Friday, August 30, 2013

Shiny


I tease my hubby pretty often...well ok, all the time, but the fact is that I truly have the best husband that has ever existed. He doesn't do laundry, cook and suffers from what my mother calls "18 inch disease" but he is a hard working guy who is completely devoted to the happiness of our little family. 

When we first met, I was going through a hellaciously contentious divorce and swore that I would never get married again. I even went so far as to tell him that if he ever asked me to marry him I would break up with him in a heartbeat! I was so scared of relationships that I wouldn't even call him my boyfriend.

He was, "The guy I was seeing." 

Early on, the guy I was seeing and I had a blast together. Being together was fun and everything was a fantastic adventure. In those days I traveled a great deal for work. If his schedule allowed he came along to help or meet me at the end of the event and we would take a long weekend to sightsee. 

Even though we were acknowledged as a couple, he eventually became my official boyfriend and we professed our love for one another. We talked often about how much fun we had together. Having endured a nasty divorce I told him that we'd see how we felt once the "shiny" wore off. 

You know the shiny right? 

The excited feeling you get when your special someone arrives at your door or butterflies in your stomach. 

The “new car smell,” if you will. 

As time went on my "I'll never get married again" resolve began to erode. I loved this man. He was kind, gentle, sweet, funny and one of the most loving and accepting people I have ever met in my life. Why would I not want to marry him? 

One weekend in October, while staying in NC, I showed him the website for a Bed & Breakfast in MD that I had won a gift certificate to. I specifically showed him the Weddings and Elopements page. With tears in his eyes he asked me if that meant he could propose to me and just as teary-eyed I told him yes. 

The next day we drove from NC all the way to Baltimore to get our marriage license...and received a parking ticket. 

In January we will have been married a whole three years. 

In the possible span of a marriage, three years is the equivalent of a drop in a bucket. But, in those three years we have moved my hubby to VA, seen his mom through two very serious shoulder surgeries, buried my father and his uncle, sold my townhouse in VA and moved in with my mom in MD, bought a house and moved to PA and given birth to (the most adorable) twin boys. Yeah, I’m tired just reading it too!

We live a sort of controlled chaos. Our days are still filled with fantastic adventures they are just different now. Traveling consists of trips to Walmart, the doctor’s office and visits with family.

Jet setters we are not.

My days are no longer spent on the road or in an office. Most days I am home. I work from home and I work on our home. There is never a shortage of laundry, and I understand that only gets worse as (the most adorable) twin boys get older. Something always needs to be cleaned, vacuumed or scrubbed and most of that falls to me. No big deal, I clean better anyway. He does the yardwork, takes out the trash and builds things. He also helps out with bottle washing and dishwasher emptying. But the 18-inch disease is bad.

In fact, as (the most adorable) twins get older, I expect the 18-inch disease to triple. What is 18-inch disease you ask? The condition that prevents on from moving a dirty dish the 18 inches from the sink to the dishwasher. Hubby’s affliction is bad. He has been known to put his dirty dishes in the sink even if the dishwasher is open. We might consider possible professional intervention.

Having kids has changed well…everything. Sleeping in, if we’re lucky, is 7:30; we no longer have our Sunday morning coffee-in-bed ritual; a trip to the store feels like work; dinnertime is a moving target and laundry is no longer a “one day and done” chore.

Don’t get me wrong I am not complaining. Just acknowledging the changes.

The romance that was so effortless now requires planning. It’s really tough to be romantic when you’re busy wiping up puke and changing poopie diapers. There are no candle-lit interludes unless the power goes out. Candles are dangerous.  

Seriously, it’s amazing what I now consider dangerous that I never even noticed before! That’s a post for another day.

Even with all this work, puke and extra laundry, life is still wonderful. Hubby will surprise me from time to time with a clean kitchen or scoop up the kids in the morning to let me sleep. He says he’s still trying to “impress his girl.”

It’s working.

We each work on helping the other. My shortcomings are his strengths. He is not perfect; he’s just perfect for me.

My tummy still gets butterflies when I hear the garage door alarm go off at the end of the day letting me know that he’s home. Five years after I started seeing this guy I am happy to report that the shiny still has not worn off.



Wednesday, August 14, 2013

The Blow-Out System


The list of things that gross me out is getting pretty long. I didn't used to be the type of person that one would consider squeamish (well unless you consider my arachnophobia but that's a fear not a gross-out factor) that was before I stepped in cold baby puke on my way to bed. Hubby asked why I didn't step in it while it was warm? Funny guy.

When the boys are in their highchairs snacking on Cheerios they tend to drop a considerable amount of them into the chair alongside their thighs and near their adorable little behinds. We usually reach down, scoop them up and put them back on their trays. This is an every day, sometimes multiple times a day, occurrence. So much so in fact that I no longer do the full-body flinch when coming in contact with wet, mushy Cheerios. Its just part of the experience.

Imagine my surprise the other night when I reached into the highchair to do the usual Cheerio harvest and came up with a handful of poop! Yup, baby poop! Not the brownish-yellow poop that one usually envisions when the words baby and poop are uttered in the same sentence; this was spinach week. The poo was exceptionally dark and well, leafy.

I screamed.

Hubby ran in from the other room to see what was going on only to discover me standing in the middle of the kitchen with my left hand covered in poop (oh and I was overdue to cut my nails - I'll let you draw that picture) telling him to get the paper towels to put down on the changing table.

We have come up with a "system" for dealing with blowouts, which for one of my boys seems to be a way of life. One of us grabs the paper towels and lays them out on the changing table. The other, carrying the baby, as my grandmother would say, "Like they were carrying a dead cat," brings the child in and puts him down on the towels and commences to change the diaper and clothing. While that is being done the first parent - usually the hubby - returns to the scene of the crime to deal with the clean up.

Minor blowouts are dealt with Clorox Clean-Ups. Major blowouts require the use of the garden hose which, I believe, we have resorted to at least five times now. If the hose is necessary, once the chunks are removed the highchair cover - which by the way is made of the most incredible material known to man - is taken to the washing machine where it is then washed on the "sanitize" cycle.

Once the diaper has been removed and all traces of poop have been scraped off the tushy, the diaper, wipes and paper towels go directly into the trashcan. This keeps us - and when I say us I mean me see Wash, Dry, Fold, Repeat - from having to wash the changing pad cover every time there is a blow-out.

My hubby thinks I take pity on him when I choose to change the diapers but really I am taking pity on the babies. Hubby is wonderful and jumps in to help out on nearly everything but I am a better diaper changer in these scenarios so it is less stressful for the kids and, as much as I am humored by the sound, it keeps him from gagging!

He has come close the throwing up about three times, which in the span of nine months is not that much but I have never gagged. I guess that's because when I know there is a poopie diaper I expect it to be um...poopie.

There is nothing about poop that is attractive to look at.

I can't even begin to tell you the number of times that I have heard, "Oh! My! God!" when he is changing a diaper. Initially the OMG! was followed by the very distinct sound of gagging. He’s gotten better with the gagging but is still surprised on a regular basis.

I just can't fathom the shock.

Seriously...You couldn't smell that?






Saturday, August 10, 2013

Just Wait Until...

Since my boys were born I have been assaulted by women who, based on their incredibly negative comments, I can only assume hated being mothers.

Everything seems to be prefaced with "just wait until..." and then some stage of development is mentioned: sleeping, feeding, teething, crawling, etc. I never cease to be amazed by the negativity of these miserable ladies and frequently find myself wondering if these are the types of women who raise serial killers or hermits! 

I will give them this much...teething sucks! 

Despite the need to baby-proof the house (baby-proof...Ha!) crawling has been so much fun. They follow me. I can hold a bottle up and say, "Come on" and they crawl to me! We chase each other around the house and play peek-a-boo around the furniture. How can you not love that? 

It seems that we live in a society where instead of sharing the best of times we have to outdo ourselves on the worst of times. Rather than "my dog is bigger than yours" it has become "my dog is sicker than yours." Weird and sad at the same time. 

Any woman who has ever been pregnant will tell you that other women love to tell horrific pregnancy and birth stories to expectant mothers. Like the idea of childbirth isn't already stressful enough we really need to know how your best friend's best friend's sister-in-law's cousin was in labor for 97 hours! Oy vey!

I thought the nightmare stories would end with childbirth but nooooo. Evidently, I'm supposed to hate the different stages of development and have something negative to say about each. Well, that's just not me. 

I prefer to laugh. 

Of course some days with the boys are tough. Did I mention that teething sucks?! Most of the time the boys are on the same schedule but sometimes they end up out of sync and it it feels like I'm tag-teamed all day long. Those days are very long but they are also very rare. I don't dwell on them. I have better things to do like play peek-a-boo! 

Most of the time, my experience is something that I have dreamed of my entire life.  I have happy, sweet babies that love to go for walks around the neighborhood or rides in the car. They love stores and  shopping carts as long as they can see where they are going; we have to push the carts backwards. I call them my "happiness ambassadors" because they make everyone smile. Walmart could only dream of such greeters! 

Could I waste precious time focusing on dirty diapers, barf, ground up cheerios or teething - did I mention teething sucks? Of course I could but why would I? Why would anyone? What a waste of time! I don't look for the negative in motherhood. 

I revel in the positive.

The list of things that I love is long and getting longer: They smile when they first wake up in the mornings or from naps. I can make them giggle just by saying, "Boo!" They love when the "raspberry monster" attacks. They hug and love to be hugged. They love water; bath time and swimming lessons are so much fun. They have infectious giggles. They crawl to me. They crawl on me. They are trying to stand. 

Motherhood is not easy but no one said it would be. In fact, most other mothers are resolute in telling me how terrible it is. 

Which makes me wonder...

If it's so bad, how come I have never been happier before in my life?








Wednesday, August 7, 2013

Three


That’s the number of attempts it takes me to accomplish just about anything. For instance: This morning I needed to get the power cord for my laptop out of the office upstairs so that I could work at the kitchen table while the boys played in the creatively named “playroom.”

As I headed up the stairs I noticed a dirty onsie by the changing table, which reminded me that I had forgotten to switch the laundry over in the basement. I took the dirty onsie downstairs, started the next load of laundry and headed upstairs to fold the stuff from the dryer. I got to the top of the stairs and realized that the stuff I needed to fold was sitting on top of the dryer...where I'd left it. Oh hell! Down  I went again to get the dry clothes, which I always fold in the living room.

I don’t like the basement. It’s not finished and I am afraid of spiders – that’s a story for another post – anyway…I finished folding the laundry and remembered that I still needed my power cord so I headed up the stairs again. I have no flipping idea what I did while I was up there but I definitely did not get the power cord. 

When I got back to the kitchen I opened my computer only to discover that it was dead.

I needed the power cord. 

Three tries and load of laundry later, I have my power cord and I am writing. 

I can’t even blame the kids, they were playing all by themselves and being the wonderful, amazing, perfect little cherubs that they are.

Now if I could only remember what I was going to work on! 

Sunday, August 4, 2013

Wash, Dry, Fold, Repeat

My entire life my mother has complained about the laundry. All aspects of laundry: sorting, folding, the stuff that has to be hung, things that can't be dried in the dryer, etc. none of it has escaped the wrath of mom. It seems to be her nemesis.

She still complains about doing the laundry.

She lives alone.

Well mom, in the words of Bill Clinton, "I feel your pain." Wash, dry, fold, repeat. That seems to be the purpose of my life these days and the boys are only 8 months old. This morning I began the first of six loads for the day. I could probably whittle it down to three if I didn't care what color things came out but, the fact is, I do.

So I sort. Whites, darks, reds, blues and greens. If I have enough khaki/beige then I make another pile. Towels don't fit into any category other than, towels. Sheets are also their own category. I have tried many, many different stain sticks/pretreatments. The Oxyclean Stain Stick is my favorite for removing some of the more disgusting things that the kids have blapped down their fronts.

After my husband and I were married and finally living together - it took 8 months to consolidate households - it took me another month just to get his socks white. I was tempted to just go buy him new ones and look like a "laundry guru" but I didn't want the pressure.

Before we were together he didn't sort.

He still doesn't sort.

I do the laundry. I hate the way he does laundry. He doesn't sort, he folds wrong and he doesn't put it away. Well to be fair, he did put it away when I was recuperating from the c-section (but those days are but a small, small blip on a distant radar screen). He knows that if it sits out long enough it either gets used or it miraculously ends up in his dresser. We have never discussed his unwillingness to put his laundry away and honestly, it's one of those things that really, in the big scheme of things, is not that important.

We have a pretty traditional household. I cook, clean, do laundry and am primary care giver to the kids. I work but I work from home so I'm here almost all of the time. Hubby has a job that takes him all over the place, usually about 1000 miles of driving per week. On a good week he is home before 6 every evening. He does the "hubby jobs" that include lawn care, trash removal, construction items, etc. He helps clean up from dinner and will help with just about anything around the house as long as it's not laundry.

The other night as were were getting into bed we were joking about the division of household chores. It's not something that we have ever discussed. We just fell into certain roles and that's they way it's always been. I was teasing him about how long the grass had gotten (he's sort of become OCD about the lawn) and he mentioned that I was welcome to mow the lawn. I said sure as long as he was willing to do the laundry. He replied, "But you hate the way I do laundry."

"Yeah, well, you've never seen me mow the lawn."

Friday, August 2, 2013

Rice Krispies

When my boys reached about four months of age one of them began throwing up very regularly. He wasn't just throwing up, he would barf and then scream. This to me was indicative of one thing: acid reflux.

I dutifully called the doctor's office to find out what to do. I'm not a panicky mommy (I would have been in my 20s) I rarely call the doctor's office but I felt that this needed attention. The nurse called me back later to tell me that the doctor thought he was just getting a little too much fluid and that I could start adding rice cereal to his bottles to thicken things up and help keep it down. She said that if that didn't help then the doctor would like to see him. I thanked her and hung up the phone completely oblivious to the fact that my hubby was sitting there waiting to be filled in. Let's face it, my accidental snub was not intentional. I am the handler of all things baby: nutritional, medical, clothing, etc. It didn't even dawn on me to explain the call.

He got miffed. Finally, he looked at me and asked, "Well are you going to fill me in?" "Oh, yeah, sorry," I replied. I then went on to explain that the doctor wanted us to begin putting rice cereal in the bottles to thicken things up. The longer I talked the more confused my hubby became. Once I finished he looked at me totally bewildered and said, "Like Rice Krispies?" I actually had to think about what he was asking. The synapse in my brain temporarily failed. I went blank.

O.M.G! No! Hahahahaha. I just about had to pick myself up off of the floor because I laughed so hard my son and I almost fell off of the sofa. Hubby did not know that they make a rice cereal for babies. (In the old days it was called Pablum.) He thought the doctor wanted us to put the "Snap, Crackle, Pop" version of rice cereal in the bottles and the confused look I saw on his face was him trying to imagine how our son was going to suck it through the nipple.

All I have to do today is say "Rice Krispies" and we both begin to laugh.