this delightful little number, will you? Marked September 13 for the little man’s special day. In a blue sapphire. Sophisticated, different and of course…jewelry. Truly the perfect gift that surely could count as the modern four-year gift of an applicance, yeah? I firmly believe that in a woman’s world, a sterling necklace could count as an appliance. After all it’s a tool (outfit completor) that allows for improvement (superficially fills your soul for a second).

So, if you run into M, give him a clue will ya? Because the boy doesn’t read the blog – and for sure I’m not getting the gift of that this year either. And of course convince him his love for a lifetime will always be enough...but the necklace could really seal the deal. And if you have to bring up the 30th birthday debacle (you know who you are), then hey – all is fair in love and love, right?!

Counting Sheep (aka Logging Ridiculous Amounts of Facebook Hours)

If Facebook offered billable hours between the hours of 2:30 and 5:30 a.m., I’d be their highest-paid participator. Maybe they’d consider reimbursement in the form of Unisom pills or just a crack over the head at this point so I could get some sleep???

With the little man having just rounded the 10-month corner, so too have my hormones decided to rebirth themselves back to their state of affairs pre-pregnancy. With this comes unwarranted anxiety, sleepless nights, hot flashes, bitch gone wild moments and of course the crying while driving for no reason at all scenarios. Oh goody. I’m sure the passengers on Shawnee Mission Parkway think I’m perfectly stable, which is indicated by their intense stares then need to either pass me at 90 mph or hang way back lest I decide to ram their taillights…which, if you drive SMP in the a.m., you may have considered…

Here’s how the scene has been going down lately at casa de Choate:

11 p.m.: “Good night honey, I love you.” Says hubby, already going into snore mode and tucked into his “4” sleeping position, out for the count within 30 seconds.” Good night,” I reply, already jealous of his status.

11:45 p.m.: Replay day and anticipate workday tomorrow. Go over how much X group at work hates me. Kick myself for not calling X back. Fret over the food I’m offering my child. Hate on the house. Enter death spiral of negative thoughts…

12:35 a.m.: Consider doing sit-ups in bed as Sarah suggested. Instead launch into “I hate myself and how fat I am” mode. Stress more about work for no reason. Consider the shadow near baby gate at top of stairs is a ghost. Watch Sully and Ellie for signs of reaction.

2:10 a.m.: Slightly rejoice that somewhere in that death spiral of ridiculously ungrateful thoughts, I snuck some shut-eye in.

2:10 a.m.: Mike is still half-smiling and snoring. I consider waking him and alerting him to sleep with one eye open my jealousy has turned so green.

2:35 a.m.: give up and go into guest room to clean it. Look around. Give up. Walk to study and Facebook.

3:14 a.m.: Still on Facebook

4:05 a.m.: Is L stirring? Cause I miss him and would love to see him. No? Crap.

4:15 a.m.: Should try going back to bed. Have to get up soon for work.

5:03 a.m.: Back to Facebook.

You get the picture.

Evil hormones. I can only imagine what menopause is going to be like. Augh.

Meanwhile, I’m considering having myself committed. Or at least building some sort of fabulous meditation and yoga room off the house. Or becoming a genius or something. After all, I seem to have the time lately…

Watching the Paint Dry

You always hear this term when something is quite painful to bear, or when the need for patience is at an all time high. I, on the other hand, put a bit of a twist on it and call it my touch of meditation, or my therapy billed at about 12 dollars an hour, if you count the base, nail and top coats. The activity? Painting my nails…

Now, I’m the type of girl who would cut off her right arm for a spa day at any given moment (even though this would leave one less hand to paint I suppose, but I digress). But there is something therapeutic about Sunday evenings when the baby is tucked safely away in dreamland, Daddy is enjoying his moments of peace (ironically with a sports show blaring and a book in hand), and I’m gathering my nail files, the latest color I’m obsessed with and settling in for a good 90 minutes. For those of you who know me well, asking me to pause for even 10 minutes is requesting a lot, and quite frankly is a position I’m generally uncomfortable in. But when it comes to nail lacquer, the rough smell of acetone and a set of colors coined as “Oh to Be 21 Again” or “Bubble Bath,” I’ll shift quickly to a red light status to enjoy a little self-manicure.

Now, the completed product is nothing compared to what Angie, Yung, Frank, etc. can achieve, but the joy of completing a project that will stick with you for a few days, make you feel like a woman again and provide a small sense of style is worth the while. Tonight, it’s “Los Cabos” and “Limo Scene,” leaving my usually bitten, mess of a nail bed hands looking a little more like they should be allowed to see the light of day.

And if they get little wrinkle lines from the sheets tonight? Well, then that’s another 90 minutes I gain to delight in shaping, brushing and manicuring the little piggies all over again.

What’s your form of meditation?