Catch up on sleep or write a blog post? Is that even a question? Those two things are not equal. Not even close. But this is what’s going through my brain these days.
For those of you who don’t know, this mommy blogger is a mom of two now. Two boys. Two nut cases. The owners of two private parts around which I have no idea what I’m doing.
My newest little guy, Rory, just passed the nine month mark, while the older one, Kellan, the original inspiration for this blog, just turned into three. Yes, I purposely put an “into” there. Kids don’t just turn three. They turn into three. Three is a thing, not an age. And you don’t want to anger it. The worse part is, you never know what might anger it. There is no way to avoid it as you seriously don’t even have a clue what is going to set it off. You tip toe around the house, room to room, on eggshells only to find the thing waiting for you in a corner of the kitchen near where the pirate’s booty is kept, red beady eyes laser-beaming into yours, scorching your retinas and trying to gain brain control, chest heaving up and down as his siren voice screeches out (at least you think that’s his voice. It’s reminiscent of a million sewer rats being lit on fire), “Maaamaaaaaaaa!”
Why is the thing torqued up? Oh, one of his Legos probably wouldn’t connect to another of his Legos on the first try. Duh. Total hissy catalyst.
My coping mechanism? I try to keep open pouches of fruity gummy bunnies on me at all times so I can just reach into my pocket and throw them at the thing when he comes quasi-moto-limping after me.
By the way, I just caught wind of the term “threenager” from another mom of a hormonal three-year-old in an online mommy support group that I follow and I love it. I definitely have a threenager.
So yeah. Send help.
Having two kids vs. one is a completely different animal. Not a cute, fuzzy one. One foaming at the mouth with fangs. See above description. As my dad put it in a recent voicemail to me: “You’re probably feeding someone right now. Call me back later.”
So when one or both are napping by some miracle, I’m faced with the question: do I nap, or do I blog? (Assuming “do I eat?”, “do I shower?”, “do I clean the house?” and/or “do I exercise?”<- yeah right. are already answered and taken care of, that is.) My solution most times? Nine times out of ten, it’s nap. So I apologize for letting my blog slip, but it’s one of those “sorry, not sorry” deals.
But. Alas. I was only woken up out of my peaceful slumber to nurse Rory like three times last night (or was it four?) so today I shall blog. And I’ll share a few tidbits I’ve composited over the past several (non-blogging, heavy napping) months.
1. First up, a throwback to when I was pregnant. To friends and lovers of pregos: Inviting a pregnant woman to hang out in a bar is like inviting someone with no feet to get a pedicure. Useless. We don’t want to be there. We can’t do what you do and it’s not the same to be there sober. It’s just not. Don’t try to be the “cool pregnant wife”. The rest of us beotch pregnant wives know the truth. You’re not fooling us.
2. So-called “baby brain” doesn’t begin to describe my current state of mental dysfunction after having Rory. It’s more like an etcha-sketch right now. Any sudden movements and my thoughts are gone, slate wiped clean.
Plus, lately I feel like I’m in need of a Second Guesser when I venture out shopping. I simply can’t be trusted to read labels or purchase what I set out to. I need someone to go through each item in my cart one by one once it’s on the conveyer belt, look me in the eye (otherwise I’m scrolling Facebook on my phone totally distracted and totally not listening to you) and ask, “Did you really mean to buy this? Are you sure? ARE YOU SURE?” The other day I bought conditioner instead of shampoo and proceeded to wash my hair with it. I didn’t seem to notice that there was zero lather. Zero suds. Zero soapy clean feel at all whatsoever. When I was all dried off and dressed, my ‘do was slickly matted to my skull, but super shiny and soft, and I chalked it up to excess post-baby hormones. The whole postpartum whirlwind of estrogen and what-not flying through my body had to be to blame here, not user error, right? I mean, I went through the day with a partial mullet, resembling an otter that had just popped up for air in the middle of an oil spill ridden lake. Does that metaphor even make sense? Should I have used an ocean rather than a lake? Probably. I opted for blogging instead of napping today. See what I mean? Bad news bears, er, otters.
3. On the subject of showers. Showers are what make me feel human. Scientists say the conscience is what separates humans from animals. BAH. Wrong! I say showers. When I don’t shower, I swear I can hear the wolves prowling and clawing at the door, scratching to get in. My matted hair (from natural scalp grease, not confusing conditioner for shampoo), heinous breath that smells of rotting carcass (sometimes I don’t brush my teeth until I shower. You know, package deal.), bits of (baby) dung under my nails. It’s obvious the wolves are waiting for me to be their new pack leader. To share the resources that I’ve so clearly been thriving on. Wait a second, wolves, are you saying I’m chubby?
4. I have also been shedding like crazy. (Thank you, hormones.) And when I drive, I tend to run my fingers through my hair simultaneously. (Like I’m Tiffany, singing my heart out in an 80s music video, yes, fine!) I then like to dispense whatever hair remains on my fingers out the window so as not to squirrel-nest-ify my car. But by doing this, waving my fingers out of my window to fling the strands out of my car, that is, people in oncoming traffic think I’m waving to them. I can’t tell you how many people have waved back or honked when they’ve passed by. Or tossed at me a furrowed, Do I Know You? brow. It has turned out to be quite an amusing social experiment. Until I’m bald. Then it won’t be funny anymore. Joke’s on me.
5. Lastly. To those thinking about having a child, I ask that you first try this simple test: Attempt to scrub clean a sink full of dirty dishes with one hand while the lower half of your body from the waist down is bending out so that a 38 lb orangutan-kid can dance underneath, between and around your legs like a drunken stripper on two crooked poles while you’re belting out London Bridge is Falling Down with an English accent because the regular upstate New York dialect isn’t entertaining enough, while trying to secure the 15 lb bobble-head strapped to your chest weaving in the opposite direction of your body with the other hand. Still interested? That’s what I thought. Keep popping that BC.
I’m going to stop at five today. Just knocking some rust off. I have about 1,999,999 more, but I need a – you guessed it – NAP. Email me if you’d like to apply to be my Second Guesser. You’ll be paid handsomely – in fruity bunny gummies.