A Taffy Chaser and Breast Pads

You know when you have that moment when you realize your life is nothing like you thought it would be. And you wonder to yourself- "Who am I and how in the world did I get here?"  And then you can't quite tell if you are seriously winning or seriously in need of a one way plane ticket.

This was one moment:

Me to Cory (while sitting in the passenger seat of the car with two pounds of saltwater taffy on my lap): "Do you want a piece of taffy?"

Cory: "Sure."

Me: "Here is a green one. It's a little sour, so I have a vanilla one here as a chaser."

It was then that I stopped and realized that I offered my spouse a "taffy chaser."  How did I get here? I used to be the girl who could beat anyone in a keg stand and now I'm in need of a chaser for my taffy.  I mean, I used to chase beer with cookies, so not much has changed, but really, taffy?  When did I get here?

Here is another:
The other night, I found myself and my four year old little nugget playing a game entitled, "How many breast pads can I fit in my pocket."  I think the title speaks for it's self.  But again, how did I get here? I mean, am I prepared for the birth of my child? Yes.  Am I #cool? Not so much. (Ya, Ya, I know. I can't really pull off the hashtag stuff.  Well, technically it's a pound sign, but whatever.)

On a side note, we are 30 days away from our due date, unless we are going with the word of my psychic who believes baby Rev will be born on January 16th.  And frankly, why wouldn't I believe the psychic?

Is It An Earthquake? Is The Floor Collapsing? No, It's...

So, I thought I would share this embarrassing pregnancy moment with you, because, well frankly, nothing really embarrasses me at this point. 

So last Friday, Chase randomly spent the night at his grandma’s house, and I am a hunting widow, so I thought: Hey, why don't I do something crazy. Like go shopping by myself. You know, like actually browse Walmart without having to dodge the toy aisle, having to run someone to the bathroom every few minutes or having my child beg and beg for something.  And sometimes Chase begs for toys too.  So I was stoked for this.  And no, I don’t feel that being this excited to venture on an independent trip to Walmart to pick out shampoo in peace is pathetic.  If you would have asked me five years ago, sure.  I would have thought this was extremely pathetic, especially on a Friday night.  But that was before I pushed an 8 and a half pound nugget out of my vagina. 

So here I am, pushing a shopping cart through Walmart when I feel a vibrating feeling.  I pulled out my phone from my back pocket, but it wasn’t ringing.  I didn’t think much of it, put my phone back in my pocket and moseyed along my journey. 

I took a few steps and I felt the vibrating sensation again.  Again, I took out my phone to check to see if there was a call. But nothing.  I continued to waddle along as I felt the same vibration continue.  Now, I was starting to get worried.  I looked around to see if anyone else was reacting to this vibrating feeling.  Was there an earthquake?  Was the floor going to cave in?  But no one around me seemed to be concerned, so along I trotted. 

Until, it happened again.  It was this time that I figured out what this vibrating feeling was…. It was (dun, dun, dun) my thighs rubbing together! (Gasp).  Now, don’t get me wrong, I have never been one to be concerned, whatsoever, about my weight (or anyone else’s weight) but I find it somewhat pathetic that I actually considered that there was an earthquake in Minnesota, in November, before I considered that my 40 pound weight gain could be effecting the way I walk, or waddle. 

So here I am with ten weeks left of my second, and last, pregnancy, ( Yeah, yeah, I know I said that last time.  But this time I really mean it.) without the ability to control when and where I urinate and without a thigh gap.  So I did the only thing I could think of doing…. I went through the Arby’s drive thru and feasted on a hearty roast beef sandwich and curly fries, with extra Arby's sauce, of course. 

Anywho, Happy Tuesday! 

Dad Farts, Lipstick

So the other night, Chase, Cory and I were snuggling in our bed before we tucked Chase into his own bed for the night.  Our baby started kicking and Chase put his hand on my stomach to feel the gigantic kicks.  Chase feels one kick, giggles and says, “Our baby likes to stay in there (meaning my stomach).”  He then continues, “I wanted to stay in your stomach for a long time too.  They had to suck me out.  It’s because I was so warm in there, and I know Dad farts out here.” 

Isn’t it funny how you think for one second that you are having a sentimental moment with your child and then in the next second they goes all adolescent on you?  

On a side note:

This is something I thought I would never say, but yet again, as a parent you can never say never (about anything):

“Chase, it’s time to brush your teeth and wash the lipstick off of your lips before bed.” 

Any who, Happy Halloween Folks!

Magnifying Glass and Random Strangers Cheering

You know when you have one of those moments that you just stop and think, “Huh, how did I get here?”  Well, last night, I had one of those moments.

Chase was sitting on the bathroom counter socializing with me while he brushed his teeth as he felt a drip of water fall onto his hand.  He asked, “Where did this come from?” I replied, “I think it came from your mouth.” Not satisfied with that answer, he perked his tiny little head up towards the ceiling and said, “Nope. I think the ceiling is leaking.”  

Right child, because that seems more logical than you speaking a mile a minute and foamy toothpaste spit landing on your hand.  But whatever, like most things, I’ll humor this too.

I watched as my tiny fellow, in dinosaur footsie pajamas, climbed down from the counter, grabbed the bathroom step stool and hurled it up onto the counter. He then pulled his tiny little body back up onto the counter and stood on the stool with his eyes on the ceiling.  He then reached his hand down to me and said, “magnifying glass.” As if he were a doctor asking for surgical tools to be handed to him during the middle of surgery.  

Without even thinking I ran to the living room, grabbed the magnifying glass, scurried into the bathroom and handed my tiny surgeon his tool.  It was when he was inspecting the ceiling for a phantom water leak, magnifying glass in hand, that I took a step back and thought, “Huh, how did we get here and how did I know where a magnifying glass was off the top of my head?” But continued on with the night.  Needless to say, Chase never found the leak and came to the conclusion that maybe he did, in fact, spit on himself.  Strange.

Another "How did I get here moment:" 

The other day Chase and I were at a park by our house.  The park has a black ledge going around the play area in hopes of keeping the tiny pebbles in the actual play area and not on the grass, or in a toddler’s nose.  Any who, while Chase was climbing on the jungle gym, of course, I took this opportunity to use the black ledge as a balance beam. Because what other grown adult wouldn’t?  The play area was quite large, so I knew this was a challenge, but I was up for it (And frankly, what else did I have to do?).  I started my balancing act slowly and cautiously but quickly grew confident and picked up the speed.  I was within two yards of the finish line and I felt my pregnant belly start leaning towards the left.  I quickly shifted my body to the right to correct it, fully equip with arms flailing but in this moment of panic I caught my fall.  While I was taking a second to collect myself to continue on my road to success, I hear a faint clapping in the distance and then I hear a voice yelling, “Yay! Nice save!” Apparently, I hadn’t noticed a family of five sitting on their front lawn in lawn chairs watching the circus that is my life.  And to this day, I can’t tell if I was embarrassed or proud.  Huh, I wonder where my child gets his quirky personality? I guess we will never know.     

Any who, speaking of random strangers cheering… (Who has two stories about random strangers cheering for you?  Apparently, I do.)

Well, when I was in college, my family and I were helping someone clean out a house before selling it when I hear a faint magical sound in the distance.  I looked at my dad and we both knew the sound. It was (dun-dun-dun) the Ice Cream Truck!  It sounded far away but I had a hankering for an ice cream sandwich and believed in myself, so off I scurried.  I ran and I ran and just when I didn’t think my Jello feeling legs could take me any further through the trailer court I was now running through, I got the inspiration I needed; a group of middle school aged boys.  They were gathered on the side of the street.  One of the boys yelled out, “Run, white girl, run.” And then they all began to chant this.  So naturally, at this point most people would have been too embarrassed to continue, but not me. My love for ice cream treats is real.  So, I kicked it up a notch and made it to the ice cream truck right before it was about to drive off, huffing and puffing, only to realize I didn’t have any cash on me (haha Just Kidding, that would have been so disappointing).  I bought my ice cream treat, turned around to head back and immediately thought, “Sh*t, now I still have to walk 5 blocks to get back and pass my cheering section again.” 

Any who, happy almost Friday! 

A Boob Explorer and Dreadful Urination

So you know how you teach your child to speak, and then you regret it, like daily?  Well, I regret teaching my child to speak. Like at all.

This past weekend we were camping with Cory’s family and Chase was playing outside with some of Cory’s aunts.  Mid-play, Chase walked up to one of Cory’s aunts and nonchalantly says, “You have nice boobs” and then struts away as if he throws out this compliment all of the time.  Everyone looked around semi-horrified and burst out laughing.  Chase looked at me, shrugged his little four-year-old shoulders and asked, “What?” As if this is something he thinks about all of the time.

When Cory returned from 4-wheeling, I told him about the compliment Chase hurled at his aunt.  Without any hesitation Chase pipes in and adds, “What? I’m a boob explorer.” 

So Cory is quite proud that our son is a hunter; a cougar hunter that is.    

(Insert the look of desperation and shame on my face right about now.)

On a completely unrelated note:

So I am 20 weeks into my second pregnancy and boy do first and second pregnancies differ, for a number of reasons. Let me share with you, my top 4 reasons why these pregnancies are different.  (Because 5 would be too predictable and conformist.)

#1. Peeing.  The thought of peeing yourself during a sneeze, a laugh or jumping, sounds horrendous during your first pregnancy.  You wouldn’t be caught dead telling anyone you accidentally urinated on yourself and now, with a second pregnancy, you just learn to wear two pairs of underwear at once, because a little urine is unavoidable and frankly, saves you a restroom trip.  Anyone on my speed dial gets daily texts that read: "Yup, peed myself 3 minutes ago."  Count yourself lucky if you don't have my digits.

#2.  Your growing belly. During your first pregnancy, you wear maternity clothes way before you start showing, in the hopes that you may look pregnant and cute.  This time around, I had to start wearing maternity clothes by week 6.  Not so cute when you have gained 30 pounds in four months.

#3. The delivery.  During my first pregnancy, I was scared for myself during delivery.  The thought of an 8 ½ pound baby emerging itself from your lady parts seemed terrifying (and a little disturbing when it’s put like that). This pregnancy, I am scared for my sleepy self after delivery.  Heck, being in a hospital hooked up to pain medication sounds like a treat and the perfect napping scenario.  Why didn’t I take advantage of that the first time around? Silly, Jayme. I’ll know better this time.

#4. Age.  My goodness, when did I get so old?  During my first pregnancy I felt like I could run marathons.  Okay, well maybe not marathons but I could at least stay awake past 8 pm.  Now, by the end of the evening, I don’t even want to walk to my bedroom.  I understand that I was younger when I was pregnant with Chase.  But only 5 years younger, not five decades younger.  I often find myself panting after a trip to the fridge and showering seems like an unreachable goal.

Any who, this is the week we (hopefully) get to find out the gender of our second little nugget.  We have decided to take Chase with to the ultrasound in hopes of reminding him that I am not not, in fact, going to give birth to a puppy, or his snail that died a few weeks ago.

Happy Tuesday!

Chase isn't only a fan of lady parts, but also art projects. This was his project from today. 

After our long weekend at the cabin.  The boys needed a nap. Rough life, huh?

You Know It's Time To...

Things I have learned this week:

You know it's time to... shave your legs when your child uses your leg as a scratching post to itch his mosquito bites.  

You know it's time to... start making some serious life changes when your husband says he's going to take the treadmill out and my first thought was, "oh, you're going to sell it" instead of getting it out to actually exercise. 

You know it's time to... intervene when your husband is in charge of bath night and you find your child and husband outside with the garden hose. 

Just a typical "bath night" at the Revermanns.  

A Baby, A Puppy, And A Salami Sandwich

So now, our family and friends, the Facebook world, the woman cleaning the bathroom at Walmart, Chase’s dentist, and all of the other people Chase has randomly blurted it out too, know we are expecting a baby early next year.  To say Chase is excited is a complete understatement.  

It’s no secret that Chase has wanted a “baby of his own” for some time now.  He hasn’t been very discrete about it, especially when he wished for a baby before he blew out the candles at his fourth birthday party.  It was sweet, but pathetic, very pathetic.  When we found out we were expecting a few months ago, we were so delighted to tell Chase.  Here was our conversation:

Me: “Chase, we are finally getting a baby.”

Chase: “I’m so happy; I hope it comes out a puppy.”

Forehead smack.

Chase has also been pondering what we should name our new family member.  So far, after we vetoed Chasey Jr. (a number of times), Chase has decided that if we have a girl, her name will be Pretty Pretty and if we have a boy, his name will be Salami Sandwich. Hmm, I think, as for now, he is off the naming committee.

So, as it turns out, we were not one and done.  Maybe two and we’re through?  J

Belly Button and a Finger

My child and I spend a significant amount of time together.  We can go weeks at a time being side by side (except for some bathroom trips), hip to hip, playing Legos and painting and reading books.  With this being said, you can imagine that most of my conversations are not that (how do I say this nicely?)… in-depth? Intelligent?  You pick.  So when I think a conversation may go knee deep, I jump right in.  But don’t worry; my nugget always finds a way to bring it back to the surface. 

The other day, Chase asked me why everyone has a belly button.  And I grasped at the chance to discuss this. I told him that the umbilical cord is a flexible tube that carries food and oxygen to a baby while in the mother’s stomach.  And when the baby comes out, it no longer needs the umbilical cord since the baby can breathe and eat on its own.  Then the umbilical cord then dries up and falls off and then you have a belly button.  (To be quite honest, I was quite impressed with my ability to rattle this off the top of my head without even Googling it. This went way better than our “hangy ball” discussion.  I looked it up later and that body part turns out to be called a uvula and it’s not actually called the hangy ball in the back of your throat.  But I didn’t want to lose all credibility with my child, so he still calls his uvula a hangy ball.)

Chase looked at me horrified and said, “Eww. That’s gross.  I wonder how far I can stick my finger in mine.”  He then proceeded to lift up his shirt and shove his finger, nail deep into his belly button.  

Any who, Happy Friday!

Our First Hospital Trip and Rolling Down the Windows

So about two weeks ago we had an eventful night.  Chase went to bed as usual.  Cory and I woke up around 1:30am to a strange sound in Chase’s room.  We ran in there to find Chase, awake gasping for breath.  Without even thinking, we grabbed Chase, still in his Scooby-Doo pajamas without shoes or underwear on, threw him into the car and drove to the Emergency Room. While on the way to the hospital he developed a strange barking cough in-between gasps for air.   

Luckily, we live close to the hospital so the dash to the ER was short.  We ran our little nugget inside and they rushed us back to a room where a doctor met us and assessed the situation.  Chase was so panicked that he followed all instructions and was a great patient- at this point.  (We are actually contemplating telling Chase he is dying when we have his 5 year check-up next year to save us some humiliation and win some cooperation from him.  That wouldn’t be bad parenting would it? I guess I have almost a year to tackle that moral dilemma.)  It turns out that Chase had developed Croup. (Croup is an infection of the upper airway, generally in children, which obstructs breathing and causes a characteristic barking cough.) The treatment for this is a nebulizer.  As you can imagine, my precious little nugget was less-than impressed with this and in true Chase fashion, this experience was anything less-than normal.  As it turns out, I ended up doing the nebulizer treatment on him in the hospital bed because the nurse was laughing too hard to hold the devise properly.  According to the nurse, She,“had never seen a child try to ninja kick a nebulizer attached his to his face before.”  Strange.

(On a side note: Sitting in the hospital really makes you start wishing you didn’t let your child win so many battles. Ex: While there, I kept wishing that I had actually made my child wear underwear to bed, or pajamas that fit, or cleaned out his ears this month.  Or that you actually wore a bra to bed that night.  You know, those totally rational things that are appropriate to be thinking about when your child is gasping for breath.) 

Anywho, one day resting at home with Mommy and Daddy did the trick and he was up harassing life again in no time.   

Doesn't everyone take a selfie at the hospital nowadays? Apparently Chase needs a "snacky snack" at 3 am and I am overly perky.  Poor Cory. 

On a completely unrelated note: While Chase and I were driving in the car the other day, I asked him if he wanted his window rolled down.  His response: “No, I didn’t fart.”  Apparently in our family, we only roll down windows if someone passes gas.  And looking back, that may be accurate.

Michael Jackson and My Toilet

So, my child and I have been talking sanitation for a while.  We have countless discussions, daily, about washing our hands.  Chase strongly feels that he shouldn't have to wash his hands after he goes to the bathroom because he can unzip his pajamas and urinate without even touching his man jewels.  And while I find this to be talent, I do not find it to be sanitary.  It took me a while to come up with the reason, “But you still touch the handle to flush the toilet and that is dirty,” to win the conversation. 

But of course Chase had a rebuttal, “Why don’t you wash the handle.” Although, I do try to keep a tidy home, I don’t wash down the toilet handle after every use.  I simply told him I don’t have time to do that. 

So yesterday morning, I hear my child’s bedroom door open, I hear him trot into the bathroom and unzip his pajamas.  I gave him a minute of privacy and then went into the bathroom to check on him and BOOM… What did I find?  My child wearing a frickin’ mitten on his “flushing” hand.  

That’s right, my child would rather resort to a Michael Jackson look-a-like than wash his hands after going to the bathroom.  And all he said to me was, “Looks like I don’t have to wash my hands.”  And yeah, the kid was kinda right, he didn’t need to wash his hands.  I hung my head in shame, for many reasons, as I walked out and closed the door behind me. Hoping that if I closed the door quickly enough, that shameful encounter didn't really happen.

Strangely enough, the thing I am pondering the most about this whole situation is; I don’t even know where the mitten came from and where its match is.  

Superhero Qualities

With Mother’s Day quickly approaching, I can’t help but think of all of the qualities Mothers’ poses.  We truly are Superheroes! Here are some of my Superhero qualities:

-I have impeccable eyesight:  Believe it or not, I can tell, with just one look (even from across the park), that my child has to poop and we need to skedaddle.  Some may not think this, in fact, is a superhero quality. Those people don’t have children. 

-I have the ability to be invisible: You know, when your child is the one acting out at the playground.  I’m super great at being incognito at these times.  You know, when all of the other moms are looking at each other making eye contact trying to figure out whose child is the one being unruly.  One of my talents is looking blankly back at them and shrugging my shoulders, all while pretending to scan the crowd of people pretending to look for that “unruly” child’s mother.  Then leaving shamelessly an hour later holding my “unruly” child’s hand as we skip to our car, blissfully; none the wiser. 

-I have the memory of an elephant:  Yeah, elephants have great memories, right?  Well, anyway I have a memory similar to some animal that has a great memory.  I have the ability to remember almost anything.  Well anything that has something to do with my child.  Ask me what my social security number is or what I had for lunch today and I will draw a blank.  But ask me to name every Teletubbie or when the last time my child pooped was and I can name them all.  I could even tell you what my child’s feces looked like, smelt like, the consistency of it and when I think he will relieve his bowels again.  If that isn't a superhero quality, I don’t know what is.   

-I have the ability to read minds:  The more this “Mother” title is on my resume; the better I am at reading minds.  Well, maybe not everyone’s minds, just my child’s.  For instance, I know three seconds before he tries to whip out his man jewels to urinate on a tree at the park.  I know in enough time to swoop in and swat his hands away from his waistline in the hopes that he won’t have to register as a sex offender at the sweet age of four.  I can also tell three seconds before my child tries to give someone a titty twister (or penny spinner as my child calls them nowadays).  Unfortunately, that is usually three seconds too late and there is nothing I can do (Well there is, this is when I call on my invisibility talent).

-I have excellent self-esteem: Although many people are self-confident in their parenting, I believe becoming a parent made me more confident in myself and in my decisions.  I mean, I had to become confident, I had no choice.  Do you know how many times a day I hear things like, “How come your butt is squishy?” Or my personal favorite: “How come my boobs are bigger than yours?”  If I hadn't built up my self-esteem, I may have ended it years ago. 

On serious note (I know, I can totally be serious once every four years): I do have a great life being my Little Nugget’s Mommy and I do know that I have a pretty sweet gig, especially since I get to work from home and enjoy my child more than most.  I think Chase described it perfectly the other day when we were in the car on our way to Target (Because honestly, don’t all of the best memories happen when you are on your way to Target?).  Chase was in the backseat, strapped into his car seat with his hands stretched behind his head, relaxing, and he looked at my reflection in the mirror and said, “Mom, it’s great that I have this life.”  (On a side note: this philosophical side of Chase ended just as quickly as it came; we ended up leaving Target prematurely due to a tantrum. Like one of those “that lady must be abducting that child” sort of tantrum.  Come on Mommies, you know the level of tantrum I’m talking about.)  

Happy Mother’s Day to all of the other Mommy Superheroes out there, and to anyone who fills that motherly role for anyone.  

My Nugget; wrapping fake presents for his imaginary pets.  I couldn't tell if this activity was cute or a cry for help. Either way, I got a half smile out of him for the picture. 

Kindergarten Screening, Forehead Smack.

So yesterday my beloved Chasey had his kindergarten screening.  (On a side note he isn't going to school until fall 2016.)  I registered Chase for this awhile ago and have been stressing ever since. Since my child didn't do stellar at his 4 year check up I thought we were doomed for his kindergarten screening.  Turns out, we were only slightly doomed. In all honesty, my child did great and I was proud of him. But in true Chase fashion, his appointment (or school meeting, as we described it to Chase) had us laughing, and shaking our heads, many, many (many) times.  

Anyone who knows me, knows that I can be somewhat of an anxious Annie. And this appointment didn't leave me without anxiety.  I was up the night before with stomach aches hoping that all went well for my child, but most importantly, for the poor person conducting the screening. I hoped and prayed there wouldn't be tears (on anyone's part) or foul words thrown in all directions (again from anyone. Especially my child). In an attempt to make this appointment go smoothly for everyone involved, we spent weeks talking about it, reading books about school and bribing. Yes, I did say bribing.  Chase had a "big toy" on the line. 

I fear for when my child has his first college interview. If I was this much of a mess for his kindergarten screening, I can't imaging the amount of medication I will need to be on for that day.  Cory said that he doesn't think I would be allowed in any college interview.  Silly Cory, he doesn't know how persistent I can be.  

As soon as we walked into the school we were greeted at the door. The woman conducting the screening asked Chase to step on the scale. And of course my child got tears in his eyes and refused. My heart sank. I thought the whole appointment would be doomed and he would only be able to attend kindergarten in the fall of 2023.  But, of course this woman had seen this before and invited chase to start his day off with "playing games" instead. (Silly Chase, they weren't games, they were tests masked by blocks, pictures and drawings.  Well played school district. Well played). Chase did great throwing bean bags on target (of course Cory's proud parenting moment.  For some reason he feels his years, well decades really, of playing bean bags in the backyard, with bud light in hand, has served a purpose.), correctly naming items, drawing shapes, and building block towers. When the woman handed chase a pencil and said, "Please write your name."  Chase grabbed the pencil and replied, "I'd rather draw a rock." So draw a rock he did.  I felt my entire body start to sweat.  Luckily, I had worn black (on purpose) so my pit stains from anxiety wouldn't show throw my shirt.  Although I wish I had a hankie to wipe the sweat beads from my forehead.  Those are harder to hide.  Chase wrote a letter or two from his name and moved on. (On a side note, I debated pulling out my phone and showing the lady a picture of Chase writing his name, so she did, in fact, know that he can write his name, but opted against it because I didn't want to be "that parent", although deep down, I am totally "that parent.") 

The woman also asked Chase what his full name was. Chase said, "Chase Charles." I was glad we dodged the "Chasey" bullet on this one. She asked Chase what his last name was and he replied, "It's a secret." Ok, child. You're not a spy. People can know your last name. My child happily spouted out his birthday with no problem, but his last name he would like to keep private.

Then we get to the last portion if the testing; critical thinking. Damn. I was worried and happy at the same time.  Worried because critical thinking could turn into a disaster with my nugget and happy that the hour long testing was almost done.  The woman testing pulled out a picture of a kitchen.  The lady said, "What is something that starts with the "b" sound?" Chase spotting a bug flying and pointed that out. She said, "Good Job." The women then said, "I see a fork laying on the floor. What should we do with it? (Trying to get Chase to say to pick it up.) Chase then replied, "I would use it to kill the bug." The lady didn't know what to say.  Cory and I both looked at each other horrified. The lady then said, "Is there something else you would do with it?" Chase replied, "Nope. I would still use it to kill the bug."  The woman scribbled something on her testing workbook and as a reflex I glanced to see what she wrote. It simply said, "kill bug." I just sat back in my chair and thought, "F**k." That's right. My child's school screening workbook actually contains the word, "kill" in it. Awesome. 

After this, Chase completed the vision and hearing screenings. Yeah, I know. I was a bit shocked (and proud) too. Then to complete the meeting, he put on his big boy panties and stepped in the scale. He knew this was a big moment. He looked over at me and said, "Looks like I get a big toy." The woman, without even looking up from her chart and says, "Oh, did you make a deal." Not as a question, but a statement. I replied, "We sure did." While thinking to myself, stop judging lady. You have no idea how this meeting could have went down.  

Cory and I walked out of the school high-5ing each other because we did know how this could have went down... But didn't.  We then headed to Target and Chase picked out a big toy. Best $49.99 I've ever spent. 

"Mom, take a picture of me."

Chase shooting a paintball gun. Because, what four year old doesn't?

Rabbit Poop, New Style of Measuring, and Jelly Beans

So I'm almost a year into doing daycare and I have learned one thing: my child can sometimes be the most difficult child. The biggest challenge of my day is when parents pick up their kiddos at the end of the day, for no other reason than I don't know what is going to come out of my child's mouth or what he is going to do when other parents are here.  And of course the last thing you want is for a parent, who is essentially letting you help raise their child, questioning your parenting style, because your own child is, let’s say, quirky. Let me share a few examples of my humiliation with you...

-So a couple of weeks ago, we were playing outside when parents picked up. All was going well until I was chatting with the last parent of the day. My backyard is fenced in and very child proofed so I let my own four year old wander the yard (kind of like a cow in a pasture). Unfortunately, instead of wandering, he chose to hang by my side. In the middle of my conversation with this parent, Chase said, "I put rabbit poop in your pocket." I didn't believe it so I stuck my hand in my pocket and pulled out its contents. And sure as shit, I pulled out: a bead, a penny, a Cheerio and a rabbit turd. Of course my child burst into laughter, grabbed the Cheerio and plopped it into his mouth as he scampered off. (I would like to say into the sunset, but I'm sure he was just off to find more bunny poop and contaminated Cheerios.)  There are a couple things wrong with this; 1. My child has no issue playing in animal feces.  2. How did I not notice poop going into my pocket? (Any who, let’s not dwell on that latter of the two).

-The other day during pick up time my child was stacking books. I felt a sense of relief that he had chosen a "safe" activity to play with while others were in my house. You know, safe from my humiliation. Well apparently, my child can make even the safest activities crude. As he stacked the last book, he felt the need to yell to me, "Mom, the books are stacked higher than my penis." I'm glad he is learning the concept of measuring, but for goodness sake, please use a ruler, not your penis and do it after all of the daycare parents leave.

-And lastly, last Friday while a parent was in my entryway, Chase ran past the entryway wearing a potty chair around his knees, as if trying to use it as a hula hoop. All I could do was laugh (and hope they still came back on Monday morning.) 

On a side note: Our family went to the Wisconsin Dells this past weekend so of course our weekend was full with car rides and snacks.  During one outing I was sandwiched in the back seat of my parents’ vehicle between my nephew’s car seat and Chase’s car seat.  Chase and my nephew were sharing jelly beans.  Chase handed me a jelly bean and I plopped it into my mouth, thinking my young lad was just trying to share and be kind. Wrong! After I was midway through chewing the popcorn flavored jelly bean, which was disgusting enough on its own, Chase yells, “I stuck that up my nose first!”  Of course I continued eating it.  But where, oh where is he learning to be a gross boy?

So this is what happens when my child asks me for tape, markers and Popsicle sticks.  I'll know better next time. 

Good-bye Big Words, Poor Mamma Monkey

As a parent, there are conversations you have with your child, or things your child says to you, that make you feel really unintelligent. Some days, during nap time, I need to just look at words. Smart words, big words. You know, to make sure I remember what they mean because it has been a long, long time since I have had to use them.  Here are some of the reasons why my intelligence is feeling low these days.

Conversation with my four year old-

“Mom, come here. I need to wipe something on you.” 

Of course I responded by saying, “No thank you.”

Then Chase said, “But my eye booger is so cute. Oh, never mind, I just wiped it on my pants.”

For head smack.

Randomly, as my child is walking past me he blurts out, “Yeah, I think I need to change my underwear.”

Well, alrighty then child, I will not stand in your way of putting on shart-free undies.  Actually, I encourage it.

And my personal favorite-

“Mom, all you have to do is lick its butt.” 

I had no words, big or small, intelligent or not, to respond to this.

Hmm, of course this one needs an explanation.  And I’m sure the explanation doesn't match anything you are thinking right now.  That was how Chase described how to get a toy with a suction cup bottom to stick to our cupboard door handle.  (Picture below- only to prove my son is not a pervert.)

This is how engulfed I am in child-land.  I haven't watched the news in quite some time (mainly because my television only plays Jake and the Neverland Pirates-or so I'm told by my 4 year old), but as I was reading, "Five Little Monkeys" today (for the 9th time), I felt empathy for the mother monkey and I legitimately thought to myself, Wow, I hope she has good health care insurance because she made five calls to her doctor in one day- and after hours at that.  Poor lady.  Why am I worried about current health care policies for a fictitious mamma monkey, but am completely uninformed on what is going on in the world of politics in relation to Health Care (for real people)? I think my mind is yearning for adult interaction, or enjoys being blissfully ignorant. :)

As I’m writing this, my child is watching Woody the Woodpecker in the other room and I can hear him trying to imitate woody the woodpecker. And it sounds like a seal...dying...twice.  Wow.  He’s really going to be living with me forever and I’m never going to need to use big words again.  

A Murder Plot and a Booty

Have you ever read stories about little kids saying creepy things that come out of nowhere as if they were possessed?  Well yesterday, my child creeped me out, and I strongly believe he tried to kill me.

So yesterday, while Chase and I were playing with Little People, he looked at me with a straight face and said, “Scream, scream. It’s time for you to die.” Then he simply gave me a shy smile and continued playing with his Little People as if what he said was pleasant.  This sent a chill down my spine.  But I shrugged it off and forgot about it until later in the evening…. 

As I was drifting off to sleep, I felt something smothering me and I panic.  I wrestle with it to get it off of my face. Once I finally won the struggle, I look up and see my sweet little three year old chuckling his curly little head off.  That’s right, I think my child legitimately tried to smother me with a pillow.  And he thought it was funny.

Every day, I am seeing more and more of a parallel between my relationship with my child and Norma Bates’ relationship with her son; Norman.  I could stop it, but I would like my life to one day be depicted in a television show (I’m thinking I would like Snookie to play the part of me and Will Ferrell to play the part of Chase).  So really, there is nothing I can do, but try to survive one day at a time. 

On a side note: While Cory, Chase and I were sitting down eating dinner, Chase leans over to me and said, “Mommy, do you mind if I bring booty back?”  Of course I told him to give it his best shot and continued eating.

Any who, despite his murder attempt, I’m off to wrap Chase’s Birthday presents because tomorrow I am going to have a four year old! That’s right, my spunky, chatty, Chasey is going to be four tomorrow!! 

On a side note: People always say that you forget the pain of childbirth.  I say; those people are crazy and must not have pushed an eight and a half pound nugget out of their lady parts.  My lady parts are still crying, four years later.

Happy Birthday my little love- My life goal for you is to love yourself as much as I love you (or more, but I'm not sure that is possible)! 

Urine Soaked Bed and Breastfeeding on the Toilet

We all know that parenting isn't always what it looks like on television. Well actually, it isn't like TV at all.  Family dinners aren't relaxed.  Parents don’t actually sip wine while their little tykes use their utensils to eat their five course meals.  We all know the reality is that we all sit down with a bowl of Spaghetti O’s and a can of Mountain Dew and claim dinner a victory if our little ones only leaves the table four times to have meltdowns on the floor because he wanted a fork, not a spoon or his milk spilt too closely to his bowl or because it’s Monday.  TV never shows these things.  But lucky for me, I'm all about the imperfections of parenting, because frankly, it's those moments that keep me afloat. So I have (bravely) decided to share a couple of my parenting lows.  (Please say these have happened to other people and I'm not the only one.  Although looking back, I may be standing alone.) 

Parenting Low: One morning my child peed my bed at 5 am.  So, I did the only logical thing I could think of doing at that ungodly hour of the morning; I laid a towel over it and slept for another 45 minutes until I had to get up for work.  You think laying in bed with a toddler who’s wearing only his skivvies, laying on top of a bath town to prevent urine from soaking into my skin so, fingers crossed, I didn't have to shower would be an all-time parenting low for me, but no.  My lowest, low came just a few short weeks after my little ball of sunshine was born.  (Here goes nothing, no judgement please.  Well, go ahead and judge.  If I didn't know myself, I would judge the hell out of my parenting skills as well.)

Major Parenting Low: A few weeks after Chase was born, I got the stomach flu.  Having the stomach flu in general is miserable, but having the stomach flu and still having to take care of another human being is awful, especially when that human being has just recently entered the world and relies solely on you to fill his little belly.  With that being said, I sure as heck wasn't going to ask anyone for help because, of course it may take a village to raise other people’s children, but certainly not mine (or so I was, and still kind of am, determined to prove.  But that’s a topic for a therapy session).  So, here I found myself sitting on the toilet, breastfeeding my three week old infant (because, apparently, a three week old doesn't know that mommy is sick and should wait until mommy can properly poop and wipe herself to eat) all while eating a piece of cake (because after all, I was a breastfeeding mom and frequently hungry). So out of this was born our family rule:  You can eat snacks in the bathroom only if you use a fork.  Because using your hands would be inhumane.   The sad part was, at the end of this day I remember thinking, I totally got this. (Where was this chapter in my parenting book.  It must have been chapter, “Too real and disgusting to discuss out loud.”) #don'tpretendlikeyoudon'tmultitaskonthetoilet

On a side note: Cory, Chase and I were driving the other day and Cory was eating some sort of dessert bar he purchased from a gas station.  You know, the kind that are wrapped in saran wrap at the register, glaring at you, making you salivate until you slyly reach out your hand and swipe the bar bringing it to the glass part of the counter, ending up right on top of 20 different lottery tickets (also tempting).  Any who, I had mentioned to Cory that the bar will not taste as delicious as the bars my mom makes.  Then this got me to thinking: Is there any food that Chase will feel that my version of the food is better than anyone else’s?  So Cory asked Chase, “What food do you like that Mommy cooks?”  Chase didn't answer.  There was only silence.  Well silence and the sound of crickets. The silence was unbearable so Cory asked Chase again.  After a few seconds Chase answered, “Flowers and clouds.”  Seriously child?  You couldn't come up with one legitimate type of food that I make well, so you pulled flowers and clouds out of your a**?  Thanks!

Anywho, Happy Tuesday!

Yup. I found Chase sleeping behind his door one night instead of in his bed,  I'm sure he totally thinks he won the bedtime battle.  And yeah, this night he kinda did.

Unspoken Milestones and Sparkle Puppy

There are some unspoken milestones that I can’t wait for my child to accomplish. 

First, I can’t wait until my child learns how to eat French fries two or three at a time like the rest of the population.  Because seriously, trips to fast food restaurants are supposed to be fast. And eating with a three year old is anything but fast.  Look. I’m not proud that I steal my child’s fries when he isn't looking. I’m not doing it because I’m hungry and need more fries, I am doing it so we can continue on with our evening and frankly, I’m ready to leave. 

Secondly, I can’t wait until my child can wipe himself (completely and correctly) after using the bathroom.  Don’t get me wrong, he gives it the old college try, but let’s face it, not everyone is Ivy League.  Recently, after an independent wiping incident that required an entire roll of toilet paper (or so Chase thought), I had to stick my hand into the toilet bowl and grab out three clumps of toilet paper.  It was a split second decision I had to make; either fish out the excess toilet paper (by hand of course) or learn how to plunge a toilet on the fly.  To this day, eight days later, I stand by my decision, despite how disgustingly awful it was. 

Now with all of that said.  There is a milestone I am glad he hasn't reached yet; reading.  I am beyond grateful that Chase has at least a couple years ahead of him before he starts to read.  Do you know how disappointed he is going to be when he realizes that pages of books have more words on them than what he’s used to hearing?  Go ahead, start judging.  Before having a child I would have judged too.  But sometimes I can’t get into the groove of Dr. Seuss and stumble over some of his words.  So I make them up or eliminate them all together.  The tricky part though, is remembering how you edited each book because a three year old will remember how the book was read the previous day.  

This is my child. Petting a pretend dog he made out of an egg carton, paint, google eyes and pipe cleaners this morning.  What a sad, sad life he leads.

Here is a close up of "Sparkle Puppy."  Seriously.  

New Year's Goals and 2014 Highlights

If Chase could write New Year’s goals, I think these would be his:

1.  I will try not to scream when my mom mentions that my Ipad time has expired for the day.  (She always says that if I cry, I will lose my Ipad time for tomorrow.  But, luckily for me, she has a short memory.)

2. I will try not to tell my mom that I don’t like her, every day.  Well, I will cut down from seven times a day to 3.  I mean, hey, a boy has got to set realistic goals, right?

3. I will quit gaging at the sight of my mother’s home cooked meals.  (On a side note: I hope one of her New Year’s goals is to take some cooking lessons. I mean, gaging is a reflex, so I can’t always control it.)

4.  I will stop licking everything in sight.  Well rather, stop licking things when my mom is in sight.  (She can be such a drag sometimes.)

5. I will stop farting when I’m sitting on my Mommy’s lap.  Haha just kidding.  That is like saying the sun is giving up its shine.  No can do.

Highlights from 2014: So, I finally kicked my pink milk addiction.  I secretly despise my Mom for making me kick it.  Given the chance, I would trade my mom for a nice, smooth foamy glass of strawberry flavored heaven. Or even to watch someone else drink it.  Also, my parents finally let me out of my baby jail, aka my crib.  I’ve been rocking my Cars big boy bed for months now.  A whole new world has opened up to me between the hours of 8pm and 8am.  And baby, I’m likin’ what I've seen.

Happy New Year's!