Non-Maternal Instincts

Giving Linda Blair a run for her money.

Have you seen The Exorcist? You know, the Linda Blair movie about a young girl possessed by some freaky demons (I suppose all demons are freaky), and in the most memorable scene her head does a 360 degree turn and she curses terrible profanities (I guess all profanities are terrible) and she pukes up nasty green stuff.

Well, we experienced that here just last week. In real time. In real life. With real people, not cute child actors like Linda Blair.

You see, the stomach flu trampled its way into this house, and as it hit each member of my family, it became progressively worse.

It started with me. I swore it was only food poisoning that I blamed on clearance mushrooms (yes, there is such a thing, and I buy such things). And then my husband started vomiting (though nauseous, I never threw up), and again, I blamed clearance mushrooms. But when my baby boy started puking EVERYWHERE, I realized it wasn't the clearance mushrooms after all (My son snubbed the clearance mushrooms. He's a total food snob).

But let me tell you, watching a little one vomit is like watching a scene from The Exorcist. Minus the 360 degree head turn and terrible profanities. And my son's vomit was slightly pink, not green. But other than that, my son gave Linda Blair a run for her money.

I am SO thankful it is behind us. I am SO thankful that Harper never got it. I am SO ready for cold and flu season to be over.

Exorcisms just ain't my thang.

Non-Maternal Instincts

Originally posted in January, 2009

Before reading this post, please read Part One.

The Couch Escapade, Part Two

I know what you are thinking. I marched back into Value City and got all Edward Scissorhands on Dottie's beehive, leaving a foul-fingered masterpiece on top of her lady-lost-her-mind head of hair.

Oh, how I wish I could tell you that was true.

But remember I told you there was a blessing that came of all this? Well, there is a pretty, soft, buttery, oh-so-cozy ending to this escapade. That I promise.

So after my near-Towanda moment, I vowed to find the couch of my dreams.

That following weekend, we hit the stores - new and used (Yes, I said used. And before you haters judge, let me make two things clear: 1) We have a young son who travels with crumbs, drool, and boogies; a dog who tracks in dirt, mud, and critters; and a baby-on-the-way who will surely litter our home with spit-up stains and the occasional oops-I-missed-the-diaper; thus we have no need for a showroom piece of furniture, and 2) I aim to make green choices whenever I can - a used piece of furniture satisfies my favorite mantra - Reduce, Reuse, and Recycle!)

Not having much luck, I remembered that there was a JC Penny outlet store in a land far, far away. Okay, so the outlet was merely on the other side of town, but when your side of town contains over a dozen furniture stores and a few consignment shops, a 1/2 tank of gas for JC Penny is hard to justify. But like Veruca Salt wanted her Oompa Loompa NOW, I wanted a couch yesterday!

So here is how the JC Penny outlet works: every piece of furniture has a colored sticker on it. Each color corresponds with a percentage discount starting at 50% going up to 90%. We soon found several pretty, soft, buttery couches, all 50%-70% off! We were looking at $2000-$3000 couches selling easily for under $1000! Score.

One such couch was very much in stock. We found five of that same exact couch, but strangely a couple of them were 50% off, a couple were 60% off, and one was 70% off. Curious, indeed. We couldn't figure out why the one was so much cheaper, so we asked one of the I'd-rather-be-with-my-boyfriend sales gals. She said that the longer the couch sits in the store, the cheaper it is.

Uh, works for me!

We didn't have to think twice - we asked the darling little sales gal to put a SOLD tag on that bad boy. Before making the not-so-big-purchase-after-all, we made another loop around the outlet. While reveling in our bargain, a young family approached us.

"Excuse me, we saw you folks looking at that couch, and well, we looked at it too, but it appeared used. There's dog hair in the cushions."

Hmmm. Not sure what to say, "Um, thanks, we'll check it out."

Thinking he might be right, we moseyed our way back to the golden ticket and started the cavity search.

WHAT IS THIS? Dog Hair?! And crumbs?! Ewww! Thank God for the don't-let-'em-fool-ya angel who brought this travisty to our attention!

I frowned, hubs shrugged, but being the optimist that he is, he said, "well, we can still get this style couch for 100 bucks more, no biggie, let's go check the others."

Um, I should mention that the same mother who once embarassed me in the department store because she manipulated her way into a great bargain actually taught me a thing or two. And remember that Don't mess with the pregnant lady mentality? Well, it all kicked it.

TOWANDA!

I wasn't going to just buy the next couch because this one apparently was on it's ninth life.

So I flagged down the darlin' sales gal and showed her the results of our cavity search.

Poor girl, her expression couldn't have been more telling. 'Oh shoot' is a nice way of putting it.

Fortunately, she had a walkie talkie. Walkie talkies call managers. Managers mean, "I ain't paid enough to deal with this crap."

Manager appears. For the third time, I pry apart the cushions revealing the leftover sandwich and shaggy beast hairs hidden beneath.

Manager wasn't happy.

Manager was very unhappy with mystery employee who okayed this fine furnishing onto the sales floor. She gives us this spiel about "this should never of happened, these things are supposed to be sent back, I'm gonna find out who did this, and it ain't gonna be pretty."

Okay, fine, whatever, but here was my question, what happens when the couch is sent back (to where, JC Penny reject hell?)

"Oh, they're destroyed," replied Manager.

D-E-S-T-R-O-Y-E-D. What do you mean, like, insinuator-destroyed?

"Um, yeah, basically, but let me look at the ticket. I need to see that ticket."

She pulls the ticket, glances it over, and starts scribbling. It seemed very official with her big important pen and strong scribbles.

Then she comes close - real close-talker close. I could smell her sour cream potato chip breath. I could see her chin hairs. And she whispered, "I'll mark it down 90%."

*%#@*%*!?

Okay, this couch was originally $2000; 90% off made it $200. I don't care whose dog spent a week living the good life on its buttery goodness, that couch was SOLD (again)!

Once again, before the haters judge (and really, I know they're just jealous), the couch was probably returned to the original store then sent to the outlet. Because there were several others of the same make we knew that it wasn't a used couch from a previous season. If anything, it spent a week in some hungry man's living room, then it was returned.

I am SO not above that. Not to mention, we saved this beauty from fire and brimstone! We saved a couch! Not only did we get a holla-back-girl kinda deal, but I satisfied my desire to go green! Oh, ain't that just happy?!

Jesus loves me.

Non-Maternal Instincts

Originally posted in January, 2009

The Couch Escapade, Part One

This post doesn't necessarily belong under the category of non-maternal, but in some ways, it does.

Remember the movie Adventures in Babysitting? Great movie. Anyway, there is a line in that movie that I cannot repeat, but the gist of it is, "Don't mess with the babysitter."

The Couch Escapade is two-fold. It has a "Don't mess with the pregnant lady" mantra, and for any of us who have been pregnant or even menstrual, you know what I mean. When my hormones are whack, I DARE someone to cross me. I know that sounds harsh, but we have all been there (unfortunately for me and anyone who comes in contact with me, I'm going to be there for several more months, at least).

Secondly, the Couch Escapade is the story of a hidden blessing. I'll explain more about that later.

For those of you who follow me on twitter, you know that we have been in the market for a couch.

For those of you who do not follow me on twitter, we have been in the market for a couch.

Well, we bought a couch.

But that's the end of the story.

Let me start from the beginning.

Last week I went to Value City to look at furniture. Value City really isn't a city, it's just a store with well-priced furniture. And technically, all cities are value cities as they are all full of things with value, no? But I digress.

Value City was having a Leather Clearance Extravaganza {rolls eyes}. All that means was that they had some really ugly leather furniture on sale. And by really ugly, I mean fluorescent orange and lime green. It was gross. I don't know how they can call it a sale. They are going to have to pay people to take those couches. I'm not kidding about the colors. Go see for yourself. I guarantee those orange and green couches are still there.

Anyway, I did manage to find one set (everything was being sold in pairs) that I liked. It was brown, leather, and my style. But it was still out of our price range.

And that's when the lady with the bright-red bouffant entered my life. Oh, is she special! I'll call her, "Dottie."

Dottie and her big, red hair, saw that I was interested in the brown leather set. She saw me sitting on the couch, working my hiney into the soft pigskin. She spouted off a bit of information about the couches, "100% italian leather all-around," "blah, blah, blah."

I told her that I liked them, but we really weren't in the market for a set, and it was out of our price range.

That's when she got funny (first red flag - actually - the first red flag should have been the hair). She looked around, realized no one was looking, and then she pulled out her black book. I got nervous. I thought she was going to show me a list of all the men she had been with on that couch. I mean, she was acting really funny.

She showed me the black book. Inside was an ad that was set to hit the papers the next day. It advertised a special that was going on the next day. She was giddy. She said, "that set goes on clearance tomorrow," (I thought, is it not already on clearance? Whatever).

I asked, "what do you mean?"

She said, quoting the ad, "it is $200 cheaper starting tomorrow."

"Really?"

"Yep, but you'll have to get here first thing, that's our only one left."

Hmmmm, I thought to myself. Now that's not a bad price. And we could use both pieces, it just wasn't what we needed, per say.

So I pulled the, well-I-have-to-talk-with-my-husband card.

Though in the back of my head, I'm thinking, "This is a deal! I like extravaganzas!"

Dottie reminds me to be back first thing in the morning, and I tell her I like her hair okay.

Later that day, I see this ad on T.V., and it's for the same couch set, but the deal starts a different day, so I call Dottie.

She tells me that she misread the dates (second red flag) and the ad on T.V. is correct. She asks for my name and number, and she promises to call me to confirm this (she is a very confused lady).

She calls, she verifies, and we arrange to meet on a specified date and time for the exchange.

She whispered a lot on the phone, adding to the excitement of the deal. At times, I felt like I was arranging to buy something illegal, that's how secretive she was about the whole thing. I like living on the edge.

Sure enough, I show up to purchase the set, she starts ringing me up, and I notice that the price isn't reduced. I mention something. She acts confused (RED flag!). She says she'll be right back. I watch as the red bouffant enters the manager's office. She returns seconds later. It's not looking good. She seems disappointed. She seems very un-Dottie-ish.

And guess what? She failed to read the fine print in the ad (and I never thought to look at the ad closely myself; she was the one who worked there, after all). As it turns out, only the heinous orange and green couches were on clearance-clearance. The pretty, buttery, brown leather ones were not.

She gave me a look of, "don't you still want it?" I gave her a look of, "I'm going to hit you." I did not hit her. I did not key the furniture on my way out, although I considered it. I did not park in the back of the parking lot, waiting for her to leave the store, only to ruffle her feathers after her shift. Jesus intervened. Jesus made me turn around and walk away. Jesus told me to keep walking, if they were desperate, they would chase me. They did not chase me. I kept walking. I cursed. Jesus understood. I cursed again. Jesus said, "that's enough." I got in my car and had a mini temper tantrum. I repeated, over and over, as if Dottie was sitting next to me, "Don't mess with the pregnant lady. Don't mess with the pregnant lady."

I guess you could say that was my prayer. I think all the pregnant angels listened to me.

Because the story gets a lot better. I mean, it gets good. Like pregnant-lady-eating-fried-pickles-and-Rocky-Road-ice-cream-good.

But you'll have to wait for the delicious ending.

Rest assured, I'm sitting on a brand new, pretty, buttery, brown leather couch right now as I type. But you will have to wait until next week to find out how.

{wink}

Non-Maternal Instincts

This is what it looks like . . .

. . . when you do late night grocery shopping and are too tired to put anything away so you leave it for the next day and then it's the next day and you wake to crying babies and you must drag yourself out of bed to feed them and then you decide to lug them to the library for enrichment (because it's much easier for the library to enrich them; I can't even put my groceries away let alone enrich my children) and as you are making good time and think you might even be on time to library enrichment the dog pukes up a sock and now you have to soak, scrub, and clean the carpet but only after you move the dining room table out of the way because the puking dog just had to puke underneath the table and next thing you know you are home from the library and your babies are crying again because it's lunchtime and they are hungry and you are responsible for feeding them lunch because you are the mom.

And that is what it looks like.

Don't judge.

Non-Maternal Instincts

Dog Edition

Pray for him.

Since Henry's arrival over 18 months ago, this precious dog has become the culprit of one very serious crime.

Sock snatcher.

Sock devourer.

Sock eat-and-puke-upper.

And this once patient momma ain't gonna take it anymore.

I know, I know. He totally looks like the type of dog who cuddles up to your legs and nuzzles his head between your feet.

Yeah, he does that.

After he puked up his 96th sock.

So pray for him. His days are numbered.

Non-Maternal Instincts

Mommy makeover shows are for the birds.

You know Mike Rowe, the crazy host of Dirty Jobs? Well, I'd like for him to join me for a day.

No, I take that back. Five minutes is all he would need to get some footage.

You see, yesterday, as I was rushing to get my kids out the door, I scooped up Harper and ran upstairs to change her diaper. We quickly bounced back downstairs, and as I made my way over to her car seat, I felt it. And I heard it.

Splat.

She puked. All down my back and all over the floor.

It was typical baby vomit - curdled and stinky.

And here's the best part. I was so far past the point of caring that I grabbed the grungy washcloth from the kitchen sink and haphazardly wiped it up. I didn't even change my shirt. Nor hers. Take that, Mike Rowe!

After my I-don't-care-if-I-smell-like-vom clean-up job, I grabbed my son to put on his shoes, and "Ka-Choo!"

He sneezed all over the front of my shirt, covering me with green snot boogers.

Lovely.

And once again, I grabbed the grungy, baby vomit stained washcloth. I really didn't care.

And this is why mommy makeover shows make me batty. Because they grab these snot-covered, sweatpants-wearing moms from the grocery store and transform them, making them unrecognizable through designer clothes and hair dye. But the reality is that no mother is ever going to look like that on a daily basis. And no mother is going to stop living her vomit-soaked reality because she smacked on some department store grade make-up (seriously, why is make-up sold from behind a counter under lock and key?) No practical mom is going to allow her makeover-show, fancy-expensive outfit to be covered in vomit and snot. Heck no! That's why we wear our grungy sweatpants everyday (that and because we can't fit into anything else, but that's another post).

So Oprah can go on making mommy's look all hot and stuff, but those mommy's are just going to sell those clothes on eBay when they get home. Trust me. If I looked so bad that some t.v. show producer had pity on me and awarded me with a $500 outfit from Nordstrom, I'd swap those overpriced clothes for something that could really make a difference.

A maid.

Non-Maternal Instincts

Desperate.

I was so desperate that I didn't foresee the aftermath.

Of course he was happy, so I accomplished my goal.

Yet the mess and clean-up that followed sent me right back over the edge.

But when two babies are screaming and the dog just puked up a sock, momma will do anything to bring peace.



And let's face it, chocolate is peace.

Non-Maternal Instincts

I swore I wouldn't be this way.

Having spent two years studying childhood development, specifically the personal, social, emotional, and academic development of children, I became quite disgusted with parents who overbearingly forced their children to be (or to not be) a certain way. For instance, the mom who shows up at school in hysterics when her daughter doesn't make the cheer squad in seventh grade. Yeah, it sucks and it hurts, but seriously lady, who wants this more? You or your working-on-building-self-esteem, yes-I'm-going-through-my-awkward-stage pre-teen? Dude, just give her a hug, let her shed a few tears on your shoulder, and help her move on. Don't make it worse.

And I think it can be even uglier with boys. Let's face it, most dads don't want to see their sons playing dress-up with mommy's lip gloss and stilettos. But it happens, trust me (Sorry, honey, that's just what the little guy does to stay entertained while I'm in the shower.)

But I swore I would not be that way. I would not flinch when my son started trying on my bra or asking to paint his toenails. You will not hear me say, "No, buddy, boys don't wear nail polish. Boys wear dirt and play games that result in bruises and blood shed." No, ma'am. I will let my son explore life no matter how, no matter what. Let him play with dolls and try-on jewelry. He's only a kid. So what?

Ha.

Ha.

Look what happened when I found this picture on my sister's facebook wall:

Ali Hooper

Is Henry playing with a princess crown?

about an hour ago · Delete

Morgan Nameth

He was taking the stickers off Ellas crown

about an hour ago

Ali Hooper

Okay, so he was destroying the pink princess crown? And that baby doll in the corner, I take it the boys were playing WWE and she was an innocent bystander. Am I right?

15 minutes ago · Delete

I couldn't help myself. I saw my boy, I saw the pink crown, and I just had to know. Had to.

And I swore I wouldn't be this way.

I'll just chalk this up to one more thing that I swore I wouldn't do once I became a mom. But now that I am a mom, that list was sent out with the dirty diapers. Also on that list was co-sleeping, letting my kids watch cartoons all day long, feeding my kids processed and pre-packaged foods, and allowing my kids to play with the dog food and water. I could go on and on. It was a mighty long list.

But let me make one thing clear. I will never be like that mom who freaks out when her daughter doesn't make the cheer squad. That is where I draw the line. Why? Because my daughter would never try out for cheer, that's why.

{wink}

Non-Maternal Instincts

I wrote this post yesterday afternoon.



I screamed this morning.

For no good reason other than I wanted to scream. I needed to scream.

Because as of 10:00 this morning, I was certifiably going crazy. Like off-my-rocker send-me-to-the-asylum crazy.

Have you ever felt that way? It's a terrible feeling. Actually, it helped me to empathize with people who really are insane. Like diagnosably insane. I think I just made that word up. Diagnosably. Use it anytime you like. You're welcome.

Anyway, this morning was rough. Ugh. Mom FAIL. Jesus Save Us All. R-O-U-G-H.

From 7am, when the kids woke me up, to 10am, when I screamed, the following mess ensued:

• Two dirty diapers.
• Two hungry kids (requiring me to quickly throw something together for Henry so that I could assume my position on the couch to nurse Harper).
• Violently vomiting baby - crap spewing out of her nose, and all - requiring a bath on the spot and an emergency load of laundry (Baby throw-up is one of the most horrible smells. I can't tolerate it. Never have. The soiled items could not wait until later.)
• Poopy toddler. Another diaper change.
• And since Harper emptied her belly, she needed nursed again. Back to the couch.
• CHALLENGING toddler. Henry insisted on getting into anything and everything - cable box, blinds, outlets, matchbox cars across t.v., dog food, I could go on-and-on.
• So I literally was running around the house, disciplining Henry one handed while cradling Harper who was latched on. I can only imagine what that looked like.
• Henry pooped again. Bath this time. Very necessary considering his poop was F-U-N-K-Y.
• And as I plopped Henry in the tub, Harper wailed and wailed because she was not done eating nor did she appreciate me putting her down.
• After a quick bath, I snatched Harper back up, latched her on, and found Henry banging on the pantry door (Translation: I want snack).
• I gave him his favorite, marshmallows, because his sugar consumption was the least of my concerns at that point.
• Rather than eating the marshmallows, Henry mushed them all up so that they were sticking between his fingers. Once again, time to unlatch Harper. This time so that I could clean up sticky fingers.
• As I was returning to clean up the rest of the marshmallows (Henry had thrown them across the floor), Harper began wailing and Henry began whining because I was throwing the remaining marshmallows down the sink.
• AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Yes, that is when I screamed. I had to. It was either scream or walk out of the house. Seriously, I was front-door bound.

But the screaming didn't help. Not that much, anyway. Rather it released something totally unexpected. Tears.

There I was, standing between a wailing baby and a whining toddler, with tears streaming down my face. Ugh.

Mom Fail.

But the tears provoked something that I should have done a long time ago. Prayer. I had not called out to God once during my three hours of hell.

So I prayed. Nothing pretty. Nothing eloquent. Just a desperate and tear-stained, "Oh Lord. Please help. Please. Give me sanity. Give me strength. Give me what I need to survive this day. And give me what I need to show my children love. Please."

It wasn't instant. I still had two unhappy children. But in time, things calmed down. And in time, I calmed down.

And for no other reason than that we have a merciful God, my day got better. It really did. Who knows if things really got better or if my attitude simply changed, probably a bit of both, but I was humbled as I realized that my three hours of mom hell were simply a part of my blessed life. Seriously.

Later, I sat with my son cuddled under one arm and my daughter nursing on my other side, gazing into each of their beautiful eyes, thanking God for giving me two beautiful babies who are totally worth it.

Can you hear me screaming now?

Because I am.

Blessed. I am so blessed.

The blessings of . . . mastitis?!

Warning: Dad, if you are reading this, Stop Now. I know that you would like to believe that we ordered an infant from a cabbage patch, and a stork conveniently delivered a baby girl to our home nine months later, and with a sprinkling of water and a dose of sunshine, she thrived and grew and blossomed into a delightful garden flower. But let me remind you of the time we saw the equine students artificially inseminate a horse or the many times we witnessed the cows in the milking parlor on your aunt's farm. Because the conception, survival, and nurturing of your grandchildren involves most of the same principles also witnessed in the animal kingdom. And that includes the crusty, dried-up leftover umbilical cord that took weeks to part from Harper's darling navel. It's still oozing, by the way. You've been warned.

Breast-feeding. I know, I know, it's a beautiful thing. I, the proud milk-bearing mother of my sweet gift from God, have the honor and privilege of bonding with my daughter in a unique way. I, sore-chested and well-endowed, am the sole provider for my baby girl's health and crucial weight gain. I, crack-nippled and oh-so-saggy, am chained to my daughter's cry or an obnoxious breast-pumping device every 2-3 hours around the clock. And as if all that wasn't glamorous enough, the exhausting efforts of my upper-half ultimately led to a terror that left me bedridden and downright ugly for most of a week.

Mastitis.

It sounds like the title of a cult horror flick, doesn't it?

But this is real life horror, y'all. Mastitis takes precious bonding between mother and child and turns it into a painful, aching, infected, and downright dreadful experience.

But thanks to the magic of forty green capsules and the grace of the good Lord, my mastitis was blasted from my body in a week's time. Thank you, Jesus!

But guess what? And you won't believe what I am about to say. The mastitis turned out to be a blessing.

Yes, I said a blessing. In all seriousness, I learned a lot about nursing because of the infection. You see, I was required to nurse through the mastitis, and in an effort to rid my body of the infection for good, I revisited my grad school days and hopped on the research train. I read and read and read about nursing, latching, milk supply, and anything else related to da boob. Forget La Leche League, I am a breast-feeding extraordinaire!

Now there is no guarantee that the mastitis will never return, but I now have a much better idea of how to prevent it. And if I suspect that I am getting a blocked duct, I have an arsenal of weapons for nipping it in the bud before it gets worse.

And because my dad is a dad and wants to remedy all my problems, even those that have nothing to do with carburetors or accelerator pumps, he did offer me some help through all this. (It's important to note that my Dad has an extensive background in agricultural sciences.) But because he would never speak to me directly about issues concerning my upper-half, he called my mom and had her deliver the following information. First he assured me that cows often get mastitis. Then he went on to say that farmers often treat the cows with a warm compress and medication (medication that he even offered to get for me, implying that I could take cow pills?)

Thanks, Dad. That really helped. As if I didn't already feel like a first-rate dairy cow. Now I might as well sprout udders and wait, what's that?

Moo.