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... Read more →

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... Read more →

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. Read more →

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... Read more →

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... Read more →

(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... Read more →

(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.) Read more →

(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 TRIsolidTM 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... Read more →

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... Read more →

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... Read more →