Like Sand In A Swim Diaper...

So. We're going to the beach tomorrow. I have been quietly and not-so-quietly freaking out about this trip for months now.

Two adults. Three children. One challenging five year old. One tempestuous two year old. One BABY. Five days. Two boobs, one minivan, 156 miles, three hours, two bedrooms, one bathroom, seventeen million pounds of luggage and not nearly enough bottles of wine. 

Right now I'm packing. I'm kind of like this:

There's just so much crap to drag along now, and it's up to me to remember every last bit of it, because Jason likes to pack as if we're heading for a stint on Survivor instead of comfy family vacation. A bathing suit and some rice! A toothbrush!  Sunscreen if you're fancy!

If I asked Noah to pack for the beach he'd toss one shoe, two red t-shirts and 500 Lego pieces into a suitcase and call it a day. Ezra might stick with the task a little longer, but would probably pack a lot of plastic food, a dozen stuffed animals and an outgrown Halloween costume.

And don't tell Ike, but he's pretty much the most useless one of them all. God. 

So I'm here ping-ponging around a disorganized mental list of everything five distinct human beings could possibly require at the beach, like clothes underwear pajamas diapers pull-ups burp rags bathing suits sunscreen more burp rags toys DVDs toiletries towels swaddling blankets travel crib bottles?? macaroni and cheese granola bars peanut butter sippy cups Kindle Tylenol wipes onesies beach tent hats shoes shampoo oh FUCK THIS LET'S JUST PACK THE WHOLE HOUSE.

Status update! Now I'm like this:

This is going to be so fun! Priceless memories here we come! Please to pray for our survival thank you. 

Two and a Half and Maybe a Quarter

I guess there's always a moment or two, after you have another baby, when you look at your older child and think "OH GREAT. I BROKE HIM."

Ohhhhh, this kid, these days.

"NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO...

(breathes)

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

"MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE...

(breathes, throws hard unyeilding object at Noah)

MIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINE!"

This weekend I had to run and jump in the pool after him, as he defiantly marched away from us, over to the deep end. I had my hands on him in seconds; I was yelling at him for many, many more minutes.

Then the whole scene repeated itself about an hour later, out in the parking lot. OH MY GOD STOP STOP DON'T RUN RED LIGHT RED LIGHT EZRA WHAT THE HELL.

He's testing and pushing. He's not the big kid or the baby. 

He's always been the "good eater" so now he will not be the good eater, unless no one is paying attention while he steals bits of curry-marinaded hanger steak from my plate after rejecting the macaroni and cheese that he specifically requested only to howl miserably at the sight of, but God forbid I try to serve him that curry-marinaded hanger steak EVER AGAIN, because it's so spicy, spiiiiiiicy. 

(Also spicy: carrots, hamburgers, yogurt. Not spicy: salsa, Indian food, guacamole with jalapenos.)

If you come to our house, though, you will be charmed and wonder what the hell I'm talking about. You will likely be invited to a picnic of donuts and cake and chocolate milk, all of which he will make for you in a toy microwave and provide the proper "beep boop bop" sound effects for as he taps the buttons. When you are out of milk he will fetch more.

"I be right back. Two minutes," he'll say. 

Then he will hop on a broomstick and dash off, humming the theme music from Harry Potter. He might not be back in two minutes, though, in case he runs into a monster along the way and needs to sing it a lullaby to put it to sleep and then sometimes the monster needs a drink of water and then Lightning McQueen and can we read a story and also it's time to microwave some wooden watermelon, I think.

I've always called him "pumpkin."

"I not a pumpkin," he corrects me, "I a BOY."

DUH, Mom. 

He starts school in just over a month. He already has his backpack. He knows his shapes and colors and can count to 10 in English and Spanish. 

Yesterday I went to rouse him from his nap. "Wake up, baby," I whispered. 

He lifted his head but did not open his eyes. He pulled his thumb out of his mouth and muttered into his blankie: "I not a baby. I a big boy."

Duh, Mom.

 

A Favor, Real Quickly Like...

Sorry this is short, but I had to take Noah to summer camp this morning and I've been out running errands/appointments all day with Ezra and Ike and just got home but OH HEY JUST WONDERING IF ANYONE KNOWS HOW LONG THIS DORA THE EXPLORER STICKER HAS BEEN IN MY HAIR?

BECAUSE YEAH. THAT'S AWESOME. 

Meanwhile, On the Sleep Front...

If we're lucky, Ike settles down for a "long" stretch around 10 pm. Four, maybe even five hours while swaddled up in his crib. A few weeks ago, that same exact number seemed glorious, decadent, a brilliant stroke of luck. Now, I can't help but feel impatient, waiting for him to take another step forward and sleep juuuuust a little more, a little longer.

Sometimes I attempt to carve out some (ha ha ha) "me" time. I'll jog around the dark, quiet neighborhood. Or just watch TV and have a glass of wine. Or think about painting my toenails, but that's just way too much of a time committment. The minute he goes down, the clock starts ticking.

Sometimes he wakes back up at 11. And then 12. And then so forth. 

But on the "good" nights, I usually just grab the monitor and head to bed at the same time, but am unable to sleep. The exhaustion that drags after me all day gets replaced with a weird, amped-up overtired state as I stare at the clock and mourn each passing minute as a missed opportunity, as my body stays primed and ready for the inevitable first waking and maybe around midnight I manage to close my eyes and get some sle...

BAM, it's almost 3 am and he's up. I hear him down the hall, even before his cries come through on the monitor, and I wait for Jason to wake up and go get him because that's our deal but Jason stays asleep and I glare at him for awhile and it would be easier to just go get the baby myself but WE HAVE A DEAL and I reach over and turn up the volume on the monitor instead because DEAL. WE HAVE ONE. 

Jason stumbles around and gets the baby and changes his diaper and brings Ike back to our bed and seems to be back asleep within 30 seconds. I nurse and doze and sit up to burp him and fumble for the rag I always keep hooked over the headboard oh crap, where is it, right as he casually yaks all over my side of the bed.

Every night, I debate whether to simply let him sleep next to me or attempt to put him back in the crib. He's so...NOISY, you see, that having him in our room means I have to listen to a non-stop stream of grunts and coos and whimpers and I jerk myself awake at every single one, so most nights I get up and carry him back to his room, feeling a slight twinge of guilt over making Jason get up when I might as well have gone in there and nursed in the rocking chair in the first place. But the DEAL, WHICH WE HAVE, is admittedly less about the practicality of shared responsibility and more about me not looking over at my husband's peaceful sleeping form multiple times a night and being consumed with a murderous, jealous rage.

So back in the crib around 3:30 am, and back up for more milk at 5:30, at which point I am beyond caring about his snuffles and noises and plop him down to sleep between my legs, as he seems to doze very nicely with my thigh as a pillow, and try to grab one last hour or two of sleep before the other boys wake up and it's time to start the day for real. 

This morning, though, he woke up, fussing, and I pulled him close. His eyes were shut, his mouth blindly rooting, but in the split second before he latched on he opened his eyes and looked at me. And gave me a wide, crooked, and unmistakable smile. 

You're welcome, baby.

(And thanks. I needed that.)

Ikeapalooza

It has been brought to my attention that I am not posting nearly enough baby pictures. That any time I let a day go by without including a photo of Ike, a grandmother's heart gets broken. Some general updates on him would also be nice, but don't trouble yourself too hard or anything, because the words are super easy to skip over. 

OKAY THEN.

Baby Ike, at just one day shy of seven weeks old:

Baths are his favorite. Except for maybe teh milks, and butt pats, and getting butt pats while also getting teh milks, and one day he is going to figure out how to get butt pats and teh milks while ALSO getting a bath, and then his life's work will pretty much be complete and he can just chill for a few years.

(Tub is the Prince Lionheart washPOD. Also known as a "fancy-ass bucket.")

I think he looks like Noah. But we keep calling him Ezra. 

I thought by going out of our way to find a name that wasn't another two-syllable-ends-in-the-ah-sound name that we'd avoid some of the name-related Tourette's. So far, it's not working, and every other sentence around here begins with a senile stream of "NOAH EZ CEIB IKE MAX YOU THERE" nonsense. Even when I'm actually not even trying to call any specific living thing in our household, but have simply momentarily forgotten the word for teapot.

Most of the time we just call every last one of 'em "Buddy" and call it a day.

And while we're on the subject of names...I was still in the first trimester when we settled on the name "Ike" for a boy. Jason and I were out at dinner and he was playing with one of those name-suggestion generator sites on his phone, and after inputting Noah and Ezra and several of our previous runners-up names, "Ike" popped up.

At first I laughed, because:

But because we are twisted, awful people, it turned out that the South Park connection wasn't really much of a negative. In fact, it probably was the deciding vote in the "pro" column, and we settled on Ike after less than five minutes of discussion. 

You may remember this post, in which I fished for your opinions about the whole formal name/nickname thing while TRYING to not give too many details away that would make everybody figure out I was talking about Isaac vs. Ike. Your comments were incredibly helpful but incredibly divided. There was zero consensus. None consensus.

So in the end, I found out that Noah's occupational therapist had a friend named Ike, short for Isaac. I asked her to ask him what he thought we should do. He voted for including a formal name option, because while he only ever went by "Ike," he used Isaac on resumes and business cards and found it handy for correcting people who thought his name was "Mike." No, Ike. Short for Isaac. Etc. 

Done. Thanks, random stranger!

Of course, now I'm not sure what to do about a certain passive-aggressive relative who insists on calling Ike "Isaac" all the time. That's not his name! I mean, it is, but it's not. GAH WORMHOLE.

(Oh, and yes: the blog nickname of "Baby Ikea" was a not-very-subtle hint. We never managed to agree completely on a girl name and joked that Baby Ike would just become Baby Ikea in case of a delivery room surprise. But then that nickname stuck anyway, because you know. I LOVE ME SOME IKEA.)

(And yes yes: I am aware that this post is hanging on by a narrative THREAD, and that I am basically just typing whatever pops into my head at any given moment hey this coffee is cold I need to shower I am soooo not telling Jason that Ike puked on his pillow just now.)

And this is the last time I'll bring up Winnie the Pooh. Except to point out that Noah willingly gave this to Baby Ike, so Baby Ike could have a friend, and don't you just die, and maybe almost momentarily forget all those times Noah screamed and shrieked and generally flipped his shit at Ezra for like, LOOKING at his Legos or being in the same ROOM as his cars? No? Yes?

Almost. But not quite.  

Okay, last one and then I'm out:

 

Parenting dilemma of the smartphone age: Your baby will sort-of smile at you RIGHT when you're busy messing with settings in Hipstamatic and this momentous occasion will be forever preserved using a washed-out filter you don't like, dammit. 

And then you will switch to a regular camera and your baby goes all, bish, plz, I ain't your monkey. 

Things We Did This Weekend Instead Of Seeing Harry Potter

(Post title, cont'd:)

Not That I Am Bitter About Not Seeing Harry Potter Or Anything Except I Am A Little Because I Couldn't Find A Babysitter

(Wait, I have more to say about that:)

I Mean, I Could Have Left The Kids With A Couple Friends Who Nicely Offered But I Don't Think They Realize What Two Children Plus An Infant Is Like And It's Not That I Don't Trust My Friends But It's That I Barely Feel Qualified To Keep Two Children Plus An Infant Alive On My Own And Also I Kind Of Want Those Friends To Still Be Speaking To Me The Next Day

(TL;DR version:)

Kids! Can't See Harry Potter With 'Em, Can't See Harry Potter With 'Em Left At Home And Chained To The Bannister Either

1) I went to the previously mentioned kickboxing class at Noah's karate studio. It was...um...intense. I remained upright and participating the whole time simply because of the peer pressure. I was assigned a bag next to a woman who was much older than I was and I couldn't take the embarassment of walking out after the first 15 minutes like I actually wanted to. So I stayed. Every time I tripped over the jump rope I would glare at the jump rope, like it was a defective jump rope. Like it was the jump rope's fault. And I think my jabs, hooks, and cross punches were all pretty much the same damn punch. Best described as "ineffective girly swings in the general direction of the punching bag." 

But. I stayed. I did the entire workout, save for backing off most of the more intensive ab muscle work. 

Afterwards, I melted into a little puddle of sweat on the floor and slithered home without signing up for the monthly membership. 

2) The next night, drunk on my own perceived awesomeness, I started the Couch to 5K program. For some reason I assumed it would be easy, since I've done it before and oh yeah, I completed 40 whole damn minutes of kickboxing at the local strip mall, CLEARLY I AM AN UNSTOPPABLE FORCE. 

In other words, when the little voice on the training app said "HALFWAY" I shrieked out loud and almost tripped over my own feet in shock, because I thought I was almost DONE, because AHHHMAHGAAAAH RUNNING SUCKS SO HARD I WANT TO LIE DOOWWWWWN WAAAHHHHH.

3) On Sunday I was determined to do as little physical activity as possible. This was an easy goal to accomplish, because I am pretty sure most of my joints were no longer functional. We went to see Winnie the Pooh. (Full review-ish thing here.)

So obviously, we were pretty busy once we got back home.

First, we needed to dust off the old map.

Then, we drew the fearsome, terrible Backson.

And set him loose in the crib blanket my cousin made for Noah before he was born Hundred Acre Wood.

The only Pooh I could find in the house was a rattle attached to one of Ezra's old teething blankets, but he turned out to be quite sufficient.

We then enlisted some Backson-trapping help from Hedwig Owl, Promotional Tiger From The Hangover 2 Tigger and a knock-off Pillow Pet Eeyore. 

A trap was set with a Hunny Pot.

And success! We caught the mythical Backson. I have no idea what we're going to do with him now, as sadly Noah's initial suggestions were a tad violent to be considered from the Milnean canon. It seems my plan to restrict him to only the first three Harry Potter films has still left him with plenty of knowledge re: monster murdering. We will stab him in the nose with sticks! And then with a sword! Also laser guns. Pew pew!

Etc. 

Later, Ezra catered the cast party. He made an assortment of soups and wooden cheese sandwiches.

Lightning McQueen was invited too.

(Enjoy it, car. Looks like your 15 minutes of movie-fueled obsession is over, and not a moment too soon.)

Friday Coasting

(GRATUITOUS BABY PHOTO HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH THE CONTENT OF THIS POST)

So it turns out I pretty much blew my writing wad on yesterday's ridiculousness. Plus I only have like, five hours to get in shape and lose 10 pounds in time for my first kickboxing class. 

(WAT???)

INORITE? You were probably already questioning my sanity after the whole "let's stage whodunnit dinner theater using tubes of deodorant" thing, and now I've just gone and sealed the deal. I let a 24-year-old black belt karate instructor talk me into kickboxing at like, six minutes postpartum! All my workout pants are in my pre-pregnancy size! I haven't even tried those bitches on yet! And I ate an entire container of macaroni and cheese for lunch, fuck yeah!

I am totally going to die tonight, aren't I?

(PRETTY MUCH, YEAH.)

The Deodorant Wars, Crime Noir Edition: The Devil Had Dry Armpits

(This entry is based on actual events.)

(I mean, kind of. I made up some parts up. See if you can guess which ones!) 

(Also, certain events have been recreated for photographic purposes.)

(I wore gloves. Ew.)

(Also also, if you have absolutely no idea what in sam blessed hill is going on here, allow me to direct you to the previous entries in the Deodorant Wars Saga [linked below], which goes further and further off the rails with each ridiculous installment.)

Part One / Part Two / Part Three / Part Four

The official cause of death? Accidental toilet drowning.  

"Some clumsy dumbass probably just knocked it off the bathroom counter and into the toilet with her elbow," the coroner said. "It's a real shame. By the looks of it she had a good 10, maybe even 20 clicks left in her."

I didn't think too much of it at first. Once you've been Dermatologist Tested and equipped with patented TRIsolid^TM body responsive technology, you pretty much become numb to this sort of thing. I just show up to write the reports, file the paperwork. 

The name's Lieutenant Degree Men Clinical Protection. I'm a cop. Maybe there was a time when I was a good one. Maybe there will come a time when I'll be one again. Right now, most days, it's just too damn hot out there to care. 

The sweat stains are gonna win anyway, so why even try? 

Her younger sister -- a sweet kid, smelled like cucumbers -- came to identify the body. And immediately started asking questions, poking around, sticking her lid where it had no business being. 

"This was no accident," she all but hollered. God, I hate when they make a scene. The last thing we need is for the shampoos to get wind of this. Them and the soaps are always getting mysteriously dropped in the shower and have been just itching to a reason to start a full-on riot over sink-side police coverups. 

"The angle, the trajectory," she went on, "It's all just too perfect. Who has that kind of aim with their elbow? Honestly. She was clearly pushed. On purpose."

"I loved my sister." Her voice was quieter now, thank goodness. "She was smart. Successful. Clinically proven."

"But she had...some enemies."

She may have looked like a dame's deodorant, but she had the crime and odor-fighting skills of a man. I had to admire that. 

She wasn't all aluminum zirconium tetrachlorohydrex, though. Another look at her sister's lifeless body brought out her softer, moisturizing side.

"She always had prescription-strength wetness protection, but..."

She didn't need to say it. We were both thinking it. Sweat is one thing. Nothing can protect you from a full-on dunk in the shitbowl.

I needed to say something else, though, even if she didn't want to hear it. My own specially-formulated wetness protection didn't extend much further than the medicine cabinet, and if there was foul play going on here, the culprit probably didn't come from there.

No, I suspected this was the work of The Others. They'd once enjoyed a little taste of infamy and the good life -- something with the Internet, I didn't really understand any of it -- but have been banished to a bottom drawer for damn over two years now. They're well past their expiration dates but it turns out once you anthropomorphize a bunch of deodorants for blogging purposes, it gets awful difficult to just toss them in the trash. 

They were a motley bunch, for sure. Shifty. Made the whole drawer smell overpoweringly like lavender-scented cool fresh baby powder mixed with the ambiguously named-by-marketing committee smells of Bella Bloom, Sexy Intrigue and Just Dance. 

You never forget that smell.

Yeah, I had my work cut out for me here, if I wanted to help this poor dame find out what happened to her sister. You can probably imagine my surprise when I realized that...I did. Want to help, that is. There was just something about her. Something about this case. It stunk, all right, just like that damned bottom drawer.

"Don't worry, Dovecakes," I told her. "I'll ask around. Just know that getting to the real truth in this town is..."

"The pits."

(YEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!)

The Incredible True Adventures of the Wonnerpets in Poopland

Dinner is over, for the most part. Jason and I are still at the table, procrastinating on the cleaning up.

Ezra heads to the bathroom to wash his hands. He is singing.

"Top um bottom, top um bottom, immatween!"

When he returns, he is pushing an empty laundry basket. He is excited. He has a plan.

The laundry basket is carefully arranged next to an Ikea stepladder. 

"Is a Flyboat!" he announces.

(For the un-Nick-Jr-initiated: THIS.)

He is singing again.

"Wonnerpets, Wonnerpets, on our way, to halp da..."

He stops. He looks around for a suitable object for his pretend rescue mission. He chooses a stuffed rabbit he finds on the floor.

"To halp da baby rabbit an save da day..."

The stuffed rabbit is, in fact, a squeaky dog toy. 

But for now, it is in mortal peril.

"Come on! Follow me!" he implores Noah. "To da Flyboat!"

"To the Flyboat!" Noah obliges. 

And they are off. 

For the next hour -- at least -- they play a frantic and elaborate game of climbing in and out of the laundry basket via the stepladder, clutching the stuffed rabbit and occasionally beating on the laundry basket with a broom. 

"It's broken," Noah explains. "We have to fix it."

And then they run a lap around the entire first floor. Ezra continues to sing.

"Gooooo Wonnerpets!'

And then they are back in the laundry basket. And then they are out. Another lap. Back in.

Ike is looking up and over my shoulder, oblivious, happily enjoying some butt pats. He is cooing at our wall of picture frames. 

Noah declares that the entire living room is dangerous and must be avoided. "This is Poopland," he says.

Ezra carefully lines up several pairs of shoes back in the kitchen. "Baby rabbit! Go back to your frens!" he says, placing the rabbit in front of my running shoes. 

A snap bracelet shaped like a snake has joined the mission. It also gets reunited with its friends, played here by Noah's Crocs.

Noah is now riding the Flyboat-fixing broomstick around the house, singing the theme song from Harry Potter. 

He tries to drag Ezra in the laundry basket at the same time. "WE NEED MORE TEAMWORK!" he shrieks. "I WILL GET MY MAGIC WAND."

Realizing his wand was confiscated earlier for poking-related infractions, he goes with a bendy straw. "WINGARDIAM LEVIOSA!" he shouts at the laundry basket. "PEW PEW PEW!"

"BABY RABBIT NOOOO!" Ezra shrieks after hurling it across the room, where a thoroughly confused Ceiba has grabbed her toy and taken it off to Poopland. The boys thunder off in full pursuit.

The noise level is ridiculous. They are running at top speed. Someone is going to fall down, crash into something, get hurt. 

I look at Jason. Our sides hurt from laughing so hard.

"This right here," I say, "is why I had children."

IN WHICH I COMPLETELY DORK OUT FOR CANCER AWARENESS

Wait! Don't run! This post is not another bummeriffic downer of a weepfest or whatever. I'm totes back to embarrassing myself for fun!

Long- and semi-longtime readers now that I have been partnered with the American Cancer Society's More Birthdays campaign for quite awhile now. At this point, they pretty much say JUMP and I say HOW HIGH AND WOULD IT HELP IF I HIT MY HEAD ON SOMETHING ON THE WAY UP? 

This time they asked me to sing.

Oh my God. You guys.

Yes, Noah is covering his ears the whole time. Yes, Ezra only knows the "YOU TOO, YOU TOO, YOU TOO" part. Yes, poor Baby Ike is flopping around helplessly like a loaf of Wonderbread because I clearly have never held an infant before in my life. 

(This was Take One. Things devolved even further during Take Two, believe me.)

And yes, I am singing and five weeks postpartum and also the whole right side of my shirt is soaking wet because I got trapped outside in a torrential downpour about five minutes before filming this because I am no better at holding umbrellas than I am with babies.

Also: My hair. I know. I KNOW AND I AM SORRY.

But anyway, after you're done laughing at me (s'okay, I know I'm a total dorkball, I deserve it), I would like to encourage you to submit your own 30 Seconds Or So Of YouTubed Humiliation for the More Birthdays campaign and contest. And then you can be all, "HERE'S MY VIDEO" and I will laugh at you for a change. Or maybe I'll just kind of hate you and your beautiful singing voice and fabulous hair and Pillow-Pet-free bookshelves.  

TOGETHER WE CAN OUT-DORK CANCER.