Presented Without Comment

(Or at Least Without Any Particularly Wordy and/or Long-winded Comments)

So Thursdays are my sort-of-mostly day-off-from-the-Internet. Sorry, Internet! I love you, but sometimes I really just want to stab you in the necktubes with a pencil. A few hours apart is good for both of us. All four of us, actually, if you count my Paypal account and Etsy habit. 

Anyway. I am just hopping online real quick to post more photos. Because that's all I do now, it seems. Photos! Look at some photos! I am the blogging equivalent to that crazy lady on the bus with a stack of wallet-sized photos from her monthly visits to the Sears Portrait Studio with her cat. AND LOOK! IN THIS ONE I DRESSED MR. BOOFYKINS UP LIKE A MONKEY!

(See? I bet you thought I was just kidding with the Mr. Boofykins analogy. HOW WRONG YOU WERE.)

(Honestly. It's getting hard to resist the urge to stick crayons in between those toes. Or a spork. I...don't know exactly why I have those particular urges, but I totally kind of do.)

(Awesome playmat/angry despot loungepad from Peppermint Pinwheels, BTW.)

And...that about brings you up to speed. Woke up, skipped shower, dropped Noah off at summer camp, dressed baby in therapy-fodder monkeybuttpantlets, rolled around on floor, ate yogurt pops outside until totally sticky but THAT'S WHY I SKIPPED THE SHOWER IN THE FIRST PLACE. YES. I AM GETTING SO GOOD AT THIS SHIT, YOU GUYS. 

Four Weeks

WHAT?!

I demand a recount. Not cool, relentless forward march of time. Not cool. 

***

Dear Baby Ike,

You had your first real bath last night.

Your belly button took its sweet old time healing up, no thanks to an assist from Noah, who accidentally knocked the umbilical stump off while trying to hug you, five-year-old cage-fighter style. (Your daddy then put the stump on the kitchen counter. I made him throw it out. I may lean toward the obsessive when it comes to documenting ya'll's childhoods, but sweet merciful crap, I am not scrapbooking anybody's freaking umbilical stump.)

Noah was thoroughly horrified, since we'd put the fear of God into him and Ezra about the stump, and the not touching of the stump, and for days afterward would tearfully ask me if he'd ruined your belly button. I think I have finally assured him that your belly button is just fine, but if you are ever looking for good prank-related ammunition to use against your big brothers, I would totally try like, smearing your belly button with Nickelodeon slime and being all, OMG NOAH WHAT HAVE YOU DONNNNE?

Just a suggestion. I was the youngest of seven, you know. 

Anyway, you loved your bath, shockingly enough. I've never had a baby who loved baths right from the start. I think it was due to the fancy European-style tub, which curls you up all cozy and womb-like, even though I realized afterwards that I was technically bathing you all wrong because I hadn't inserted the inner seat right because the fancy European-style tub only came with fancy European-style instructions that I could not read and I didn't really understand the pictures.

Whatever. You didn't drown or anything. 

Stop looking at me like that. 

Same goes for you, Mr. Judgy Owl Pillow.

Stump drama aside, your brothers sure do love you, Baby Ike.

Though Ezra might love your bouncy seat just a bit more. He likes to lounge out there, whenever you're not using it. Or sometimes when you are. "I CUDDLE WIT BABY IKE!" he says, all innocent and shocked that I would suspect his motives for laying on top of you were anything other than pure brotherly affection. 

Same with all those kisses he gives you, every chance he gets, all over your face. That are immediately followed by a gigantic, tremendous sneeze.  

To Noah, however, there's no such debate. He thinks you are the greatest thing in the history of the world. Our world. And Harry Potter's world. And the Star Wars universe. And also Middle Earth and Jamaica and wherever Cars 2 happened. 

 

And of course, he's absolutely 100% right.

Love, 

Milks Lady

P.S. No, I'm not sure when your brothers will EVER stop calling you "Baby Ike." I promise we'll try to work on it before kindergarten, though.

P.P.S. I call you Nugget. I make no such promises about that one. 

Crowd Control

We spent the weekend -- the entire weekend, for reasons I cannot remember -- going places and doing things with and for the kids. All three of 'em. 

SPOILER ALERT: Going places and doing things sucks. 

On Friday we hauled everyone to the movie theater for Cars 2. (The boys loved it. LOVED IT! And I did not completely hate it! And the screaming baby in the theater did not belong to me! A victory all around, except for the part where we got out the door so incredibly late that popcorn had to count as everyone's dinner.)

On Sunday we went to the pool. (I wore a bikini! That nobody saw, because I did not take the maternity dress I wore as a cover-up off for even a single minute. I sat in the shade and held the baby for a secondary layer of postpartum-belly-camouflage.)

And wedged in between: Saturday. Oh, my heavenly lord. On Saturday we trekked into DC proper for a big barbecue battle-slash-street-festival. I hoped to eat some decent ribs and have a beer or two; I spent the entire afternoon pushing a double stroller around the kiddie section of the event, which was far, far away from the food and especially the beer, while alternately:

1) Barking at the wild and free and unleashed five-and-a-half-year-old to COME HERE, COME HERE, STAY CLOSE, WATCH WHERE YOU ARE GOING COMEHERE COMEHERECOMEHERE.

2) Apologizing to the toddler occupant of the double stroller who wanted out because he NEVER RIDES IN A STROLLER ANYMORE, WHAT FRESH HELL IS THIS BULLSHIT, but I'm sorry, Mommy and Daddy are outnumbered, your butt is staying contained.

3) Looking for shady, semi-private places to breastfeed that were not porto-potties. 

Jason and I never managed to sample more than two or three plates of food, we never made it down to and of the actual BBQ competition events, I never got to sign up for the Man v. Food Nation Hot Wing Challenges that were taking place every half hour that I WOULD HAVE KILLED AT, I WATCH THAT SHOW, I KNOW THE STRATEGY. We left after less than three hours but I swear, it felt like at least eight or 10. 

But.

Man. Good times. I can't wait until this weekend when we get to totally blow their little minds with some fireworks. 

I Did It All For The Gadgets

This post is sponsored by Samsung. But written by me. Hooray for sponsors! Polite-yet-bored golf claps for me.

So I'm sure you've all heard about the "push present" thing, right? The completely-invented-by-jewelry-companies idea that you, as a childbearing female, deserve some kind of butt-expensive bling or present from your partner in the getting knocked-up process? And while I'm being all sarcastic and seemingly above-it-all here, you should be aware I am also totally the recipient of two previous sparkly gifts from my husband, and did not complain AT ALL about him caving to some silly fake tradition, because LOOK AT HOW PRETTY?

Humble Pride

There's nothing quite like those moments -- those rare public moments when the child you've spent years of your life raising as a kind, empathetic and polite human being opens his mouth...and says the most impulsive, selfish and socially tone-deaf thing he could possibly come up with. In front of God, everybody and at least 50 other adults with video cameras.

So I left a little anecdote out of my entry about Noah's belt test. Because...well, it wasn't exactly the sort of story I felt deserved to be preserved for posterity. At least...not at first. At first it was one of those "let's forget THAT ever happened" stories.

So Noah was waiting for his turn to break his board. It's the last task of the test, the big moment that signals your successful graduation to the next belt level, the part where everybody claps and cheers for you, and not to mention, is completely fucking awesome, because you get to break a damn board with your fist. 

But the little girl ahead of Noah was not getting that completely awesome moment, because she could not break her board, no matter how many times she tried. The instructor switched boards, had her practice over and over again, but the board would not split. They quickly abandoned the punching idea and had her try an easier stomp kick move. But the board would not split. 

The instructors continued to cheer her on, as did the entire audience of parents, grandparents and siblings -- you know, ANYTHING to keep the poor thing from getting upset or embarrassed during a moment that is solely intended to be a self-confidence booster, as I've always suspected that those balsa wood boards get a secondary helpful bit of snapping pressure from the instructors. 

Noah sat silently during this, growing slightly more impatient with every failed attempt the little girl made. Finally, he could take no more:

"SHE'S NEVER GOING TO BREAK HER BOARD!" he announced. Loudly. Very, very loudly.

There are a few sounds that I will never, ever forget, dear readers: The sound my car made during a violent head-on collision in high school, the sound of my newborn babies' cries for the first time...and the sound of every other person in that room making the same horrified and dismayed "OHHHNOOOOOOO!" sort of gasp.

Noah was quickly admonished by an instructor and we, the audience, were ordered to cheer for the little girl even louder. Jason and I looked at each other, completely mirroring the other's embarrassment and desire for the floor to open up and swallow us whole, because yeeeeah.

That's my kid, right there.

 The one that EVERY OTHER PERSON IN THIS ROOM is thinking, "oh God, I'm glad that wasn't my kid."

Argh. Kids. Five-year-olds. Whattaya gonna do, right? 

Well, if you're Jason, you spend a nice chunk of your afternoon assembling an extremely complicated Harry Potter Lego set while talking to your kid about why that wasn't a nice thing to say, how that probably hurt that little girl's feelings, and what "encouragement" means and why it's important, and suggesting that maybe an apology is in order, the next time that little girl comes to karate class.

But you might also probably feel like everything you said went in one ear and out the other, cuz LEGOS LEGOS LEGOS.

And if you're me, you'll completely forget to bring the topic up again and prompt your kid about that outstanding apology while driving to karate class a few days later. Until you watch the little girl in question arrive late and take her spot directly behind your kid in line, like, ooohhhhhhhhhrightthat. 

But if your kid is Noah, you will also watch him immediately turn around and face the little girl. And you will hear him, clear as day, say, "I'm sorry I said you couldn't break your board. I'm sorry you were having a hard time. But you did really, really great and I'm happy you got your yellow belt too."

And you will realize you are sitting next to the little girl's mom. And you will see the corners of her mouth turn up in a charmed sort of smile. And you will see the instructor's face similarly melt, as he turns to your child and thanks him for being such a gentleman and a good friend, and tells him he just earned himself an extra raffle/prize ticket for a random act of kindness. 

And then you will watch your kid earn a second ticket for winning that day's special "flying kick" competition, expertly performing a new double-leg jump-kick thing that requires all sorts of gross motor skills and coordination and crossing the midline (and lands 90% of his classmates on their butts), and you will think, "That's my kid. That's MY kid. That's my amazing, unbelievable kid."

gamechanger

i have gotten absolutely nothing done today.

i mean, besides keeping three children alive and clothed and mostly fed (APPLESAUCE AND AMERICAN CHEESE SLICES ARE TOTALLY A REAL LUNCH, WHAT?) and making sure nobody's eyeballs got poked out.

i did scrub pee off a chair in the dining room and then brushed some vomit out of my hair. you can hardly see either now.

(not sure about the smells, though.) 

oh, and i folded some diapers. and put some clothes in the dryer.

i think. did i? i might have hallucinated that last part.

anyway. point is: it's pure totally-outnumbered survival mode over here, plus lots and lots of wonderpets.

and it's all this one's fault, pretty much.

(s'okay though. am granting him a pass on account of noshable cheeks.)

Happy Happy

One...

Two...

Three...

Happy birthday, Jason! I would say you've done pretty good so far. Excellent life's work, these three. 

So make a wish! But not for sleep. Because...no. 

Heartbreak In A Cup

SOMETHING HORRIBLE HAS HAPPENED, Y'ALL.

My hospital cup -- the new one, the one I spent close to nine months dreaming of and plotting over, the one I looked forward to stealing like nothing else in the room save for those sexy mesh granny panties -- mysteriously cracked overnight in a good three different places, then flooded the top drawer of my nightstand and NOW I DON'T HAVE A SECOND SPARE HOSPITAL CUP ANYMORE, AFTER ALL THAT I WENT THROUGH JUST TO SCORE A FREE SECOND SPARE HOSPITAL CUP IN THE FIRST PLACE. 

NOW what am I supposed to do? Have another whole baby just to get another cup? I mean, they are such great cups, you guys. 30-ounce capacity! With a lid and a straw and a handle! You'd get irrationally attached to this cup too, I bet. 

And now it's useless, because I guess I put too many ice cubes in it, or something. 

So the baby is officially my only hospital souvenir left, besides the aforementioned mesh panties, two dozen giant sanitary pads, some waterproof bed-pad thing, one plastic squirt bottle, a pack-and-a-half of newborn diapers, three things of wipes, a six-pack of formula, one nasal aspirator and a rectal thermometer. ALACK AND ALAS. 

P.S. I was *thisclose* to titling this entry "One Girl, Two Cups" but then I didn't, because that would be kind of gross. But then I told you about the gross almost-title anyway. But I figure easily squicked out people probably stopped reading sometime around the second mention of mesh granny panties and foot-long sanitary pads anyway. Childbirth! Magical and beautiful and thoroughly effing disgusting. 

After Midnight

On Friday night, Pre-Third-Baby Anxiety-Inducing Imaginary Scenario #473 occurred: Alternately dealing with a newborn baby's usual night-wakings AND those of a sick, cold-ish toddler.

Ezra came down with an extra-pathetic case of the sniffles, then added a seal-like is that the croup or not the croup? cough, and proceeded to appear -- all moist-faced and miserable, his blankies in hand -- at our bedside multiple times throughout the night and early morning hours.

Usually either immediately AFTER I'd finished nursing Ike and gotten him newly settled back down to sleep, or right at the EXACT second we were treated to the thunderous sound of a freshly filled diaper.

And so, one of us would shuffle off to clumsily fumble with a diaper change while the other squinted at bottles in the medicine cabinet, debating whether to continue with the homeopathic honey-based bullshit or try to do some dosage math for the "real" stuff, all while praying that OH DEAR LORD, please please please don't let Noah wake up right now and like, vomit all over his bed to complete the unholy trifecta of late-night kid-related grossness.

I cannot tell you how much I dreaded this scenario. It very near consumed me during my pregnancy, the thought of dealing with more than one wakeful child, of going night after night with a newborn AND THEN not even getting the precious few in-between hours of sleep he would occasionally grant me because SOMEONE ELSE needed me to deal with his misery and fluids. It simply sounded like too much, something beyond my limited tolerance for sleep-deprivation, deeper than my shallow well of patience and sympathy.

(And let's not even discuss Pre-Third-Baby Anxiety-Inducing Imaginary Scenario #474, which involves all three children being awake and/or simultaneously sick, like in a real live three-ring circus version of Go the Fuck to Sleep , AND THEN there's Pre-Third-Baby Anxiety-Inducing Imaginary Scenario #475, in which I am ALSO sick, but still expected to be all Florence Nightingale for everybody else, raaaaaage.)

But of course, we all survived the night. There were some groans at the sound of the boys' bedroom door opening down the hall, less than 20 minutes after we'd foolishly carried a sleeping Ezra back to his bed in hopes that he would stay there instead of thrashing about all sideways and diagonally on ours all night, and maybe a muttered "oh GOD" or two at the sound of Ike's random snuffling and I've-got-gas-related squeaking that was juuuuust loud enough to wake me up in between all the other times I woke up.

But then there was also a moment -- sometime after the point I learned to stop torturing myself by looking at the clock -- when Ezra was sleeping quietly, spooned against Jason, his breathing finally settled by a generous dose of decongestant, and Ike dozed against me, having just slid off my breast into a milky sleep.

I realized that I could, perhaps, finally shift the baby to his swing or bassinet and carry the toddler back to his bed again and close my own eyes and...I didn't. Instead I pulled Ike closer and reached out to touch Ezra's maddeningly long, solid limbs, awed with how full of love and...yes, total happiness I felt, amazed at how ridiculous all those worries had been, in the end.

As cheesy as it sounds, I kept my eyes open because I will blink and these babies will not need me, these little boys will not want me, and I don't want to miss a second of the time when they still do. 

Even if it's after midnight. Or later. Or much later.

(Or...moister and messier than I may have preferred.)

Father's Day

I just really miss the phone call, you know?