Splish Splash

Ever wonder why my kids are almost always grimy and sticky? It's because I hate bath time. Hate it. Let me break it down.
Since Eric's still working the bitch shift, bath time falls on my shoulders if I want my kids to ever be anything resembling fragrant and, well, clean. Tate had two popsicles tonight, which means that the majority of said popsicles ended up on his face and hands. And hair, ears, knees, feet, and stomach. I had to suck it up and give the kid a bath. So I stuck Nora in her bouncy seat on the bathroom floor and threw Tate in the tub. Now, for some reason unbeknownst to me, he refuses to sit in the tub. Will not do it. Also, when we have to rinse the shampoo out of his hair, he screams bloody murder. I keep expecting the cops to show up at my door wondering who I'm torturing and slowly killing.
So Tate's wailing and hollering, which of course is amplified times 30 in our bathroom, which makes Nora start in too. I finally dump a few buckets of water over him and haul him out of the tub. Torture over. Then comes trying to dry him off and get his jammers on. Have you ever tried to grab a wet, naked two year old as he scampers by? It's like trying to get a hold of a greased pig. But I finally wrestled him to the floor and into a diaper. Good enough for now.
Nora's turn...and of course as I'm filling up the baby tub and transferring it from the tub to counter I spill a ton of water on the floor, which Tate proceeds to run onto and go flying. More screaming. So now I have a naked crying baby, a half-naked crying toddler, and a fully-dressed me who just wants to cry.

And it's official...

...I'm old. No longer in my 20s. I'm kinda not feeling so excited about this. Where did my 20s go? What did I accomplish? Yeah, yeah, I got married, had two kids...but what BIG things did I accomplish?
No, I kid. My kids are the best work I've ever done. Eric's got his good moments, too. I've trained that boy well. It's an ongoing process, however.
So we had some friends over last night. Let me compare my 30th birthday to my 21st. When I turned 21, I had about a billion shots of various types of alcohol, got completely shitfaced, and made Eric walk me around my street for about 2 hours because I was convinced I would die if I sat down. But he couldn't touch me, because his hand was "too hot" and would sear my flesh off. I explained all of this to him through tears and snot as I blubbered on and on for no reason. Then he took my contacts out, brushed my teeth and tucked me into bed. I woke up a few hours later on the couch with no idea how I got there. My mom set out breakfast for me the next morning...cereal and a jumbo sized bottle of aspirin.
Last night, we got a keg, about 16 people came over, we sat on the deck and chatted and laughed, sat around the firepit for a bit, and people started drifting back home around 10. Gotta pay the babysitter, ya know. Gotta get up with the kids the next day. I crashed around 11. Woohoo, am I a night owl party animal. The thing is, I enjoyed last night more than my 21st. Maybe it's the fact I can actually remember what happened and I didn't spend an hour at the toilet shouting soup into it. God, I am old.
Oh well. Next weekend I'm going to Chicago with some girlfriends. Hopefully I can redeem myself then. We're all planning on consuming copious amounts of alcohol and staying up late. So in our case, that means about 1 am or so. Rock on.

Just 'cause I wanna

Tell me this girl ain't cute

I notice that you're feeling frustrated

We went to go see a parenting coach give a speech last night on how to keep your kids from turning into homicidal maniacs. I found much of it interesting, but some of it...I don't know. Like, when my two-year old throws a fit over having to come inside and put pants on, I'm supposed to say "I understand that you prefer to hang free than contain yourself in a plastic diaper, and I know you're frustrated, but inside. Now." My kid doesn't care if I understand and empathize. He just wants to sun his booty outside and water the grass his own way. So I don't know. I'll try it. It's all about "internalizing" and "tagging". I think I'll take a lot of what she suggested and try and implement it, but not all of it. Like I liked how she suggested that when Tate belts another kid, to go fawn over the victim and ignore Tate so he doesn't get the attention he wanted. Although that'll work a lot better on kids that I know...I don't know if some random mama will want me picking up their kid and cooing over them.
So Nora keeps losing her hair. It's getting ridiculous. She's got the mohawk, then sideburns and a rat tail in back. She's got a bald ring around the back of her head. I'm either gonna have to shave her head or take her in to get extensions. Plus, sometimes she kinda looks like a boy. Her hair naturally does this comb-over style on top so it looks like she's channeling Donald Trump. So I usually put her in dresses, but then I think she kinda looks like a boy in a dress. She's still the cutest damn baby ever, though. I can't get enough of her. She's started laughing and it's the best noise. Plus she can roll over now and she always looks so stinkin' proud of herself after she's done it. Oh, and she can stick her toes in her mouth, which is always a good talent to have for later in life. I can fit my whole fist in my mouth. Take from that what you will.
So tomorrow I turn 30, and we're having friends over for a drinking session. I'm excited! We love entertaining friends at our place and it should be a good time. The next day, however, will probably not be so enjoyable. Eh, it's the price you pay. I gotta spit in the face of turning 30 somehow.
Next step, minivan.

Asshat?

The silence has broken. Tate is home and we're back to insanity. No more just sitting on the floor watching Nora coo and giggle and be so proud of herself for rolling over. The tornado has returned.
I drove to Wausau to meet my aunt Trisha and pick up Tate. The babysitter came to watch Nora, and I swear that as soon as that little baby saw the sitter, her little lip stuck right out and started quivering. Now, Tate had stranger anxiety early, but not at freakin' 3 1/2 months. I'm hoping she was just PMSing or something.
Anyway, Tate was asleep when they got there, and was NOT happy about being roused awake, especially since it was me doing the rousing. He opened his eyes, looked at me, panicked, and cried "Tisha? Tisha!!". Gee, thanks, kid. I'm glad to see you too. After a bit, he grudgingly let me hold him and kiss his little cheeks.
The ride home wasn't too bad, except Tate likes to point out the window at some vague spot in the distance and ask "What's that?" Only it toddler-ese, "what's that" sounds a lot like "asshat". So after about 20 minutes of playing "Asshat?", this is the gist of our conversation:

Tate: "Asshat?"
Me: "Uh, a tree"
Tate: "Tree. Asshat?"
Me: "A...porcupine?"
Tate "Cupine. Asshat?"
Me: "I don't know! I can't see what you're pointing at!"
Tate: "ASSHAT???? ASSHAT??"
Me: "RODNEY DANGERFIELD RUNNING NAKED IN A FIELD OF CLOVER!"
Tate: "...."

Wow. The kid was rendered speechless. But thanks to the big bag of Combos I gave him, he was a happy camper for the rest of the trip. He even shared with Mommy. Of course, he had to put the Combo in his mouth and suck the salt off before handing it over. Nice.
We got home and Tate decided instead of coming in to see Daddy and Baby he'd rather go watch the neighbor mow his lawn. I mean, it is pretty intriguing, but you'd think after not seeing dad for 5 days, he'd be all over that. Not so much.
He finally agreed to come inside and made a beeline for Nora and hugged and kissed her. I just about melted. Then he pinched her leg.
And life returns to normal.

My Three-Hour Drive With the Kids (Or: How to Drive Yourself Slowly Insane While Trapped in a Speeding Vehicle With Two Screaming Maniacs)

I took the kidlets to my aunt and uncle's cabin this weekend. Eric was golfing in Door County with his friend for the weekend (my birthday gift to him; yes I know I'm the best wife ever) so I was looking for a way to pass the weekend without ripping my hair out.
My aunt invited us to her cabin, and my mom said she would join us there too to help out. Great, right? Laying around on the dock, having Grandma and Great-Aunt Trisha chase after Tate and feed Nora...couldn't wait. Only problem was, I had to get there first.
I picked Tate up after daycare, figuring after 4 hours of running around he'd be nice and tired and sleep for at least part of the 3 and 1/2 hour drive. Oh, how wrong I was. How very, very wrong.

Things were good for about the first half hour. Then Tate decided to pass the time by singing "The Wheels on the Bus". Cute, right? After the 2000th verse, not so much. And who knew? The babies on the bus go "up and down." And the wipers on the bus go "AHHHHHHHHHHH". In case you couldn't figure that out, that's a high pitched scream at the volume of a train engine. Which somehow woke Nora up. I mean, it made me almost drive off the road and scream "WHAT THE FUCK?" so I guess it makes sense that the baby sitting a foot away from the ear-piercing shriek wakes up as well.

So now Nora's screaming. Tate's still singing. I'm starting to hyperventiate. We've been in the car for 45 minutes. I start chucking Cheezits, Fruit Snacks, pretzels, margaritas, Valium, etc, in the general direction of Tate in the backseat in a futile attempt to stop the madness. All I accomplished was getting him to swith from "The wipers on the bus go AHHHHHHHHHHH!" to "Old MacDonald had a AHHHH! E-I-E-I-AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!". Much better.

I finally pull over to feed the baby, since I realize that maybe the poor thing is hungry. I let Tate out of his carseat to crawl around on the front seat while I feed Nora, and he's in heaven, pushing buttons, flipping the visor, etc. His glee is short-lived though. He soon realized that if you pull on the door handle while leaning against the door, you fall out of the car. Is it bad that I laughed? Nora thought it was humorous too. She couldn't stop smiling, which is great, except she decided she'd rather smile than eat. So we were in the parking lot for about 30 minutes waiting for the kid to fill her gut.

We're cruising and all is going well when Tate starts saying "Water? Water?" Smart Mommy forgot to fill a sippy cup with water and I'm starting to realize with a sinking heart that there will be no peace on Earth till Tate gets his water. He seems to think that the louder he asks, the quicker the water will materialize before him, so it's not long before he's yelling "WATER WATER WATER". Over and over and freaking over again. Have I mentioned that he hasn't slept a wink yet? Nora keeps trying to but there's a screaming banshee about 3 inches away from her so that's not going so hot.

I finally pull over, find a gas station, run in, buy a bottle of water, and come back out, only to realize I've locked the keys inside my car. Oh, the kids are in there too. I honestly don't think I've ever felt panic quite like this before. I start banging on Tate's window, saying "Unlock the door, honey! Mama's got water! Unlock the door!" I'm knowing full well as I'm doing this that there is no way in hell the kid's gonna actually unlock the door. Until he does. Huh...whaddya know. The kid's a genius. An evil genius, yes, but genius nonetheless.

So Tate gets his water and sucks it down, and I feel guilty for making my two year old almost die of thirst. I mean, that's not so nice. So we go tooling down the highway again when I start to sniff the air. Oh, you know where this is going. Poop. Baby poop. So I freaking pull over AGAIN and open the door to haul Nora out to change her when I realize that the poo is all down her legs, all over her carseat, the ceiling, etc. Projectile poop at its finest. Four million wipes later, she is clean, stripped, and wedged back into her carseat. I'm settling back into the front seat when I hear "Mama? Poop! Change diaper!". Well, at least the kid didn't wait till I actually started driving again. I get out and do damage control on kid #2.

Tra la la. We're driving, and the end is in sight. We're off the highway and driving down all the little county roads when Nora decides that the sun shining directly in her eyes is simply not acceptable and starts screaming bloody murder at said sun, who decides to ignore her and continue shining in her face. Yes, we have a sunshade for the window. No, it wasn't in this particular car at the time. Tate starts saying "Baby! You're FINE! Stop, Baby! Noraaaa...you're FINE". Nora didn't agree. Scream scream scream.

I pull into the driveway of the cabin, bruised, battered and quivering, ready for a drink, a smoke and to be knocked unconscious for awhile, when I look in the backseat. Tate is sleeping. He literally fell asleep the moment we pulled into the driveway. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry so I just turned off my brain, collected the baby and went in to greet my relatives. Tate spent the rest of the weekend refusing to let me near him, since I wasn't Gigi (my mom) or "Tisha" (my aunt Trisha).

Is it any wonder that when my aunt offered to bring Tate home with her to Eau Claire for a few days, I threw Tate's clothes at her, said "Ithinkwe'realmostoutofwipesbuthehasplentyofdiapershelikescerealfruitandcheese", grabbed the baby, and ran out the door? I'll pick him up on Wednesday.

The really strange thing is I miss that little demon. A lot. I wonder if he misses me too.

The Devil Wears Osh Kosh B'Gosh

My dear husband has been working the bitch shift at work for the last three weeks. By bitch, I mean 3 pm-11pm. So he rolls out of bed around 11 am, chills with us for a bit, hops in the shower around 1 and leaves the house around 2 (he's got quite a drive). I feel like a single mother, and it ain't pretty. By about 5 pm I'm curled up in the fetal position in the corner babbling and staring at shiny pretty objects.

Tate is so freaking TWO. His new thing is grabbing spit out of his mouth and wiping on me. Or my neighbor. Or the UPS dude. Anyone, really. I try to teach my son to treat all people equally and it comes back to bite me in the ass. Just call him Lucifer, Jr. Oh, or Velcro Boy. That's another fun thing. Ever try to walk up the stairs with a basket of laundry in one arm, a 3-month-old in the other, and a 600 lb toddler hanging off your butt screaming "Up! Carryu!" Carryu means "Carry you", which in this case means "Carry me". Yeah, he gets a little confused.

Nora has started rolling over. I think she sees it as a way to escape her brother's clutches. The poor kid will be sprinting by the time she's 5 months. And will someone please tell her to stop losing all her hair?

Thank God for So You Think You Can Dance. Nothing like vegging on the couch, stuffing my face with a bowlful of popcorn, watching girls the size of a strand of my hair cavort around on stage in costumes the size of a piece of Kleenex. Next up is Project Runway, baby! Thank God for DVR. Am I a bad mom for rushing through my 395478th reading of "Slow Down, Thomas" to Tate so I could start watching SYTYCD sooner? I mean, the kid pretty much has it memorized anyway.

Where's my beer?

Oh, my aching....

Lookie! Another entry! I told you guys! Well, all one of you that read this thing.

So last night I had my good friend Jodi escape the clutches of her two small children and come over to hang. We ordered wings, sat out on the back deck, discussed life...and killed two bottles of wine. Dead. And yes, we knew as we were doing it that it would be sorely regretted the next day, but just didn't care. I also exposed her to the famous firepit gathering in my neighborhood, so it was fun watching her watching my insane neighbors. The I went home and staggered merrily into bed to fall into a deep, restful sleep.
Until 5 o'clock this morning. That's the time my dear, sweet daughter decided to start squawking and yelling for me to come pour some formula down her throat. I obliged, like any good mother would, and as I stared into her bright, happy, awake eyes through my bleary, crusty, hungover ones, I realized this kid was going to be up for awhile. And she was. Till about 7, when she finally decided to cut poor hungover Mom a break and take a little snooze. I put her down in her crib and sprinted to bed where I fell asleep before my head hit the pillow. Now I'm feeling a little blah, but nothing I can't handle. Come on, I'm a pro. I think putting away a nice Mexican lunch with my friend Gina will help too. Mmmm....grease. My favorite food group.
I'm never drinking again. Well, not until next weekend anyway.

Seriously, now.

Ok, I'm getting back into this. Mylast three posts have been somewhat...sporadic, yes? But I have all these experiences and stories that I keep thinking I should write down somewhere. Mostly because having two children seems to have robbed my brain of any memory-keeping ability whatsoever. What's my phone number again?
I've got two rugrats now. TWO. Tate is two, and I'm seriously pondering whether the Devil came and impregnated me one night, because this child seems to have devil horns hiding under his hair somewhere. He gets an unbelievable kick out of, well, kicking. Among other things, namely hitting, pushing, biting, scratching...all that good stuff. Kids see him coming and run the other way. Seriously. Not cool. But the little brat amazes me everyday with his smarts. He knows all his letters, can count to 20, knows colors, shapes, foods...oh, and then there's his complete and utter joy in shouting out "FUCK!" and "DAMMIT" everytime he drops something. He gave the blue hairs in Festival an earful the other day, I tell ya.
Nora is 3 months, and what an angel. She kind of looks like an Oompa-Loompa, though. She's got like these little wings of hair that curl out over her ears, then a curl on the top of her head. And since she's insisting on shedding all her other hair, it's a interesting new look. She's a trend-setter, what can I say. But that smile of hers warms my heart. Too bad Tate doesn't feel the same way.
This is all I have time to share today...don't worry, I'll be back sooner than two years from now. I'm currently being summoned upstairs to wipe up poo. Ah, the excitement.