Category Archives: A Scary Look into My Mind

Kid Poops-a-Lot

*talking*

Oh. my. gosh.Becky, look at that butt.
That diaper’s big.
It looks like one of those diaper commercials.
Who understands those commercials?
They only talk to about poop because they can make a lot of money,ok?
I mean that butt!It’s just so big!
I can’t believe–it’s just so round!It’s just so out there!
I mean, *GROSS*
It’s full of crap!

*rap*

I like clean butts and I cannot lie.
You other mothers can’t deny
That when a kid walks in with diaper full of waste
And it hits you in your face
You go numb!
Ya’ gotta be all tough
Cuz you know that that diaper’s stuffed!
Deep in the jeans she’s wearin’
Is goo and I can’t stop swearin’.

Oh, baby, don’t wanna be near ya’
Or even hear  ya’.
My playgroup tried to warn me
’Cause that butt you got
Makes m-m-me so ornery!

Ooh, little Miss Smooth Skin
You say you wanna play with your friends?
Well ‘scuse me ‘scuse me
That diaper’s full of poopey!

I see her playin’
With that diaper swayin’
It’s wet, yet, that’s not the worst it can get.

I’m tired of magazines
Making diapers look all clean.
Take the average momma and tell her that
She’ll say you’re full of crap!

So mommas (yeah!) mommas (yeah!)
Your kiddo got a stinky butt? (Heck yeah!)
It’s time to change it, (change it), change it,(change it),
change that nasty butt!

Baby’s got crap!
(Gerber face with a barnyard booty!)
Baby’s got crap!

 

If that didn’t make any sense to you, you can look up Baby Got Back by Sir Mix-a-Lot on YouTube. But don’t watch the real video, because when MTV bans your video when it first comes out…um, yeah.

Anyhow, now it is out of my head and I can move on with my life.

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Filed under A Scary Look into My Mind, Just for Fun, Kids, Parenting

Moo.

A little over a week ago, we had an activity at church for all of the kids. As it fell very close to the wildly popular (in Utah, but still observed periodically around here) Pioneer Day, all of the activities were centered around things the Mormon pioneers would do. Some of the favorite activities were crushing plates (the pioneers crushed their china to put into the cement that made the temple walls so that it would sparkle)—an activity that I am happy to report that no one has attempted so far at home, and making homemade butter by shaking cream in a baby food jar.

The other night, as we ate spaghetti squash(!) harvested from my garden(!) (I’m really getting into this gardening thing—I recently found just how wonderful zucchini bread is when you substitute chocolate chips for the raisins), green beans, and bread, my kids decided to pull out their homemade butter to go with their meals.

Sean looked at the little jars of butter.

“You know,” he said, “there are just enough crazy people that I bet you could make a real business of breastmilk butter. I mean, it would be all natural, and people are always talking about the big health benefits of breastmilk. I bet there are people that would be totally into it. You could probably charge $100 for a little tub. Just imagine.” He finished with a sly smile.

Of course I could imagine.

“Yeah, I can see it now,” I told him. “Every evening, hundreds of lactating women would wander in from the pasture, head to the barn, and sit all crammed together—hooked up to breast pumps—while eating their evening meal.”

Maybe they’d even get a Harper’s Bazaar and a pedicure.

Of course, it would have to be marketed as BUSTer, and branding would be important. I’m thinking something like Land-O-Leaks with an Indian whose proportions are roughly equivalent to Pamela Anderson on the front.

Someday, when I have my own episode of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, they will refer back to this blog post. “It all started with engorged boobs and a dream…”

 

This is what happens, folks, when I have had WAY too little sleep. Well, this, and the raging sleep-deprivation migraine that is threatening to settle in…

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Filed under A Scary Look into My Mind, Just for Fun, just plain bizarre

Week 39–Perspectives

Awhile back, my mother commented to me about the fact that I had stopped posting regular pregnancy updates. There really has been a few reasons for this, but the main one had to do with what I had to say. You see, this being my fourth pregnancy, I don’t have the same wide-eyed wonderment that tends to be felt by those going through it for the first time. And, this being my fourth pregnancy in FIVE YEARS, well…It wears on a girl.

And while I know how thrilled I am about the impending arrival of my daughter, most of what I had to say about being pregnant may have come off as a tad whiny. The truth is, pregnancy is frequently a pain in the butt (both literally and figuratively). When I stopped writing about it was about the time that I didn’t feel I could write about it honestly without frequently mentioning that fact.

The thing is, I also understand that a significant portion of the people who read my blog would give anything for the opportunity to experience all of the hemorrhoids (again with the literal and figurative) of pregnancy. You can’t go through four years of infertility without it leaving a permanent memory of just how desperate that desire can be, or just how annoying whiny pregnant women who don’t know how good they have it are. It’s all about perspective.

So, in what I DESPERATELY (imploringly, please, please, please God I’m begging you) HOPE is the last of my pregnancy updates, I’m going to talk a little bit about how my perspectives on pregnancy have changed over time.

blackandwhitebelly

I’ve Always Wanted a Big Family…

Even before our struggles with infertility, I always wanted to have a lot of kids. I just never considered how hard it would be. And it is hard. Last week, my neighbor agreed to watch my kids for me while I went to my appointment with the midwife since my mom was out of town being a politician (she’s keeping her schedule pretty clear right now, but it IS a reelection year for her…). The stars were all aligned, and I was home in under an hour and a half.

“I don’t know how you keep up with it all day, every day,” was the first thing she said to me.

I just smiled and looked around my house.

“Um, obviously, I don’t,” was the best I had to offer.

And it’s true. Lately, I’ve felt like I’m standing next to the Hoover Dam, trying to plug cracks with bubble gum. I never stop moving, but I just don’t feel like I’m making any progress.

For a long time, I have wondered how truly huge families do it. I mean, I get how you make it work when you have 16 kids and half of them are 12-years-old and up. That’s a no brainer. But I’ve wanted to ask one of those moms how she managed it all when she only had little kids.

Recently, I got my chance.

My sister-in-law is the fifth of sixteen (!!!) kids. Her parents came for a visit recently and we all went to a local museum together. As we were walking back to our cars, I asked her mom how the heck she made it all work before she had older kids to help with cooking, cleaning, and wrangling younger children.

She smiled a wise, sweet smile and said, “I’ve got nothin’.”

OK, that’s not verbatim, but it’s close enough. Basically, she told me that having five little kids was the hardest time period of her life and that it was virtually impossible to keep up with it all.

I feel like I finally made the pilgrimage to Mecca, only to find a plastic fortune-teller in a sealed phone booth.

All My Bags are Packed, I’m Ready to Go…

I have never—in any of my pregnancies—nested. Who knew that it would just take carrying another estrogen-bearer for me to finally start acting maternal. I have made it through my “To Do” list, thought of more tasks, done them, and am running out of things to burn off my nervous energy.

I have rearranged bedrooms. I have sorted baby clothes. I have picked produce from my garden. I have made a regular habit of going to the local farmer’s market (this week, I found out that “cukes” is gardener slang for cucumbers—word to yo’ Mutha Nature…fo’ shizzle). I have packed the baby’s bag for the hospital. I have made a list of things for my hospital bag (I refuse to pack that early, since no amount of nervous energy will lead me to deprive myself of makeup for a couple of weeks).

But as I have prepared for labor, I have realized just how different my perspective on what I “need” is from my first pregnancy. When I was pregnant with Wyatt, I took childbirth classes, read books, and scoured the internet for hospital bag packing lists. On the big day, I showed up with an MP3 player full of music with subliminal relaxation messages, unscented oil, lotion, essential oils, focal points, comfort objects, socks full of rice, candy to suck on, snacks for Sean, slippers, and my blankie. Honestly, people, I needed a bellhop.

A couple of weeks ago, I told Sean that this time I will be happy as long as I have my own pillow, a slushie from Sonic (I need to find out how late that place is open, just in case I need to take that into consideration when timing my departure to the hospital…), and this book:

pride and prejudice and zombies

Yes, seriously. I have always loved fractured fairytales, so the idea of fracturing classical British literature? It is taking every ounce of self-control I have not to start reading it yet. Sean thinks that I am a tremendous dork. I think that he is completely lacking in creativity and vision.

Oh, and my MP3 player? Since I haven’t taken the time to remove Sean’s playlists from my Zune, there is a good chance that I could be delivering this baby to Sammy Hagar.

Timing is Everything…

A month or two ago, Sean mentioned to me that his office mate’s soccer league was having sign-ups. Our older two having been talking about doing soccer for quite some time so, what did I think?

I thought I wanted to know when it would start, would they be in different age groups, and how many nights a weeks would this involve?

Well, they would be in different age groups. It was a two night per week commitment (each), and practice started last week. But, since we had connections, we MIGHT be able to get their practices and games on the same night. NO PROMISES.

I told Sean that he needed to decide if HE was willing to make that big of a commitment, since I was going to be dealing with a newborn, thankyouverymuch. He signed the kids up.

A few weeks later, his office mate, Brian (the league’s director), called with a proposition. If Sean agreed to be the assistant coach on Noah’s team, they could put Wyatt  on Brian’s wife’s team and there would be no question that practices and games would be on the same days. As I sat listening to Sean’s side of the conversation, he agreed to the deal. Then they started talking about coach training sessions and what not.

At one point, I heard this:

“Um, that could be a problem.”

Pause.

“Well, because my wife is supposed to be having a BABY that week.”

Pause. Chuckle.

“Oh, yeah, I’m sure she’d agree to do that for you.”

I looked at my husband, smiled, and said, “Oh, he wants me to have the baby a week early? That’s fine by me!” And I gave him a big thumbs up.

Sean shook his head.

“No, he thought it might be better if you held off an extra week.”

“Adequately expressing how I feel about that,” I informed him, “would require an entirely different single-digit hand gesture.”

Let’s Talk About Sex, Baby…

It’s true—I’ve reached the point where I feel like I’d do just about anything to be one person again.

Between friends, relatives, and people that I go to church with (most of whom also fall into that “friends” category), I know SIX OTHER PEOPLE who were due within a month of me. All but one of them has now had her baby (or babies, in the case of the one with twins). The lone hold-out is due basically the same day I am. But I’m the one with the tendency to go late. Which means, Angie, that if you have your baby this week, I fully expect you to show up at church on Sunday with a pillow shoved down your dress—just in case.

And while I sat this week wondering if the intestinal bug my kids were passing around might work as well as castor oil and Who wants to share a drink with Mommy??? I know the advice I’m bound to get from my midwives:

Sex. Lots and lots of sex.

Ahem.

Yes, I understand the concept. It all has to do with prostaglandins and cervical ripening and what got the baby in will get the baby out…blah, blah, blah. 

Whatever. There is just something very wrong about having to look at my husband with the same sort of functional equivalence as a tampon dispenser. And he’s done this enough times that he knows what’s up on that subject. I mean, honestly people—I WADDLE when I walk. And there is nothing less sexy than feeling like a duck.

This is one area where infertility and pregnancy are a whole lot alike. Whether you are desperately TRYING to get pregnant, or desperately trying to NOT BE pregnant, marital relations just aren’t the same when they are planned as a means to an end. ‘Nuff said.

Of course, I have a theory that it isn’t really the prostaglandins, anyhow. I think it has more to do with the fact that anyone who has ever needed a drink of water at JUST THE WRONG MOMENT knows that kids just don’t want to acknowledge that IT even happens. And there’s just no denying IT when you’re that close to what’s going on. Of course the baby would do anything it could to get out of there if IT is happening that frequently.

Not that my theory helps me any. After all, I don’t think that lesser measures like just making out in the kitchen would seem nearly as disgusting to the baby as it does my other kids. It may send them running, but I doubt the baby would care one way or the other.

So I have to be content with just waiting it out. At the very least, I can take comfort in the fact that my stomach is now so enormous that my butt once again has the appearance of being a normal size (I’m all about the silver linings).

See? Perspective is everything.

belly collage2

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Filed under A Scary Look into My Mind, Books, infertility, pregnancy

Week 34—The Weather Report

At this point, it has basically been a whole month since I have done any kind of pregnancy update. Mostly, this is because I’ve never felt like doing a picture. I actually tried to do one last week, but they all turned out awful. And you aren’t getting one today—after working in the garden in 85 degree weather, I’m just not even going to try.

Honestly, I probably wouldn’t be doing an update today if I didn’t feel a little bit like my hand was being forced. But, you know, sometimes other people talk about things you hadn’t planned on discussing, so you feel like you need to explain.

If you are a man and go to church with me, for the love of all things holy, run. NOW.

Friday afternoon, I woke up from my nap to find that I was a little, um, damp. (I warned you.) I monitored the situation for a little while, then decided to call my midwife. You see, when I was pregnant with Wyatt, I went through the exact same thing for a few days. Then my water totally broke. But that was ok since I was past my due date that time. This time, I was much more concerned about the situation. My midwife suggested that I wait and see if anything had changed by the next morning. The problem came and went for the rest of the day.

Saturday afternoon, during my baby shower, my mother asked me if I was still having problems. While I was getting refreshments. I told her that we would talk about it later since, you know, I really didn’t think Miss Manners would sign off on discussing the relative humidity of my unmentionables over cake and punch.

(How the heck would you determine that one? About fifteen percent? Twenty? I’ve never been very good at rating things. Just like those stupid smiley face pain assessment charts that are in every single labor and delivery room.

Wong_pain_scale

Since they have never handed me a mirror when they ask me to rate my pain, you would think they would be a little more qualified to judge—seeing as how they are LOOKING AT MY FACE while they ask. Anyhow…)

So, I thought I had dodged any public discussion of my private parts.

When I woke up Sunday morning, the problem had returned. I decided it was time to go have things checked out. We decided that Sean and the kids would go to church, and I would go to the hospital.

Shortly before they left, Noah came up to me and said, “Mommy, you’re LEAKING?”

No matter how many times I have pointed it out to him, my husband still hasn’t figured out that there are certain things you shouldn’t say to little kids because they will, invariably, repeat them.

I told Noah that under no circumstance was he to discuss that with people at church. So, of course, I was not surprised to learn that when Sean went to get Caleb from the nursery, Noah took the opportunity to announce to every adult present that his mommy was leaking.

Sigh.

Of course, it appears that his grandmother may have rivaled him in the discretion department that day, so I guess I can’t give him too much grief about it.

I am considering teaching my husband a lesson, though. You see, he justified sharing that information with the kids by telling me that he thought it would be good to explain to them how the baby is floating in water in my tummy so they would learn more about what was going on with the pregnancy. So I’m thinking I’ll tell them when I lose my mucous plug. And when they ask what that means? I’ll send them to daddy. He’s good at explaining those pregnancy things.

So, yes, I did go to the hospital yesterday morning. And, no, they do not think that I am “leaking.” Which leaves little explanation for the issue. Well, ok, they did give me one possible explanation, but I feel very certain that it isn’t what is happening.

For now, I’ll just shrug my shoulders, watch, and wait. I’m not going to let it slow me down (even more). I spent the day doing housework and the evening hoeing. The garden, that is. As opposed to ho-ing which, based on the looks and comments that I have been getting recently from some rather skanky-looking men, there appears to be a certain subset of the male population that thinks I am currently qualified for.

Gross.

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Filed under A Scary Look into My Mind, Kids, pregnancy, Scary Bits of Life

Sushi on Ice (and Other Random Bits)

This afternoon, as I was in my car driving to a Cub Scout leader training meeting (more on that later), I was listening to the local news on the radio. They were talking about the death last week of a local high-end seafood restaurant owner while he was taking pictures in Death Valley (how apropos). They mentioned that his public viewing was happening right then—at the restaurant.

OK, people. I’m sure this reveals much more of the inner workings of my mind than I should admit to. That being said…

Have you ever heard of the parties where they serve sushi off of the body of some scantily-clad model? That is where my mind INSTANTLY went. Except the concept is much less appealing (not that the concept is appealing anyhow) when you picture it on an older, dead guy.

Off course, when I called Sean from the car to ask him if he was listening and share this gem from my brain with him, he didn’t hesitate in telling me how messed up I am. Of course, as I pointed out to him, I am a product of my life experiences. I only have so much responsibility for how my brain works. But him? He CHOSE me. So, really, which one of us has the real issues?

********************************

In my church, we are given callings to serve in different capacities within the congregation. Up to this point, the entire time I have been writing on this blog I have been working with the 12-18 year old girls. I love working with teenage girls. This wasn’t the first time that I have done it, and I doubt that it will be the last.

Recently, however, I was asked to accept a new calling. This was because, obviously, God has a really wicked sense of humor. I am now a Wolf den leader. That means that the one time a week that I am likely to leave my four boys for any significant period of time, it is to spend time with eight or so other boys. Eight-year-olds. This, my friends, is what you refer to as a growing opportunity. Because goodness knows that these kids don’t need me and my complete lack of experience with scouting to get them through the program. I should have some clue as to what I’m doing when Noah’s old enough for scouts in two years. Who knows how many other peoples’ kids all mess up in the meantime.

Anyhow, tonight I went for some regional training for new leaders. I have a few suggestions for the organizers and teachers of this training:

  1. Three hours for one meeting is expecting a lot of people.
  2. Meetings should never be scheduled to end at 9:30 pm.
  3. If you choose to go ahead and plan a three hour meeting that ends at 9:30 pm then, for the love of all things holy, END ON TIME! Because, by 10:10, I’m just going to be grumpy.

Seriously, even if you put aside the fact that I didn’t have time to eat dinner before I came, had swollen feet, and am just dog-tired by that late, assuming that what you have to say is more important than anything else 20+ people have going on in their lives is just plain rude. Because, honestly? In Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, food and sleep come way before knowing which color the summer pack badge is for each age group.

********************************

Of course, you all don’t care about that. You just want the last baby name clue, right? Tonight, you actually get two. And, since yesterday’s appealed to the classic literature scholars among us, I’ll steer more towards the popular media this time:
 
I’m sure my daughter will be incredible. Being her mother won’t mean I’ll need an alias.
 
And now, I go to bed. Ah…to sleep. Perchance to dream. Most likely, though, to toss and turn and creek and ache.

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Filed under A Scary Look into My Mind, Baby naming, Just for Fun, pregnancy

If Life Were a Musical, We’d Sing About Fat Fingers

Sometimes, people, the contents of my subconscious completely defy explanation.

As the sounds of children getting out of bed started to fill my house this morning, I awoke from a rather vivid dream. I was at the house of one of my IRL bloggy friends.

Her husband was explaining some of his feelings about fatherhood—in a show tune.

Specifically, he was dancing around the house, looking mildly like someone out of West Side Story, singing about how he didn’t want his daughter’s toys overtaking the “man space” in the garage. This, he explained melodically, was because his fingers were to big to remove small toys from narrow spaces.

Yes, people, I’m a total whack job.

When Sean came out of the bedroom, I told him about the dream.

He didn’t exactly react as I might have expected.

He just shrugged his shoulders and said, “Yeah, I could see him doing that.”

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Filed under A Scary Look into My Mind, Just for Fun, just plain bizarre

Self-Reflection from the Sidelines

I am a competitive person.

If I go to the gym, you can rest assured that I am looking at the settings on the treadmill/spin bike/elliptical machine next to me. As neurotic as it may sound, I don’t want to feel like I’m being “beat” by the person I’ll never see again working out on the next machine over.

Now, don’t confuse this with meaning that I’m overly athletic. I was a cheerleader. And, since I didn’t grow up in Texas, I wasn’t that kind of cheerleader. The average 1.5 cheerleading competitions my school attended every year were not of the caliber that made it onto ESPN. Heck, I don’t think that they even made the eleven o’clock local news. No, we pretty much just jumped up and down and screamed until we lost our voices. Good times. Cute outfits. Not overly athletic.

Ahhh…but church sports. It is only as I look back as an adult that I see just how much my competitive personality was sprouting there. My church had a very organized basketball program. We had a season. We had a schedule to play against the other congregations in the area. We held practices and ran plays.

If I remember correctly, we won the playoffs all six years that I played.

We played well together as a team (for the most part). But we were, ahem, aggressive. Actually, I remember one of the refs once yelling at us that we gave him more attitude than the boys. We regularly fouled out players. Heck, we intentionally did it when we thought a foul could get us an advantage. We’d just plan out who would do the fouling so as to lose the least important players for the remainder of the game.

I remember one week, showing up for a game despite the fact that I had been vomiting for three solid days prior. I was white as a sheet, could barely stay upright, and had lost about seven pounds from the puking. As it happened, several of our girls couldn’t make it to the game—I played, or we forfeited.

I didn’t take a break that whole game.

I really don’t play a lot of sports anymore, what with constantly being either pregnant or taking care of newborns for the past several years. So I don’t usually think about that weird competitiveness that comes out in me when I am doing something athletic.

It was a good thing I was pregnant tonight.

Our youth had a combined Young Men/Young Women activity this evening. They played indoor kickball. It is amazing that no one ended up with a concussion.

One of the young men playing the game decided to take an intimidation approach with the opposing team’s kickers. As soon as the ball was rolled, he would run right in front of and towards the kicker. Kicker after kicker would mess up out of fear of hitting him with the ball.

One of our leaders accidentally did peg him at one point. Her face showed sheer mortification and she repeatedly yelled “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” while running to first base. (Hmmmm…come to think of it, she did still run, so maybe she didn’t feel quite that bad after all.)

As I watched, I knew exactly how I would be inclined to react if it were me.

I just kept imagining stepping up to the plate and calmly explaining to that young man the point value I had assigned to his body parts. Five for a knee cap. Ten for the head. Just to make it clear that, should he choose to run in front of it, his proximity to the path of the ball would make absolutely no difference to me. Quite frankly, I’d see him less as a potential casualty and more as an interesting target. Because, when someone plays a game that way, it’s a challenge.

And I’m just that competitive.

 

 

And the people I go to church with are now questioning the wisdom of allowing me to work with the youth. 😉

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Filed under A Scary Look into My Mind, Church, The Me Behind the Mommy