Who was that moron?

Each day I wake up and decide how I am going to balance a 5 month old who needs consistent naps and trips to the buffet every three hours with a 2 year old who literally gets cabin fever and can't can't can't stop moving. Usually I time naps for Rosie with park adventures for the Kraken. My sweet baby girl sleeps peacefully whilst my son terrorizes some poor unsuspecting public play yard. Unfortunately, little miss diva emerges when her ideal outdoor temperature rises too high. Apparently we have reached maximum sweat allowance.

Today we went to the mall, which doesn't, by the way, have a play ground (who knew such a mall existed) so my son could walk around, socialize, flirt, possibly run and my diva could sleep in air conditioned comfort. Here's how that went . . .

(In order of appearance) -- Young toddler : evil laughter, delight, sprinting toward escalator, smiling, ecstatic. Diva : snoring, bliss, riding in very large double stroller, smiling, clueless. Momma : yelling, panic, pushing very large double stroller, sweating, worried.

I got to the escalator just one step fast enough to prevent disaster, but not before attracting the attention of everyone within a 20 foot radius. Some of whom I am certain decided to converse about my parenting skills.

We went home.

Time to Clean

Something about the vacuum brings both delight and fear to my son. Throughout the day, my son will point out specks of dirt and suggest we vacuum by performing an adorable weed whacker imitation complete with motions, followed by a yuck and a nod. Like, hello ma, don’t you think it’s about time we vacuumed this joint. Ok, fine. I have nothing better to do.

He will then rush to the closet in fits of laughter and drag the thing to me. As soon as I plug that sucker in however, life changes drastically. The Kraken becomes a hysterical whining mess as he scampers throughout the room to rescue all things near and dear to his heart from the floor. First the paci and blanket, next his books, then his toys and last but not least (I like to hope anyway) he attempts to rescue his sister, Rosie. Up onto the chair he leaps and mumbles to himself while the cleaning continues.

Clean floor. Vacuum off. The Kraken is back to his normal state of silly and takes the vacuum back to the closet scattering belongings as he goes. Rinse. Repeat. Multiple times a day. Mine are the cleanest floors in all the land. Thanks Mr. Kraken for seeing the dust that superman misses. You are the best.

Wanna take a dip?

A relaxing day at the pool a short few years ago is NOT the same day now after two children. Here are a few reasons why. . .

I traded my small yet tasteful bikini for a durable, comfortable albeit slightly unflattering one piece whose biggest draw is its ability to keep my large milk producing breasts from flopping out and scaring innocent children whilst I sprint after a fleeing toddler. (I tested a number of bathing suits by attempting to mimic the motion of sprinting in the dressing room before I forked over any cash.)

I didn’t often purchase sunscreen because I was never able to use the whole thing up before it expired. This summer we are on our 5th bottle of SPF 60 spray (for little bodies) and 2nd bottle of SPF 60 lotion (for little faces).

My packing list went from coke, towel and a good book to multiple cokes, towels, bucket of sunscreen, swimmies, diapers, wipes, changes of clothes, stroller, pop up tent (in case there is no shade for B Rose), snacks, milk, water, cooler for said snacks and drinks, water wings, ball, teething toys, pacifier, sunglasses and sun hats. Whew, I’m tired and I haven’t even gotten to the pool yet.

A very even tan obtained by flipping over every 30 minutes has been replaced by bronze face, shoulders, neck, tops of arms and fronts of legs. The backs of my legs and undersides of my arms look to be stuck back with old man winter and are certainly craving a little face time with mister sunshine, but I just don’t have time for even baking, The Kraken wants to swim.

I could wear my trusty bikini year after year because sunbathing isn’t a contact sport. Its unflattering one piece successor will have to be replaced, possibly midsummer, because swimming with a toddler is a rough and tumble activity. Turns out sitting on the side or bottom of the pool, is not healthy for bathing suit material. I have so many snags on the bum region that sooner or later my behind is just going to come bouncing out. A horrible thought, I know.

I could go whole summers without that helpless sinking feeling coming just after an ambush splash that I had just lost a contact. Ever wonder what it’s like to be blind as a bat? I rediscover this joy every morning I wake and stumble to the bathroom for contacts. Each and every day at the pool with my kids has me panicking as I search for a contact in my eye. Thankfully I haven’t yet actually lost one. Maybe I should add extra contacts to my packing list. Oh, and that ambush splasher is now my son.

My pool and sunbathing life, I admit has totally changed, but watching the joy on that little guy’s face as he jumps with such bravery and trust into the water is way beyond worth all the sagging, dragging, snagging and mooning that comes along with it. I am after all a sap at heart.

The General

My husband. My better half. What can I say about the General? For one thing he likes to be entertained at all times. His idea of relaxation is a quick marathon or a day of running errands or a trip to the zoo with two kids or hosting a party for 100 of his closest friends. Mine is a nap.

When I first started talking about writing more consistently, my husband was totally on board and supportive. He is one of the biggest reasons I decided to take the blogging plunge. I guess he just didn’t realize that I wouldn’t be the best conversationalist or activities director while writing.

During a recent car trip, after about 20 minutes and 300 interruptions, I said something to the effect of, “It is impossible for what is left of my brain to write witty stories and talk at the same time.” To which he responded . . .

“Turns out I love you so much I can’t ignore you.” Don't I just feel like a jerk.

Hickey

I hate hickeys. Hate. Loathe entirely. Never given one. Never received one . . . until yesterday. We were at the water park. No I’m not kidding.

Baby B Rose was hungry, so I left my son in the capable hands of my husband to ride slide after slide after slide and retreated to our claimed shaded area. On the way Rosie decided to latch onto my shoulder and suck. I didn’t really thing anything of it. I got everything situated enough that I could feed my daughter and not flash anyone, when I noticed a mark on my right clavicle. My first hickey. Hooray.

And for the record, it is really hard, nay impossible to cover a hickey while wearing a bathing suit.

Back Up Back Up Back Up

We call our son, The Kraken. He’s 2. The kind of 2 that doctors write books about telling parents how to deal. The kind of 2 that will send a man to the doctor for a little snip snip if you catch my drift. The kind of 2 that would have made him an only child if little B. Rose wasn’t already here. I’m not here to complain. I love The Kraken, just giving some necessary background info.

Every evening my husband and I flop exhausted onto the sofa and brainstorm ways of sucking energy from our darling son. In all honesty, part of the reason we chose our new apartment was due to the pool. Everyone is tired after a day at the pool, right? We moved in two weeks ago and in those two weeks have been to the chlorine hole at least 12 times. (It has rained twice in 14 days.) My laundry room is more of a bathing suit staging area with suits hanging in various stages of dry. The Kraken loves the pool. He goes to bed asking to “wim” and wakes asking to “wim.”

The first day he was content to sit on the first step and watch the others splash about, but my husband isn’t really a ‘sit and watch’ sort of man. He took my baby into the deep end, dunked his head, threw him into the air and worse, all while my firstborn screamed, said “No tank you daddy,” and occasionally cried. Oh, was I going to wring his neck! That’s my baby.

Then the switch flipped one afternoon while momma and the baby were inside taking a nap. The Kraken started holding his own head underwater, leaping from the edge and telling daddy to ‘back up back up back up’ until daddy was far enough away that my son would go under water first before being pulled up from the depths. Sometimes he would even shout “Dare Devil” as he jumped (no doubt a suggestion from daddy). He would then climb the ladder, turn to the nearest sunbathing beauty, smile, wave and calmly state “Dare Devil” (no doubt something he decided would be beneficial to his future all on his own). My baby, The Kraken, The swimmer, The Flirt.

No Jumping on the Bed

I bought my son a blue twin bed at a second hand furniture store. I love it. I don’t however love the idea that my son is big enough to even think about putting him in the bed. But the new baby in the house should at some point be moved from the pack-n-play and into a crib, lest we get to a therapy session in 18 years entitled ‘mom and dad never loved me and here’s why.’ We will get there, I assure you, but I would like to at least screw everything up later rather than sooner. So, when I saw the bed at a price point even I can appreciate (yep, I said it, I’m CHEAP), I snatched it up.

I did at one point see the bed put together. I think I even sat on it. But somewhere between the land of unwanted furniture, the garage where I stored it for 2 months and my new apartment, something happened. And by happened I mean a large chunk of wood was suddenly missing from the ever important screw receiving area. My husband and dad didn’t seem alarmed (my first clue) and continued in the assembly. A short trip to Home Depot (clue number 2) and a bit of drilling later (there's number 3), the bed was up and solid.

I was so excited about the new sheets (dinosaurs in blue, green and orange, ROAR!), I didn’t really think about the supplies still littered on the carpet: screws, drill, dowels, . . . saw, wood glue, metal plates. I looked slowly up at my father who gave me a sheepish grin and said “maybe you should list the bed with the apartment when you choose to move out.” Like I said, solid.

Ouch

Perhaps I am a glutton for punishment. Perhaps I just want to please people. Perhaps my two-year-old gets so bored in stagnant surroundings that I will try anything once if it gets us out of the house. Whatever the reason, I decided to take my son and my 3 month old daughter to an amusement park for the day, with much help from my father, stepmom and sister. (I may be a glutton, but I am not suicidal.)

I couldn’t help but hum random bits of Beach Boy songs as we entered the water park and situated ourselves in front of the toddler wading pool. I immediately sent out a huge hallelujah as we found vacant chairs in the shade. Still, slathering sunscreen on all visible parts and a few hidden parts of my two-year-old seemed like the best course of action. Nothing screams “Horrible Momma” like a crispy fried toddler on the day after. Finally, after many protests and odd squirming he slipped from my greasy clutches to go swim with grandpa. My daughter was next, and even though she wasn’t even going to sniff the sun if I had my way, she too got a super-sonic coating of SPF.

For the next 3 hours I alternated between happy go lucky water frolicker and anal retentive sunscreen applier. My efforts appeared to pay off as my babies had fun without any visible evidence that their skin had seen the light. This thrilled me as I am bound and determined that they keep that baby soft, unblemished deliciousness until they graduate high school and make their own choices. I am nothing if not delusional.

After a much too expensive lunch from a much too long line of starving slightly sun burnt people, we ventured over to the amusement part of the amusement park and began to ride rides. Armed with hats and more applications of sunscreen, my son and daughter squealed with delight on the merry-go-round, trucks, planes, helicopters and something called ‘Sally’s seaplane,’ which my son refused to ride with anyone but grandpa (who incidentally gets a little seasick on anything that goes in circles).

Another three hours of delight and it was time to call it a day. Momma was exhausted. The B Man was getting ornery (a sure sign of fatigue), and my sunscreen bottle was dangerously low on fuel. I trekked out to the car, loaded the kids and all their crap, said goodbye to the rest of my family and slid into the driver’s seat. An odd and unpleasant feeling struck both my back and my brain. . .

Surely during all the sunscreen applications to my children I had remembered to apply some to myself, right? Apparently not. Three days later and I still can’t carry my diaper bag, or lay on my back or comfortably wear a bra (much to the chagrin of my mother and step-father who we are temporarily living with). My back is a fire engine tomato red that only 6 hours in the sun can create. A firm believer in sun protection receives a terrible burn. Who does that? Me. I do that.

Bad Bad Bad

My son has a very dramatic way of explaining the world through a series of signs (taught to him by his aunt), motions, dance moves and a limited verbal vocabulary. One evening he was very adamant about telling momma a story. Here’s what I got . . .

“YaYa, me,” marching with high knees from garage door to coffee table, spin in circle, “No diapu,” points to botton, jump, squat, jump, squat, bicep curls, raises hand as if being sworn in, “Bad, Bad, Bad,” points down to carpet, preforms sign for potty.

I guess that explains the puddle.