Non-Maternal Instincts

Originally posted in December, 2008

It only gets worse.

I didn't think that it was possible to toss my maternal instincts aside any farther, but apparently, I was wrong.

No, my son isn't becoming an absolute terror. Yes, he's nearly nine months old which means he's mobile and getting into everything, but surprisingly, I think it's cute (as long as he's not pulling my I-just-spent-an-hour-organizing-these-piles-of-bills-and-mail off of the coffee table. And why would I pile important papers in my son's reach on the coffee table? Because I'm the mom, and I can do whatever I want).

No, my son actually has nothing to do with the complete downward spiral of my sweet and cheery disposition (if only my husband posted comments to this blog; he would most definitely assure you that my disposition is most always sweet and cherry {cough-cough-ahem}).

So why am I going from, "ah, that's my sweet little boy," to, "#@%#*&# just leave me alone!" in 3-2-1? You haven't guessed yet? I'm pregnant.

Yes, it's the little dime-sized creature living deep inside my lady parts that is driving me to locking myself in the bathroom - for months.

As my most adorable growing baby boy hits milestone after milestone (Did he just sit himself up? Wowsers! Is that another tooth? Yowzers! Could that be "da-da?" Woot!), the mere bean of a being that is only going to make me fat (don't even get me started) wrecks havoc in my lower abdomen causing me to react quite unusually (Oh, great, he's sitting up? Better build a cage. Oh, dang-it, another tooth? I've had enough of this drool bucket! Oh, cute, "da-da"? Who birthed this child? And all I'm hearing is the name of the person who doesn't have the first clue what it's like to be nauseous and fat and bloated and BLAH!)

So just when I thought I'd turned a corner (Christmas is only days away! I should be full of good cheer and well wishes), I learn that my body is yet again being taken over for the sake of another so-called blessing. Bah-humbug.

Dear Lord who only asked one thing of Eve (DON'T EAT THE APPLE!),

I would really like to speak to her, if I may, "Girlfriend, what were you thinking? Because of your stupid fall-into-temptation, us uterus-bearing wo-men are stuck feeling like absolute crap! One stinkin' apple? Was it worth it? Was it the best-dang-tastin' apple you've ever bitten into? Because I'd kill to enjoy a bite of anything right now without having to make a run for the bathroom. Instead of enjoying the vibrant life cruisin' around my living room, I'm spending my days teaching him to hold back my hair as I hug onto oval-shaped porcelain. Thanks a lot."

But Lord, honestly, I am thankful to have another baby growing inside of me. I'm trying my darndest to remember to be grateful in all things. But would you forgive me if just this time I gave thanks only after I flush my lunch down the toilet, because it is in those few moments that I actually feel human again, at least until the next wave of I-think-I'm-gonna-blow hits.

Non-Maternal Instincts

Whose hair is it anyway?

We took the plunge.

We cut my son's hair.

And by "we," I mean my sister cut as I supervised and my husband took pictures (in case there was a snafu requiring photographic evidence). My sister is a professional, and by golly, no one other than an experienced, knowledgeable, and licensed hair-cutting professional was coming within a mile of my son's precious locks with $200 scissors (I'm not kidding. Her scissors cost $200. They're magical scissors).

Before I share pictures, let me back up.

Once in a blue moon, when I get my hair cut, the interaction with my sister goes something like this -

Morgan: "So what do you want done today?"

Me: "I don't care. You're the one who told me I needed a haircut."

Morgan: "I know, but do you want layers? Are you growing out your bangs? Do you want to be able to pull it back?"

Me: "Yeah, all that."

Morgan: "Seriously, Ali, you have to tell me what you want."

Me: "Okay, fine, I want the haircut that will take the least amount of time and makes me look 20 pounds lighter. Go."

Morgan: {tosses my head back in the sink, turns on scalding hot water, and shampoos my head viciously} {something tells me she is slightly annoyed}

On the contrary, when I finally broke down and agreed to have my sister (her official title is Artistic Director) (she graduated from the Vidal Sassoon Academy of L.A.) (you know, L.A., like Los Angeles, the heart of fashion) cut my son's hair, the interaction went something like this -

Me: "Okay, fine, you can trim it, but I mean trim it. Not cut it. There's a huge difference."

Morgan: "I know, Alison {it's never good when she uses my given name}; I do this for a living."

Me: "But mostly just the front; he just needs a little taken from the front. Only a little. And just a teensy bit from the back and sides. You know, just clean it up. But nothing dramatic. I don't want people to notice."

Morgan: "Okay, but he needs that hair out of his face and ears, so you're going to notice a little bit."

Me: "But then don't leave the back too long because then he'll look like he has a mullet."

Morgan: "He's not going to have a mullet."

Me: "But you don't see it every morning when he wakes up and the back is all smashed down. It sometimes looks mullet-ish."

Morgan: "Okay, Alison {oh dear, there she goes again with that Alison crap}, I'm not going to give him a mullet."

Me: "And don't you dare take off any of his curls. He can't lose his curls. Promise me you won't take any curls."

Morgan: "No curls, I promise."

Me: "I'll be so mad if you take his curls."

Morgan: {she gives me a really stern look that, when translated, means something that I cannot repeat}

Me: "Okay, I trust you."

Morgan: {still staring me down}

Me: "And just a trim."

Morgan: {still staring}

Me: "And leave the curls."

It went well. It really did. But hey, let's face it, we've all cried over a haircut before.

Oh, and for the record, I think she took a curl. I'm just sayin'.

Non-Maternal Instincts

Originally published in December, 2008

Cherries, cats, or penicillin?

Thursday night, as I was lifting my son, I noticed a blemish under his shirt. Not thinking much of it, I lifted up my son's shirt, and HOLY CROW! What is this? What in God's name is going on here?

My son's usually smooth and pale-peach belly was covered in dots! He was spotted! My baby boy's spots were bright pink, round, and most importantly, there were hundreds of them!

I rolled up his pant legs, and spots! I scrunched up his sleeves, and spots! I pulled down the neck of his shirt - spots! Spots! Spots! Everywhere!

They were overtaking him. And I had no idea why.

Fever - nope. Was he itchy - nada. Respiratory symptoms – nothin’. Just stinkin' dots everywhere.

So naturally I freaked out. And then I checked his temp again (no fever). So I freaked out some more.

And amidst all the freakin’ out, I managed to narrow down the causes of the mystery dots to three things: cherries, cats, and penicillin.

He had cherries for the first time on Thursday. He pet a cat for the first time on Thursday. And just a couple days prior to Thursday, he was on a penicillin-laced antibiotic.

But after speaking with everyone and their mother (and my mother, and my husband’s mother), I (we) decided that the most likely cause of the mystery spots was the antibiotic.

But, crap. That’s scary, right? Because after the hives comes shortness of breath and then comes wheezing and then comes anaphylactic shock and then, AHHHH! This is scary stuff.

Not to mention my son’s belly looks like a fourteen-year-old boy’s face during wrestling season. Minus the pus. Thank God there’s no pus.

But he’s spotted. Very spotted. And I want my smooth, pale peach baby back.

Dear Lord of all things pure,

HELP! My baby boy is covered in spots! Have you seen him? It’s bad, no? And please don’t tell me it’s not, because I don’t want to turn into one of those moms who freaks out about the littlest thing and all her friends roll their eyes because, “oh, here she goes again, freakin’ out because the baby sneezed.” Too late, you say? Darn.

But this is worth freakin’ out about. Did you ever find Baby Jesus covered in spots? Can you ask Mary? What did she do? Because her baby was perfect. I mean, my baby is perfect. But her baby was perfect-perfect. So was she freakin’?

The nice lady at the pharmacy recommended an oatmeal bath to soothe my baby's spotted skin, but I’m leaning toward holy water – got some you can sprinkle across his belly? Thanks, that’d be great.

Oh, and before I forget. Thanks for holding off on the pus. Which reminds me, is it to early to start praying that my son never comes home with any of that?

Non-Maternal Instincts

This is why I pray for a self-cleaning baby.
 

Baby, I don't blame you, chocolate should be smeared madly across the face . . .

. . . hands, arms . . .

. . . legs and body.

Frankly, I'm jealous that I don't give myself the freedom and opportunity to eat chocolate like that more often (if ever). God knows I wear enough of it on my hips, why not make it my elbows and knees while I'm at it.

But the difference between you and me, son, is that I have the ability to clean myself. As for you, well, it is up to my ability to clean you. 

And that is why this chocolate-covered pretzel debacle drives me wonky. 

Not to mention that too-cute-for-words mini Buckeye chair (equipped with a cup holder!), and your brand-spankin' new blue onesie that makes you look more precious than I could have ever imagined. Yes, those things don't clean themselves either.

So one teeny, tiny chocolate-covered pretzel disaster later (thank you, mother, for indulging him), I'm busy at work cleaning baby, baby chair, baby clothes, and myself (because chocolate-covered baby equals chocolate-covered mommy).

It's days like this that I thank God for warm weather and a sturdy hose.

Non-Maternal Instincts

Originally published in December, 2008



The very heavy cost of leaving the house (if you dare)

I'm not one of those sit-around-my-house-and-watch-soap-operas kind of moms. Nothing against you Susan Lucci followers, but that's just not my thing. I need, I mean really NEED, to get out of the house everyday, at least once. It's my sanity, plain and simple. And because I have a seven month old, he tags along.

When we I leave the house (let's be honest, my son is merely being lifted from point A to point B - I'm the one trying to catch some fresh air), I resemble one of those street performers who balances a truckload of items on his head, hands, and feet while dancing a jig. Except I don't have a tip jar in front of me. I should work on that.

Getting out of the house isn't what is used to be. Before the baby, if I wanted to run out for a frozen slushy, I could be in my car, down the street, and slurpin' away in a speedy eight minutes.

But venturing out with my twenty pound companion ain't what I thought it'd be. Because venturing out with a twenty pound baby actually requires venturing out with an additional fifty pounds of crap very important and delicate baby things.

Like at the airport, there should be a weight limit to what my son can take with him on our little outings. If he goes over, than he must sacrifice something. The problem is, how do I make my son sacrifice necessities like food and hygiene? It's not like when I go over the 50lb. suitcase limit and have to find a creative way to carry-on eight pairs of but-I-must-take-these-with-me designer shoes (BIG joke - designer shoes are a thing of the past, back when I was running out for slushies, you know, the good 'ol days). Not to mention, getting out of the house with this twenty-pound dumbbell now requires as many trips to the car as I take to the bathroom in a day (It's important to note that I have a small bladder).

And it's inevitable that I'll forget something. Actually, several things. Have you ever forgotten an extra set of clothes and wound up on the other side of town with a baby who, um, had an explosion and is now wearing an overflowing diaper with poo down his legs and up his back? Yeah, that's fun. That's called learning a lesson. A major lesson.

So I suggest creating a checklist. Type it out, copy it a few dozen times, and have it handy the next time you are crazy enough to leave the house.

Heck, don't create a checklist. Let me do it for ya!

Here's the how-to-survive-an-afternoon-out-of-the-comforts-of-home checklist (I'm starting to think staying at home watching Days of Our Lives is a much better alternative after all):

• Diapers. Lots of diapers.
• Booty wipes. Just keep a stash in the car. I use booty wipes for a lot of non-booty issues.
• Booty cream. Butt paste. Whatever you call it.
• Purell. Keep this in your pocket at all times. And if you don't have a pocket, stuff it in your bra. You never know when one of those strange smelling old biddies is going to insist on touching your child.
• Pacifiers. Yes, I mean multiple pacifiers. You will drop one, and you will lose one. It's universal law.
• A baby bottle. Unless, of course, your baby is breast-feeding. I lasted four months. I tried to last longer, I really did.
• Baby formula. Again, unless your baby is breast-feeding. And PLEASE, if you are a member of the La Leche League, I don't want to hear it.
• Snacks. Lots of snacks. Snacks for baby and mommy, because snacks make baby and mommy very happy.
• At least one extra baby outfit, but why not pack two while you're at it?
• Baby blankie. Because babies need blankies. They just do.
• Sling for wearing your baby. Unlike what the Motrin Ad proclaims, we momma's wear our babies out of necessity, not fashion (okay, and for bonding, but let's be real, being able to "hold" baby while hands-free is a Godsend).
• Stroller. For strollin'.
• Lovey or soothie or whatever it is that your child MUST have OR ELSE . . !
• Tylenol. You will get a headache. That's part of motherhood. Deal with it.

This certainly is not an exhaustive list. So then why am I so exhausted?

Dear Lord of all things primitive,

How did we go from simplistic cave dwellers to stuff-infested creatures of stuff, stuff, and more stuff? How did we go from Baby Moses floating across the river in a basket to Baby-give-me-more floating across the sea of junk apparently required for baby's survival?

I sure have no idea.

Actually, I do have an idea. Remember the time you turned that fish into a meal of plenty? Let's try that again, but instead of a fish, I'll bring one baby item and you can turn it into everything baby needs in that moment. Wouldn't that be fun? Because not only would it make my job as a mother more efficient, but it would really save me a trip to the chiropractor's office.

But if I must lug around 20lbs of baby plus 50lbs of his junk everyday, can't I at least lose a pound or two. I mean, would it be so terrible if I actually used this baby lugging as a form of exercise so that I could stop feeling guilty about the dust accumulating on my treadmill? Okay, fine, I lied. I don't have a treadmill, but you aren't going to hold that against me, are you?

Ah, forget it. At this point, what's a bit of junk in my trunk on top of all this baby junk?

Non-Maternal Instincts

Because Honor Student bumper stickers make me batty.

We are women. We compare. Everything.

And it only gets worse when we become mothers.

We pretend it doesn't, but oh-does-it-ever. 

We've all heard the advice from pediatricians, counselors, friends, relatives, websites, teachers: "All children are different and develop differently at different rates. They have different strengths and weaknesses."

But we let that advice go in one ear and out the other. We see the freak show one-year-old prodigy on Oprah - a mere baby who can name and locate all 50 states and capitals while balancing Tiffany china spinning on her head.

Admit it. You DVRed it and had it ready to play for your husband when he got home. And then you rushed out to the bookstore and bought a mural-sized map of the United States so that you could immediately start teaching your lil' smartypants a wealth of good for nothing knowledge. Seriously, when's the last time you referenced the location of Cheyenne, Wyoming? (My deepest apologies if I offended all seventeen people living in the Western frontier.) 

So why do we do it? Why do we compare?

I'm terribly guilty of it. There is a little girl at our church who is two weeks older than my son. She can sign and sing and dance and speak and skip - on command. My son can grunt. And grunt some more. I'm learning that "uh" means more and "eh" means more, please. So technically my child can communicate quite well, thank you very much, but dang it's hard not to speed dial the pediatrician for reassurance that my son is not actually a caveman (my son's ped has the number three speed dial slot, second to my son's shrink and stylist - you know, just in case the little dude is having a bad day and needs to reconnect with his happy place or look good to boost his confidence).

Honestly, I wish I could bottle up my son's innocence. If he could talk, he would absolutely tell you that he wants to be a garbage man when he grows up. My son is fascinated by trucks. Every Wednesday morning we stand outside waiting for the garbage truck to come, and when it finally does, my son is captivated. I can see it in his eyes, "Holy moly, flinging trash in a giant abyss behind the back of a humongous truck is COOL!" 

But at some point my backward influence and society's flesh-eating ways taint him and he begins to believe that it's not cool. 

But does it really matter if my son is a garbage man? To whom? Not to God. I've looked. The Bible doesn't say a darn thing about job rankings or salary scales. God doesn't care if your child makes a dollar or one hundred thousand. All He cares about is intent. Is he/she glorifying God as he flings garbage or performs a heart transplant?

So in an attempt to teach my son that he really can be ANYTHING he wants to be when he grows up, regardless of status, prestige, or fame (and regardless of what the little church girl grows up to be), I'll have to start renaming these photos in his baby book. 

Chris Spielman in training - Watch out, Michigan!

My future scholarly professor

The next Dog Whisperer

Ty Pennington, here he comes!

Michael Phelps in training (God, I hope not!)

My future economist (hopefully not in this economy!)

A mini Larry Byrd

On his way to win the Kentucky Derby

Because worst case scenario is really best case scenario. My son doesn't amount to one of these, rather he turns out perfectly handsome, respectable, mannerly, and God-fearing, just like his Daddy.

Amen!

Non-Maternal Instincts

Originally posted in November, 2008

Sleepless in Columbus

I'm about to lose my mind. Actually, I lost my mind. It is {poof} gone. Please let me know if you find it. I need it back.

I have now lost track of how many nights in a row that I slept like ___ (the word I want to use here is not appropriate. Forgive me, Lord).

Okay, so I'm not sleeping well. I have a sick baby who wakes up needing tlc in the worst way, and I am sick which means I hack and I sniff and I hack and I don't sleep. And my hubby is sick, which is a curse because on a healthy night, he snores HEAVILY. Throw in a stuffy nose and chest congestion - oh my good golly! There aren't words to describe the noises that come from him as he sleeps. If you were to peek in our windows at night, you would find me in bed with my mouth half-open (because I can't breath out of my nose because I have kleenex shoved up my nostrils) and drool running down the side of my mouth. And before you could even spot my hubby - you would hear the horn of a semi-truck blowing in your ear, but it wouldn't be a semi, it would be my hubby snoring.

And how is it possible for a baby to wake up three times during the night and still not sleep-in the next morning? If I slept like absolute crap you would have to blast a blowhorn in my ear to ever wake me up. But not my kid. During the night, he wakes up every other hour, yet he is still bright-eyed and babblin' at the crack-o-dawn. The problem is that I am a walking zombie. This morning when I made his bottle, I dumped the entire scoop of formula on the floor because I missed the bottle by six inches. I'm not joking. Ask my husband. He found formula dust all over the ground where I tried to mop it up with my sock because I was too exhausted to clean it up properly.

And instead of calmly going down for his morning nap, my baby fusses and screams and arches his back and shoots snot rockets out of his nose for what seems like HOURS until his snotty-faced-rosy-cheeked head nearly pops off and he collapses because he has no more energy left to continue his fit.

In fact, as I type this he is screaming in his crib although I am sure that I will check on him soon because listening to him scream is adding to my desire to leave this place and find a fancy, expensive hotel bed with 1000 thread count sheets {falls into a daydream consisting of a fancy hotel bed, a deep tissue massage, a warm bubble bath, and hot chocolate via room service} {Bbwwwaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh - nevermind, daydream OVER}.

And I cannot sit another day in a house that is a disaster. I just can't seem to work the vacuum as I am wheezing and hacking and sticking tissues up my nose. But if I could only find the energy and ability to lift a dustrag or just any old rag {hey, what about that sock I used to wipe up the baby formula?} then maybe I'd find my mind that's lost in this mess.

Dear Father of the Heavens {ahh, Heaven, that sounds, well, heavenly},

How did it get like this? One minute I was writing with my pink, sparkly pen in my flower-scented journal about the wonders of being a girl and falling in love and having a jet-setting life, and then BAM! I'm surrounded by poopie diapers and snotty noses and sleepless nights and, well, I've lost it. Can you help? Please? I need my sanity back. I'm sure you know where it is. Can you just give me one little hint? Is it here, under this pile of dirty laundry {peeyou - what's that smell} or maybe over here behind this stack of loud and obnoxious light-up toys {Motrin, please?}. Maybe, just maybe, you could give me that special "snap" like Mary Poppins has so that I could clean this place up in a jiffy and my family could all take a spoonful of sugar and we'd be happy and healthy and clean and sane once again.

Non-Maternal Instincts

To all the parents who have ever said, "you better like it or else."

Shortly before the birth of our son, my husband got on a bike "kick". Thank the good Lord that it wasn't a motor-bike kick; hubs simply became obsessed with buying a good old-fashioned manual bicycle. He had wanted a mountain bike for some time, and when a friend of a friend of a friend was able to score him a deal on a Trek, my husband got all goofy and started researching bikes and talkin' suspension and motion control.

To my amazement, the friend of a friend of a friend pulled through, and my husband became the proud owner of a fancy Trek mountain bike.

Side note: We live hundreds of miles away from any mountains, I'm just sayin'.

And because I feared that our now newborn baby might take a back seat to my husband's latest obsession, we started talking about literally making the baby back seat to the bike.

It must have been meant to be, because only weeks after the baby was born, I found a you-won't-believe-it deal on a bike trailer at a baby sale. It was insane - I spent $40 on a gently used bike trailer that retailed for well over $200. Ching!

But the deal-of-a-century was soon subjected to a year of collecting dust in our overstuffed garage as our little man was too tiny for his pumpkin carriage.

Until now.

Last weekend my husband strapped on the trailer, mounted the Trek, and explored the Central Ohio landscape with his mini-me in tow.

Well, not exactly.

Actually, this is what ensued when our now big-enough baby boy was placed in the $200+ mint condition you-better-like-it-or-else bike trolley:

So much for "Weeee, isn't this fun?"

But because we are horribly cruel parents, we tightened the harness and slammed the hatch gently closed the see-through plastic covering. My husband wasn't about to let a few baby wails stop him from an adventure that he'd been dreaming about since I came home with the $40 steal.

And guess what? After the initial shock and trauma subsided, our little fusspot was calmin' down. Heck, he was even starting to act as if he was enjoying it.

Could it be? Could he really have taken to the box on wheels so quickly?

Yeah right. It looks like the trauma shocked him right to sleep. Oh well. This kid's got all summer to get used to it. Or else . . .

Non-Maternal Instincts

Another recycled post. This one's from November, 2008.

Hold your nose.

I promise to keep this post short because the topic ain't pretty. The more details and the more visuals I present the uglier it gets. So put down your lunch, if you managed to squeeze lunch into your crazy mom schedule today, and let me tell you about the most unfortunate part of mothering a small child: poop.

I said it: poop. And for heaven's sake, it's not a bad word. It's a perfectly normal act of human nature. But why, oh why, oh why, must it be so unpredictable and stinky and squishy and runny and ugly and smelly? And why, oh why, oh why, must I be the one to remove the remnants of it from my baby boy's butter-soft behind? And why, oh why, oh why, must I be the one who stacks "them" in a pile set aside for the "outside trash" as if I have become a collector-o-caca-doodoo?

Don't get me wrong. I'm thankful that my son poops. What goes in must come out. But certainly it didn't go in looking like that. And more importantly, it absolutely, positively did NOT go in smelling like that. So when I am peacefully and serenely (as if that ever happens) sitting near my son attempting to catch my breath, and I inhale (because that's called breathing), than why must that be the exact moment that my teeny, tiny child makes a face of I-think-I'm-gonna-blow followed by an odor that makes even my dog cower? How in the world is that possible? I've seen my child in the buff and his bottom end ain't that big. But the stench? It fills the house!

So I wonder, at what point will my sweet and precious young boy learn to do what the rest of us do when we must pass the substance accrued in our digestive tract - lock ourselves in a confined space, flip on the vent, flush the evidence down-down-down, wash up, and spray the area assuring absolute odor removal? That day cannot come soon enough.

Dear God of the flowers and the delicious scent of the seasons,

WHAT happened? You did such a superb job with nature - I am blown away every time I step outside and take in the fresh air. But my son, as natural of a being as there ever was, must simply have missed the flowery odor day of his creation. Because the air he passes is anything but fresh.

So what do you suggest? I do what I can to feed him delicious, yummy, and healthy goodies from your garden. Yet it never fails to re-enter the world in the most repulsive form.

I was thinking, as I watched a commercial for cat litter, that maybe we could work something out along those lines. If I could just train my son to go in a box full of powder fresh pellets, than I would simply scoop up the tiny flowers (because isn't it cuter to call it that), and flush the evidence away. So is he trainable? I'll let you know how it goes.

For now, I am investing in clothes hangers. I have them positioned around my home near the diaper changing stations, and you better believe that is the first thing I put on when it's time to change the diaper - a clip around my nose. Unfortunately my son thinks that funny, making him laugh, and causing him to squeeze out yet another foul-scented passing of air.

Non-Maternal Instincts

A picture's worth a thousand screams.

Recently my lil' dude and I gathered with seven of my girlfriends and their equally small children (12 collectively; the oldest three; the youngest three weeks) to permanently dye babies and destroy boiled eggs decorate Easter eggs.

Have you ever been in a room with 12 children ages three and under?

I'm not talking about in a calm and controlled daycare setting. No, I'm talking about mommy-is-having-adult-conversation-and-interaction-for-the-first-time-in-days-so-leave-me-alone-and-go-play as we shamelessly turn our heads when we glimpse our 12 small children picking each other's noses and cramming each other's heads through the stairway rails.

If you've been there, then you know what it's like to be trapped in a cage with feral monkeys, flying feces and all.

So when someone announced, "Let's get a picture of all the kids together," I immediately thought, five-months-pregnant or not, where's the booze?

Not to mention, said photo session was to take place AFTER we dyed our children orange, fed them sugar-stuffed sugar cups, and let them rip each other's hair out. Oh, and did I mention it was naptime?

So a shot of Easter juice later, I placed my darling-beyond-belief 12-month old on the couch among the 11 others.

Have you heard the phrase, shoot hit the fan (or something like that)? Well, shoot hit the fan. But the instigator wasn't the colicky newborn or the feisty diva, it wasn't the fussy two-year old or vomiting infant, it was:

MY Mister beautiful smile, happy-go-lucky, life is jolly, baby boy.

Go figure.

So as I scooped up Mister Nightmare, all I could do was shrug my shoulders and say, "more Easter juice, please!"