tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30650653041257000012024-03-12T18:21:12.029-07:00Because Mama Needs A HobbyLizB214http://www.blogger.com/profile/02628568817640825601noreply@blogger.comBlogger47125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3065065304125700001.post-49337456836690116372015-11-30T10:30:00.001-08:002015-11-30T10:30:55.775-08:00No, I'm not doing Elf on a Shelf...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNEYuw3xNMHhML23dERP1gggZXImuzHNaCVv6E1-dXc8BpQ7wWEr6axC1FqxH3lRema7m5lpdxzETtPx-KS8IcZeblWEg85KYgrTtVZkMeGtSS3I_AIYwEP31C1zOSgLPNnMNqzfxwRaU/s1600/original-4458-1387510138-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNEYuw3xNMHhML23dERP1gggZXImuzHNaCVv6E1-dXc8BpQ7wWEr6axC1FqxH3lRema7m5lpdxzETtPx-KS8IcZeblWEg85KYgrTtVZkMeGtSS3I_AIYwEP31C1zOSgLPNnMNqzfxwRaU/s320/original-4458-1387510138-4.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I know some parents get really into it. Like <strong>REALLY</strong> into it, so into it that there are <a href="http://www.elfontheshelf.com/" target="_blank">websites</a> and <a href="http://www.elfontheshelf.com/blog" target="_blank">blogs</a> and <a href="https://www.pinterest.com/lookiewhatidid/elf-on-the-shelf/" target="_blank">Pinterest</a> pages and <a href="https://www.instagram.com/elfontheshelf/" target="_blank">Instagram</a> accounts all dedicated to the Motherf#ck!ng Elf on a Shelf. More power to you all, I genuinely mean that. But, you guys, I just can't... and here's a few reasons why: <br />
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1. I have enough shit to worry about. Including, but not limited to: making peanut-free meals that my preschooler will actually eat, remembering to pack the library book on Wednesday, finding said library book, getting to work on time(ish), making sure my house is clean enough to avoid being condemned, folding laundry (<em>so.much.laundry</em>!), grocery shopping, cooking, exercising, fetching goldfish (the cracker kind), bathing my kids <em>at least weekly</em>... you get the picture. I'm fucking busy! <br />
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2. If you do it once, you have to do it FOREVER! Or at least until your kids stop believing in Santa, and I just can't handle that kind of commitment. <br />
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3. I'm not imaginative, or crafty, or anything like that. I would move the thing from one boring place to another... I doubt my kids would be very impressed. <br />
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4. Any "mischief" that the elf gets him/herself into will need to be cleaned up by yours truly. I'm not going to intentionally sprinkle flour on the floor and make little elfy footprints, or dump a bag of marshmallows on the table because the elf wanted hot chocolate at midnight. No, just no. <br />
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5. If I ever did participate, I'd probably end up doing something like this: <br />
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So, it's probably better that we just stick with a crummy chocolate advent calendar. LizB214http://www.blogger.com/profile/02628568817640825601noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3065065304125700001.post-21265693842906397232015-08-10T13:34:00.003-07:002015-08-10T13:34:44.190-07:00The Downside to Cosleeping Shortly after Harrison was born, Daddo and I determined that we were a co-sleeping family. It wasn't something we planned on, but it just came naturally as the little <strike>demon</strike> darling woke every hour to nurse. Because we're <strike>lazy</strike> very concerned with our children's attachment, we built a cozy little family bed where we were able to get a fair amount of uninterrupted sleep. <em>Who am I kidding? Daddo slept just fine since he didn't have the only thing the boys actually wanted-- BOOBS!.</em> When Jax was born we didn't even attempt to put him in a crib, we just put up a mesh bedrail and snuggled in to our queen sized bed. <br />
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Honestly, Daddo and I agree that there's nothing better than waking up to a smiley, cuddly, little baby (or in this case toddler and child) and not having to get up a million times in the night to feed, shush, rock, sing someone back to sleep is a total bonus. <em>We have made a pact that we will stop sleeping with our boys before they grow armpit hair.</em> Co-sleeping isn't all unicorns and rainbows, I've been kicked in the face, puked on, and pushed out of bed more times than I can count, BUT the events of last night totally take the cake.<br />
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Picture this... Jax and I are sleeping soundly in his room. We're snuggled up in his Mickey Mouse bedding, surrounded by 45 stuffed animals. He's wearing nothing but his teeny tiny little underwear (seriously, there is nothing cuter than size 2T underwear!) and shark slippers, because he's three and that obviously makes total sense in the dead of summer. Suddenly, I feel something dripping on my hand, then my arm... what the!? what is that? I feel the bed beside me and it's dry, then I feel Jax and he seems to be dry- I even do a full on crotch grab that only parents can get away with and his cute little undies are totally dry. <br />
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Me: Did you just pee??!<br />
Jax: Yes...<br />
Me: Like you pulled down your underwear and peed?<br />
Jax: Yes...<br />
Me: WE DON'T PEE ON PEOPLE!<br />
Jax: Sorry mama.<br />
Me: Are you done???<br />
Jax: Zzzzzzz<br />
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Thankfully Harrison was in bed with Daddo so I stole the comforter off his bed and went right back to sleep (after I made a mental note to blog about this, of course). I guess I can say I got my first golden shower... <br />
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LizB214http://www.blogger.com/profile/02628568817640825601noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3065065304125700001.post-90607154116494846252015-06-30T17:44:00.001-07:002015-06-30T17:44:04.691-07:00Keepin' It Real: Anotomy Edition <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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As parents we constantly encounter differing opinions when it comes to parenting: breast is best, formula is fine, co-sleeping, bedsharing, crib only, cry it out, attachment parenting... you get the point. Most of the time, I shrug off differences with a simple, "this works for us." <br />
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While camping with family recently a friendly debate arose. Recognizing that we're the "hippies"of the family (we eat kale after all), I knew we'd fall further to the left on this conversation than some. But as we continued to talk, I realized how strongly I feel about teaching children the proper anatomical names for their body parts and here are a few reasons why.<br />
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<strong>It's a matter of health</strong>-- if a child is in pain or discomfort, we want them to feel comfortable letting us know. Saying "my penis hurts" shouldn't be any different than saying "my hand hurts." The better a child is able to explain what's wrong (to a trusted adult) the easier it is for us to help<br />
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<strong>Children are naturally curious</strong>-- to help instill confidence in themselves, it's our job as parents to teach them all kinds of things, including how their bodies work (even the parts that can feel awkward talking about). Stifling questions, or being vague can cause feelings of shame and embarrassment that will most likely backfire some day.<br />
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<strong>It’s a matter of trust.</strong> We want our children to trust us. If we avoid conversations about anatomy, we risk making our kids feel shameful or afraid to ask questions. It's important to keep all lines of communication open so that our kids can come to us with ANY question or problem that might arise. Obviously we need to be clear about when and where body-talk is appropriate. For example, at the dinner table is not the right time to tell your grandma that your penis is "really big in the morning." <br />
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<strong>These are words for safety- </strong>It's also important to teach our children that genitals are private. Using accurate words allow black-and-white instruction about exactly which parts should not be touched by others. Our general rule is that you can touch your own penis (in private), but no one else can, and you can't touch anyone else's (for now anyway). If, shudder to think, our children were ever victimized it's crucial that they be able to explain exactly what happened. <br />
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The reality is, if we don't teach our children about their bodies, then someone else will... it may be an older kid on the school bus, a more experienced partner, or, shudder to think, a sexual predator. I think it's crucial that we set that tone and make sure they have the correct information to make good decisions for themselves. </div>
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And don't just take my word for it, <a href="http://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2013/04/the-case-for-teaching-kids-vagina-penis-and-vulva/274969/">here's</a> a great article about sexual abuse prevention that stresses the importance of accurate language. <br />
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<br />LizB214http://www.blogger.com/profile/02628568817640825601noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3065065304125700001.post-54347416804612053862015-05-18T12:25:00.001-07:002015-05-18T12:25:23.326-07:00Calm the Eff Down!Admittedly, I spend way too much time on Facebook- it feels like the only way this busy mama can <strike>stalk</strike> keep up with my friends and family. I also follow a few different weight loss/healthy eating and parenting pages. Lately I find myself ready to pounce on some of these parents... these are real life posts I've seen (<em>edited to be slightly less annoying and a little funnier</em>). <br />
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<em>I left my two year old daughter with my in-laws for two hours and they fed her...(gasp)... a popsicle.</em><br />
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Seriously?!? Calm the fuck down! There are babies who drink Pepsi from their bottles and turn out <strike>relatively ok</strike> fine... that organic 100% fruit juice popsicle will not ruin her. <br />
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<em>I can't find a way to secure every fucking piece of furniture that I own to a beam or joist, so I must move to a house that's safe for my children.</em><br />
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Um, no! Calm the fuck down and supervise your kids! Or even better, don't use rickety-ass furniture.<br />
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<em>My four day old isn't sleeping through the night. I've swaddled and shushed, but when I put him down he cries.</em> <br />
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He grew in your body for 9+ months, of course he doesn't want to lay alone in that Pack N Play. Eventually he'll sleep, and so will you. Calm the fuck down and hold your baby!<br />
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<em>My three year old won't listen to me. I've tried timeout but it doesn't seem to be working.</em> <br />
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Calm the fuck down! Three year olds are assholes! It's hardwired as part of their development. You just have to ride this shitty parenting wave out. <br />
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<em>What kind of behavior chart do you use to keep your kids on track?</em><br />
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What the fuck? Calm the fuck down! You don't need sticker charts and reward systems, you have enough to keep track of (like who's been fed and who hasn't). "Don't be a dick" should be the overarching message. Always. <br />
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This post was inspired by <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MDpyS2HN5SA">this amazing clip</a>. <br />
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<br />LizB214http://www.blogger.com/profile/02628568817640825601noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3065065304125700001.post-27039430090877918042015-04-01T08:32:00.000-07:002015-04-01T08:32:19.277-07:00To my friends without children...Last week, Dadd-O and I took the boys to the movies (along with an extra buddy from daycare) and I also invited a friend/co-worker who doesn't have kids. Even though the boys were really good (like seriously, surprisingly good), as I juggled popcorn and Whoppers and Icees, while making sure everyone made it to the bathroom and got a seat they were happy with, she looked at me and said, <br />
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<strong>"WOW, your life is soooo different than mine!"</strong> Yes, yes it is. <br />
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If you don't have kids, chances are your morning routine looks a lot different than mine...<br />
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Most likely you got to use the bathroom alone. There was no one unrolling the toilet paper roll while you sat helplessly on the toilet, no one climbed onto your lap while you did your business, or asked questions about why you wear a "diaper." <br />
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I bet no one snuck in while you were showering and karate chopped the curtain, scaring the shit out of you. <br />
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You didn't use Flintstones vitamins as leverage for teeth brushing or have the unique opportunity to pry open a tiny mouth and shove an electric Spiderman toothbrush into it trying to touch each little tooth at least once.<br />
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You only wiped one butt! <br />
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You probably only zipped one jacket, and put on one pair of shoes. You missed out on the experience of searching for missing shoes/hats/mittens/jackets that were right there last night. You didn't have to argue the value of winter boots over rain boots when temperatures are below freezing. <br />
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You didn't get to wrestle a toddler (who suddenly developed super speed and strength) into a five point harness, and you got to choose the radio station (only changing it if and when YOU wanted to.)<br />
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And lastly, you probably got to work on time... <br />
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LizB214http://www.blogger.com/profile/02628568817640825601noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3065065304125700001.post-74602151507635776092015-02-02T10:20:00.000-08:002015-02-02T10:20:01.324-08:00Finding My Motivation: Where the F*ck is it??<br />
Once upon a time there was a 22 year old girl who weighed 197 pounds. She'd been "chubby" most of her life, and was finally sick and tired of it. She joined Weight Watchers and started going to the gym religiously, and over about a year and a half, she lost 56 pounds. She had confidence, and felt the best she ever had! <br />
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Fast forward nine years and that girl is a frazzled, working mama who is not happy with the way her body looks or feels. She's committed to Jazzercise (finally!) but she can't seem to stick to any kind of healthy eating plan. Thankfully, she's not back to where she was... YET! <br />
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FYI, that girl is me. <br />
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Since having kids I've tried going back to Weight Watchers (a couple of times), I've tried <a href="http://becausemamaneedsahobby.blogspot.com/2013/10/hello-again.html">Advocare</a>, counting calories and the 21 Day Fix, but I can't seem to stick with anything long term. I've vowed to be kinder to myself <a href="http://becausemamaneedsahobby.blogspot.com/2015/01/2015.html">this year</a>, but I can't help but wonder if I'm being too easy on myself...<br />
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<strong>How do you get to, or maintain, a healthy weight?</strong> <br />
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LizB214http://www.blogger.com/profile/02628568817640825601noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3065065304125700001.post-8639729006050292962015-01-08T06:22:00.001-08:002015-01-08T06:22:45.768-08:002015<br />
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As we enter the new year, I'm thinking back to this time last year when I made a list of 36 things I hoped to tackle in 2014. I was able to successfully accomplish about 1/3 of the things on my list, and another 1/3 were partially accomplished. While I think it's important to have realistic and concrete goals that one can "check off," I think it's far too easy to get stuck on the end result and forget about the journey. <em>I'm about to get a little deep here, so bear with me.</em> For 2015, I'm setting goals that are a little more vague, but that can be incorporated into everything that I do. <br />
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<strong>Have More Fun</strong><br />
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All too often I get caught up in my own head and forget to live in the moment. I'm too worried about laundry and dishes to enjoy the laughter of my children. While I can't completely neglect household chores (unfortunately), I do want to be more intentional about dedicating time to playing with my children and just enjoying life through their eyes. <br />
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<strong>Take Care of Myself</strong><br />
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I've spent way too many years of my life stressing about my weight, calories in, calories burned... blah blah blah. I'm not throwing in the towel altogether, but trying to take a more holistic approach to self-care. I plan to eat healthy foods that fuel my body and make me feel strong and healthy (about 80% of the time), but I also plan to spend time with my girlfriends, drink some wine and occasionally go out to dinner with my husband. <br />
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I got a really sweet deal on a year's worth of Jazzercise classes, so my love of group fitness is covered and I'm still learning how to take time for "me" without feeling a whole lot of mama/wife guilt. <br />
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<strong>Keep In Touch</strong><br />
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I lost one of my best friends this year and it was a crazy reminder that I need to cherish the friends that I have and keep in closer touch. It's so easy to get wrapped up in my day-to-day life and lose touch with people who are very important to me. This year I vow to remind those I love that I'm thinking of them, whether it's a text message, phone call, snail mail (for the grandmas), or scheduling a lunch date. <br />
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<strong>Do you make New Years Resolutions? If so, what are your plans for 2015? </strong><br />
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<b></b><br />LizB214http://www.blogger.com/profile/02628568817640825601noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3065065304125700001.post-47967570340245655532014-12-23T10:12:00.001-08:002014-12-23T10:21:05.939-08:00One Crazy DayMy dear friend Kara at the <a href="http://thedailywhisk.com/a-day-in-the-life/">Daily Whisk </a>just wrote a great "day in the life" post, which inspired me to do the same. But, hold on to your hats because this is going to be a wild ride. <br />
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5:25am- Daddo-O comes into Jaxy's room to wake me up. <i>Wanna work out? No, but I'll be right down...</i><br />
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5:30am- I use my ninja skills to silently roll off the bed and change into my workout clothes. I stumble down the stairs and push play. We discuss how much we hate Autumn Calabrese. I critique Dadd-O's plank and almost pee my yoga pants trying to do (modified) burpees. <br />
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5:47am- We hear Jaxy screaming upstairs. Dadd-O brings him down and tucks him in on the couch to "watch us workout." <br />
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5:52am- Jaxy is nursing upside-down while I attempt to do crunches for 60 seconds straight, twice. <i>Why did I give up my gym membership again?</i><br />
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6:00am- We finish the cool down, Dadd-O goes upstairs to take a shower and I snuggle Jaxy on the couch and watch cartoons/sneak in a catnap. <br />
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Over the next hour and a half, two people shower, at least two people poop, four sets of teeth are brushed, the dog goes out 17 times, lunches are put together, breakfasts are made, snuggles and meltdowns are had, and if we're lucky, we get out the door on time and without forgetting anything or yelling <strike>too much</strike>. <br />
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Three days a week the boys go to daycare together (where thankfully, meals are taken care of). The other two days we usually divide and conquer. Dadd-O drops off Jaxy and I bring Harrison to preschool, feeding him <i>pre-made, preservative-laden</i> mini muffins and a <i>pre-made, preservative-laden</i> yogurt smoothie in the car. He asks me, <i>Is Dadd-O getting surgery on his balls?</i> I play dumb. We sing All About That Bass and fight over whether it's a girl or a boy singing. <i>Seriously?! </i><br />
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8am- Blah blah... work stuff... blah blah... State employee... blah blah... phone calls, emails, webinars, meetings... blah blah blah<br />
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4:45pm- It's already dark as I leave work for the day. We divide and conquer once again, but this time I get the little one- and this happens... <br />
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Jax: <i>I want music loud!</i><br />
<br />
So I turn up the music...<br />
<br />
Jax: <i>blah blah blah</i><br />
Me: (turn down the music) <i>What babe?</i><br />
Jax: <i>Mama, you a girl?</i><br />
Me: <i>Yes, I'm a girl.</i><br />
Jax: <i>Loud.</i><br />
Me: (turn up the music)<br />
<br />
One minute later...<br />
<br />
Jax: <i>blah blah blah</i><br />
Me: (turn down the music) <i>What babe?</i><br />
Jax: <i>Mama, it's dark outside?</i><br />
Me: <i>Yes, it dark outside.</i><br />
Jax: <i>Loud!</i><br />
Me: (turn up the music)<br />
<br />
Two minutes later...<br />
<br />
Jax: <i>blah, blah, blah</i><br />
Me: (turn down the music) <i>What babe?</i><br />
Jax: <i>Mama, Bella our dog?</i><br />
Me: <i>Yes, Bella is our dog.</i><br />
Jax: <i>LOUD!</i> <br />
Me: (turn up the music)<br />
<br />
Aaand REPEAT.<br />
<br />
5:15pm: We pull into the garage and I release Jax from his car seat. <i>I watch Mickey Mouse and drink a boobie?!</i> He asks/demands. <i>As you wish my son </i>::eyeroll:: <br />
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5:30pm: The Dadd-O and Harrison get home and I retreat to the kitchen to get started on dinner. If I'm lucky the boys stay downstairs and play/watch TV, but generally they want to be as close to me as humanly possible without actually crawling back inside my uterus. I try to keep my cool as I chop, saute and stir allthewhile tripping over ninjas, kissing boo-boos, breaking up fights and trying to protect two little cannon-ballers from needing stitches. (Seriously, they gather all the pillows in the house, pile them up near the couch, then scream <i>Cannon Ball!</i> as they jump... generally, they land on the pillows.) <br />
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6:15pm: We finally sit down to dinner. Jax refuses to eat anything on his plate, but begs for bites from both Dadd-O and I (it's the same damn thing!). We attempt normal family conversation. <br />
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Me: <i>Harrison, how was your day?</i><br />
H: <i>Good.</i><br />
Dadd-O: <i>What was your favorite part?</i><br />
H: <i>Tooting!</i><br />
Me: death stare<br />
Jax: <i>I tooted!</i><br />
<br />
And then we basically give up... It's a good day if no one is "asked" to leave the table, or storms of crying mid-meal. <br />
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6:30pm: Daddo-O gets the boys in the bath, while I clean up the kitchen. For some reason, I hate bath time more than I hate dishes. I overhear things like, <i>Don't splash your brother!</i> and <i>Get your finger out of his butt crack!</i> Oh yeah, that's why I prefer dishes...<br />
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Now comes my favorite part of the evening. The boys are all clean-smelling and dressed in their jammies. We wrestle in the living room for awhile (until someone gets hurt-- usually me-- which forces us to stop.) We read books <i><a href="http:///">Pete the Cat </a></i> is a big hit in our house. And sometimes we even do <a href="https://www.youtube.com/user/CosmicKidsYoga">Cosmic Yoga </a> (yes, as a family). Our goal is to wind the boys down- though I think Dadd-O sometimes forgets this. <br />
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8:00pm: Teeth are brushed, and a cup of milk is poured. We give hugs and kisses to Dadd-O and Harrison. I lay with Jaxy and nurse him before he rolls his little body over and snuggles in to me. His breaths become deeper, and slower and within 30 minutes he's out. This is my "me" time- I stalk Facebook, play Candy Crush, read on my phone... and usually fall asleep by 9pm. <br />
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This is when Daddo-O and Harrison have thier self-proclaimed "man time." They watch shows on the iPad and snack on goldfish. I'm not even entirely sure what they do, but I'm sure it includes a lot of farting and talking about balls. <br />
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Aaaaaannnddd REPEAT! <br />
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<br />LizB214http://www.blogger.com/profile/02628568817640825601noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3065065304125700001.post-62840998942986630422014-11-14T10:22:00.002-08:002014-11-14T10:22:42.033-08:00A Real Life Shit Show<b>**WARNING**</b> This post is both disgusting and humiliating, but in order to make the rest of you feel like better parents, I feel socially obligated to share. You're welcome.<br />
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<b>Poop Story #1</b><br />
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We're just barely starting to introduce potty training to Jax. We're not pushing it, just following his lead... and really, I'm not in any hurry because who wants to run to a public bathroom 8,000 times during one trip to the grocery store? Anyway- Jax was hanging out in his underwear (size 2T underwear are possibly the cutest thing ever!) when Harrison declared that he needed to poop. I watched Jax playing quietly and noticed a little bit of a squat coming on. <br />
<br />
<i>Are you pooping?</i>, I asked. But I could tell from his face, that yes, indeed he was. <i>Let's go on the potty!</i> I exclaimed... but Harrison was already on the toilet, and there was no chance of running up the stairs carrying the little pooper.<br />
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<i>Harrison are you done?</i> I kind of yelled. <br />
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<i>Yeah, why?</i> he asked. <br />
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<i>Get up!! NOW!</i><br />
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And he did, thankfully. As I pulled off the cute little 2T Mickey Mouse unders, a log of poop fell to the floor. I put Jax on the toilet, with Harrison standing by and went to pick up the poop log... to find that we were out of toilet paper. <br />
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<i>DADD-O! Can you bring down a roll of toilet paper?</i><br />
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<i>In a few minutes, I'm pooping! </i>This phrase gets shouted way too frequently in our house, but I digress.<br />
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<i>Don't move!</i> I told both boys and ran upstairs to get a roll of toilet paper. As much as I love my husband, I avoid entering the bathroom at all costs during and directly after his pooping sessions, but I had to take one for the team here. I pulled my shirt up over my nose, averted my eyes and went directly to the storage closet, grabbed a roll and ran. I return to the downstairs bathroom to find Jax still on the toilet (phew) and Harrison standing by, but the poop... the poop was gone. <br />
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<i>Guys, what happened to the poop?</i><br />
<br />
<i>Bella ate it...</i> Yes, the fucking dog ate my kid's poop. But hey, at least I didn't have to clean it up. <br />
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<br />
<b>Poop Story #2</b><br />
<br />
I was home alone with the boys building forts, playing "babies" or something amazing like that when I needed to :: ahem :: "do my business." I left the boys to play, assuring them that I'd be back in a few minutes. A few seconds later Harrison barges into the bathroom exclaiming that he has to poop. <i>Go downstairs, let me know when you're done and I'll come wipe you. </i>I said. Apparently Jax went down with him... as did the iPad. So a few minutes later I hear the dreaded, <i>I'm done!! </i>and head downstairs. I can tell immediately that some thing's not right. Harrison has leaned the iPad up against the dryer and was totally sucked into <strike>NINJAGO</strike> some educational nature programming. Next to him stands Jax... holding a toy screwdriver which is covered in POOP! As are both of his hands and the side of the toilet! <br />
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<i>Harrison! What happened?</i> I kind of yelled (again). <br />
<br />
<i>What? I didn't know he was going to stick it in my butt...</i> <br />
<br />
<i>Seriously!?!? Turn off the iPad right now! Jax don't move! </i><br />
<br />
I then proceeded to use Clorox wipes on every surface imaginable, even my child's hands, and took away the iPad for the rest of the day. Because, <i>pay a-fucking-tention when someone sticks a toy screwdriver (or anything else for that matter) in your butt!!</i> <br />
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This is real life people- I can't make this shit up. See what I did there? LizB214http://www.blogger.com/profile/02628568817640825601noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3065065304125700001.post-73088140839468141222014-10-28T06:35:00.004-07:002014-10-28T06:35:48.814-07:00Keeping Your Inner Bitch at Bay<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOCmrWvXrQkMt8VLAc4hGHz1MsLeQq0DBOll54sIYnW34cAQ1jNoDSvYPFBEaqT66jxCvVyjkEvGpBGLsvMsoTQvvu8pWu76SYj4d01r1-dFlvrCNmISVha1WqRIDpbi_X5EaVImlogJM/s1600/Debra_Barone_-_Everybody_Loves_Raymond.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" closure_lm_51768="null" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOCmrWvXrQkMt8VLAc4hGHz1MsLeQq0DBOll54sIYnW34cAQ1jNoDSvYPFBEaqT66jxCvVyjkEvGpBGLsvMsoTQvvu8pWu76SYj4d01r1-dFlvrCNmISVha1WqRIDpbi_X5EaVImlogJM/s1600/Debra_Barone_-_Everybody_Loves_Raymond.jpg" height="200" mua="true" width="180" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
Do you ever feel like Patricia Heaton's character Deborah from the show Everybody Loves Raymond? Because I do- ALL.THE.TIME. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span id="goog_188256834"></span><span id="goog_188256835"></span><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">In the days Pre Kids (P.K.) I used to think to myself- "God, she's such a bitch!" "Why's she so mean to her husband?!" "WTF is her problem?"</div></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Well... Now I know! I really, truly, get it. She's overwelmed, she's tired, her mind won't shut off, and she's overwelmed (that needs to be said twice.)</div></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"></div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Being a mom is hard, being a wife is hard, hell, being a person is hard! Put those three together and you've got a tornado of thoughts running through your mind at any given moment.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><i>Ugh, the sink is full of dishes. I should do them. No, I did them last time, so Dadd-O should do them... but he's playing with the boys, that's more important. I should be playing with them too. But if I don't do the dishes now, they'll still be there tomorrow and Dadd-O isn't home tomorrow, so I'll never get them done and the world will end!!</i></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
This is just a tiny sample of what goes on in my head at any given moment. (You're welcome.)</div><br />
So, how do I curb my inner Deborah? Well, I'm not always able to keep that bitch on lock-down, but I do have a few tricks that work for me:<br />
<br />
<b>Deep Breaths</b>- I know this sounds cheesy, but it really does work. When I can feel myself getting close to losing my shit, I take a few slow, deep breaths... then turn on my Stepford wife face and go back to parenting. <br />
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<b>Time Away</b>- Sometimes I choose to do the dishes, or bring the laundry downstairs just so that I can have a tiny bit of time to myself. <i>And sometimes I pretend I'm pooping so that I can check facebook in private.</i><br />
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<b>Be Honest</b>- Sometimes I just have to tell my boys (Dadd-O included), that I'm having a rough day. That it's hard for me to be patient/kind/calm, and that I need them to be understanding/helpful/patient. <i>Basically, consider this a warning shot. </i><br />
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<b>How do you keep it together as a partner, parent, person??</b>LizB214http://www.blogger.com/profile/02628568817640825601noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3065065304125700001.post-81820192231960301302014-09-25T12:43:00.001-07:002014-09-25T12:43:26.510-07:00Life is a WhirlwindWOW! The past month has been crazy. I feel like I've lost track of the time and can't even remember what's been keeping us so busy, but here's a little recap:<br />
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<b>Harrison returned to preschool</b>- This is exciting, because our little guy is growing up, but it's also a little stressful. "Preschool days" adds extra time to the commute twice a week and pile on one more logistic to work out with Dadd-O. (Can you do drop off, and I'll do pick up? Wait, I don't have a car seat...) <br />
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<b>We went camping one last time</b>- We've discovered a campground that we really like. It's family-owned and operated, with lots of activities for the kids. We went earlier this summer and took advantage of the water slides, playground and two pools. This month, we loved the Halloween themed weekend. Many of the campsites were covered with spooky decorations and the boys trick-or-treated from site to site. It was a blast, but it was also the first <i>COLD</i> weekend which gave us the chilling (see what I did there?) reminder that fall is coming. <br />
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<b>Dadd-O has been training</b>- In addition to his full time "real job," Dadd-O is a volunteer firefighter. This month he's been taking a class at the fire station every Tuesday and Thursday evening, and two full Saturdays. In between classes he's preoccupied with reading and studying. This means that two nights a week, we've seen each other for about 10 minutes between work and class while we pass off the boys and share a quick kiss hello/goodbye. The boys miss him, I miss him, he misses us... and we all miss our normal routine. Thankfully, the month is almost over and we can go back to eating dinner as a family. <br />
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<b>I joined a book club</b>- Reading more (at all?) has been on my to-do list for a while now. I was psyched when a few of my lady friends at work recently invited me to join a book club. We had our first meeting last week and the <strike>food</strike> <strike>wine</strike> conversation was great. I actually finished the book (I wasn't sure I'd have enough free time) and enjoyed an evening with hilarious, intelligent, and amazing women! Win-win. <br />
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<b>Board Meetings</b>- Harrison's pre-school is a co-operative, which means parents have a say in how the school is run and must participate on the board or a committee. I'm the board secretary, so once a month I spend an evening at the preschool with other parents discussing school operations and planning. I'm also volunteering with our Community Justice Center (more to come on this), where I spend two evenings a month. <br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><b>Soccer</b>- Late in the summer, Harrison attended a week-long soccer "camp." I would totally use airquotes if I could, because it was only for an hour a day, seriously... regardless they still get the $100 bucks out of us. (Which included a ball, jersey and t-shirt. Quite as steal.) Anyway, he seemed to enjoy soccer and met a new friend that he couldn't stop talking about. Luckily, the new friend's mom told me about another upcoming soccer program that was starting and new friend would also be participating. This one is only once a week, for six weeks- every Friday afternoon. So far it's gone well, except for trying to keep Jaxy off the field. "I play soccer camp too?"<br />
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Things seem to be winding down a bit, thankfully, but now I must start planning a fifth birthday party! </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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LizB214http://www.blogger.com/profile/02628568817640825601noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3065065304125700001.post-75100474902861764632014-09-22T13:23:00.002-07:002014-09-22T13:23:51.099-07:00Versatile Blogger Award<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
My dear friend <a href="http://thedailywhisk.com/">Kara</a> nominated me for my first ever blog award, the Versatile Blogger Award. Thanks!<br />
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I’m going to share seven (questionably) interesting things about me and then nominate seven other bloggers to do the same. (Ok, I only came up with five.)<br />
<br />
And this will keep going for all eternity... <br />
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1. Whenever possible, my socks must match my shirt. If that's not possible, they can match my pants. If that's not possible, they must coordinate with my overall outfit. <br />
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2. I hate romantic comedies- like HATE them. When it comes to movies, if you want to keep me interested, I need it to be dark, scary, inappropriately funny, or just plain bizarre. <br />
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3. If I could have any job in the world, I would be a guidance counselor. Helping young people realize their goals seems like it would be pretty fulfilling. I'd love the school schedule, without the pressure of being a teacher and I can happily administer personality tests and visit college campuses all day long. <br />
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4. I take friendship very seriously. I don't do well with acquaintances- because either we're friends, and I'll give you all I've got, or we're not... (wow, that makes me sound like a total bitch)<br />
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5. I am not spontaneous. I wish I was, really I do... but whenever I try to do something on a whim, anxiety sets in and it's rarely enjoyable (for anyone involved). This relates to big things- I won't (generally) lose my shit over a change in dinner plans. <br />
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6. I'd love to go back to school to get my master's degree, but I'm not exactly sure what I'd want to study: social work or counseling.<br />
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7. I seriously LOVE nachos!! Like, I'm an addict who can't stop herself if I get anywhere near chips with melted cheese. <br />
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Now it's your turn<br />
<br />
Alma at <a href="http://www.atinygrowinghouse.blogspot.com/">A Tiny Growing House</a><br />
Kate at <a href="http://sometimesimakeart.blogspot.com/">Sometimes I Make Art</a><br />
Sarah at <a href="http://skrohde.wordpress.com/">Mama Gets Real</a><br />
Gretchin at <a href="http://www.yourmomisstrange.com/">Your Mom Is Strange</a><br />
Jessica at <a href="http://www.theleakyboob.com/">The Leaky Boob</a>LizB214http://www.blogger.com/profile/02628568817640825601noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3065065304125700001.post-19465390598599912342014-08-26T05:40:00.000-07:002014-08-26T05:40:38.424-07:00Eight Years<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Today we celebrate eight years of marriage, eight years of ups and downs, happiness and sadness. Seriously, you can accomplish a lot in eight years!</div>
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5,840 Kisses</div>
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32,120 Shared Meals</div>
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3 Lost Parents</div>
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2 Houses Purchased</div>
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1 Crazy Dog</div>
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14,600 I Love You's</div>
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16 Vacations</div>
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2 Beautiful Boys</div>
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416 Disagreements</div>
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9,125 Diapers Changed</div>
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100 Pounds Lost</div>
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100 Pounds Gained</div>
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Cheers to many more! </div>
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Love you babe</div>
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LizB214http://www.blogger.com/profile/02628568817640825601noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3065065304125700001.post-37926438632528554852014-08-18T08:12:00.000-07:002014-08-18T08:12:55.351-07:00When Things Don't Quite Work Out as Planned <br />
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I'm excited to share another breastfeeding story from my friend Lindsey- she pumped around the clock for her daughter for NINE whole months. Truly inspiring. </div>
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<strong>A Pumping Story </strong>(Lindsey Walker)</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Healthy, smart, four year old Riley</td></tr>
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I was a breastfeeding mom. I knew this from a young age. My mom had told me that she breastfed me for six months, so that was my objective as well. At the time, my rationale was to breastfeed for the bonding experience and the health benefits. I would soon find out not only the health benefits, but the mechanics of it as well. When I was in my last trimester, I bought a nursing bra and attended a two-hour course in breastfeeding and an 8-hour pre-natal class. I’m a planner and it helped me feel prepared.</div>
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After 26 hours of Pitocin-induced labor, I was elated to hold my sweet daughter in my arms. She spent two seconds on my chest before she was whisked away by the men and women in yellow, who helped her find her first breaths after what felt like an eternity of waiting—especially from my immobile, placenta-delivering position. Then, remarkably, I held her again. Well, barely, because I was exhausted and had sprained my neck during labor while pushing on my side. We spent a lot of skin-on-skin time together, as the doctors encouraged it for bonding and feeding association. </div>
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I soon learned that Riley wasn’t interested in my breasts, other than as a pillow. The nurses said it was probably due to the long and rough delivery. Since Riley wouldn’t nurse in the first 24 hours, the nurses set me up on an every two-hour pumping schedule to encourage my breasts to produce milk. My breasts needed a baby’s suckling to encourage milk production, and my body was on some hangover schedule from the Pitocin that made my milk come in more slowly than normal. </div>
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Small amounts of colostrum was recovered from my breasts and then quickly put into her mouth with my finger. Since she still had no interest in latching on to my nipples, my colostrum mixed with infant formula was poured into a syringe. A tube connected to the syringe was placed next to my nipple and Riley tried to latch on and receive some of the mixture. We didn’t introduce a bottle because we didn’t want her to have nipple confusion and prefer a bottle over the natural delivery of my breasts. I was reluctant to give her formula but felt it was the best approach until I could produce more milk and she could latch on properly.</div>
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Once I arrived home from the hospital, I stayed on my pumping schedule while still trying to syringe and breastfeed Riley. Even when Riley slept more than two hours, my husband would set the alarm so I could pump using the portable Medela pump that my health care provided. I was on a rugged schedule of pumping, Tylenol, and a narcotic for my sprained neck. (The doctors swore it was safe and not transferable to my breast milk.)<br />
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When Riley was four days old, I scheduled a home visit with a lactation consultant. She found me upstairs in the fetal position. I told her that she would have to teach me how to breastfeed from that position because I couldn’t support my own neck, sit up, or walk well. She introduced me to a modified football hold and encouraged me to stay on my every two-hour pumping schedule. She said she would return in two days.<br />
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Later that afternoon, we visited the pediatrician who weighed Riley and checked her over. He was very gentle and reassuring. I explained to him my breastfeeding issues and he encouraged me to keep trying. Riley had lost 5oz since birth, but he was not alarmed as some weight loss is normal after birth. The next two days moved slowly as I continued on my schedule of feeding and pumping. I was exhausted, but determined.</div>
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On the evening of Riley’s fifth day, my milk finally arrived. I felt elated as if I had just received an unexpected million-dollar gift in the mail. It wasn’t the mail man, it was the milk man with a just-in-time delivery of white gold, holy boob juice! My enthusiasm returned and I continued to put Riley to my breast, sometimes with the syringe and sometimes without depending on how much I felt Riley was actually eating, often she would lie there with my breast in her mouth. I would awkwardly give her my milk through the syringe with her mouth almost latched, she would feed, and then I would remove the tube and syringe. I hoped that once the flow of milk came through the syringe, she would start suckling. After every hour of feeding (and burping), she would cry.<br />
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My next appointment on Riley’s fifth day was to the chiropractor for my neck. Riley, Dave, and I went but I was very concerned about returning home for my next pumping. My breasts were now engorged, but my sprained neck was significantly improved. I was relieved to focus on feeding my baby.<br />
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As promised, the lactation consultant returned on Riley’s sixth day. This time, she came equipped with a hospital grade pump and was surprised to find me sitting in a living room chair with a much-improved neck. She demonstrated different breastfeeding positions, and she encouraged me to continue pumping when Riley didn’t feed well at my breast. Later that day, we returned to the pediatrician. He was pleased to report that Riley had gained an ounce in two days. We would return in four days for another weight check.<br />
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Over the next four days, I breastfed Riley every hour or two, and then she’d cry immediately afterward, so I would syringe feed her milk until she was satisfied. This meant my pumping schedule had to continue. I pumped and fed her constantly around the clock. I was exhausted, anxious, and everything felt surreal. If I went anywhere, I returned within two hours so I didn’t miss a scheduled pumping. <br />
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When Riley was ten days old, I called the pediatrician again. I was so sleep deprived that I had to find another solution. Since Riley still wasn’t latching, I couldn’t maintain this schedule for much longer and keep up with her demand through a syringe. Riley weighed in at 6lbs 15oz, a weight gain of five ounces in four days. The pediatrician was pleased with her weight gain but recognized syringe feeding wouldn’t work permanently. I met with his lactation consultant who verified that my holds were well positioned and that I was coaxing Riley appropriately. She also noticed that Riley would barely latch and then fall asleep despite that I would undress her for each feeding and rub her feet to keep her awake. She and the doctor conferred and recommended that I try “tough love”: Stop syringe feeding and give Riley a chance to feed only from my breast. In theory, if she were hungry enough she might learn to latch on. I thought they were crazy and worried I’d starve my child. I returned home and cried in the shower.<br />
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Over the next three days, I nursed until I hallucinated. When Riley didn’t feed well, I followed breastfeeding with pumping to ensure my milk supply didn’t wane. Two days later, Riley’s diapers were no longer wet and she became lethargic. She didn’t cry much, but she didn’t move much either. Even worse, she was very difficult to wake. We returned to the pediatrician early the next day. This time, he was alarmed. Riley had lost five ounces in three days. <br />
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He told me to make a choice. I could formula feed or try pumping all my breast milk. His son had been born with a cleft palette and his wife had successfully pumped her breast milk while caring for their other children. I decided to continue pumping as long as I could. I was disappointed that I wasn’t going to be a successful breastfeeding mom, but I was so comforted to know that I could go home and try to feed Riley a bottle of my breast milk. Riley loved her first bottle and gobbled down every drop.<br />
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I called the lactation consultant who had visited my home to inform her of my new plan. She didn’t support the idea as she said most exclusively pumping mothers failed. I told her I wanted to continue renting the hospital breast pump, and she recommended that I pump every three hours even if Riley slept for longer periods. I refused to give up.<br />
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When my husband was home, he would feed Riley while I pumped. Eventually, I learned to put Riley in a boppy pillow on a bed in our spare bedroom while I pumped and fed her simultaneously. Hands-free pumping bras were a terrific invention that allowed me to pump and stroke Riley’s hair. I couldn’t hold her, but at least she felt my touch while she fed. <br />
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I soon found a rhythm. If I was home, I used the hospital pump. When I was running errands or visiting other people, I brought my portable, battery-powered Medela pump and my hands-free pumping bra. Riley loved her bottle-fed milk. I pumped every three hours for 20 minutes each time, which was enough to feed her as often as she needed. Occasionally, I would try to breastfeed too but she always left my breast hungry.<br />
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For the next seven weeks, I pumped every three hours. I pumped everywhere I went. I pumped in the car while my husband drove us to the Jazz Festival. I pumped in the Home Depot, Hannaford, and University Mall parking lots. After shopping for new nursing bras, I pumped in a side street while downtown. Once while visiting family in Montreal, I pumped at a café along the Lachine Canal.<br />
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Eventually, my pumping schedule went to every four hours and my milk supply maintained. Riley loved it and steadily gained weight. Soon, I found myself freezing the milk Riley didn’t eat. As the weeks passed, our freezer grew full. We used our parents’ freezers for storage when our freezer had no room left. Three months later, when their freezers were full, we bought a five foot cubic freezer to store the breastmilk.<br />
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I was so proud of myself for making it to three months that I kept pumping. Life was easier too because I was pumping every five hours and only woke at night to pump if Riley was up to feed. At six months, I felt like I had earned a trophy! I had my own dairy operation and my little one was a very happy and well-nourished baby.</div>
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I pumped for nine months and fed Riley frozen breast milk for another four months. Other than two days while my milk was coming in, Riley never ate formula. Turns out, I wasn’t a breastfeeding mom. I was a pumping mom.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pumping while my aunt feeds Riley</td></tr>
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LizB214http://www.blogger.com/profile/02628568817640825601noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3065065304125700001.post-89037523437190893242014-08-09T18:52:00.001-07:002014-08-09T18:52:39.531-07:00Crystal's StoryAs promised, I bring to you, my long-time mama friend Crystal from <a href="http://discoveringmeinthem.blogspot.com/">Discovering Me In Them </a>to share her own breastfeeding story. Enjoy!<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><b>My Breastfeeding Journey</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nursing 7 day old Wes</td></tr>
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</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Just as knowing that I wanted children, I knew that once I had children I wanted to breastfeed. It was a decision I found easy to make. This was something important to me. It felt natural to me. After the birth of my first born I immediately tried nursing him. I was fortunate, the little man took to nursing right away. Problem was that I had an emergency c-section which was inhibiting my milk to come in. When you have a c section it takes longer for your milk to come through. For me that meant 8 days. I was hospitalized for 5 days after my c section and my son was losing weight. I had not intended to use formula at all. Yet my baby needed to eat and I wasn’t making his food. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">It was decided that instead of just giving him a bottle we would catheter feed him to not cause “nipple confusion” (you don’t want the baby getting use to a bottle or pacifier too early when trying to breastfeed exclusively). This meant I pumped like a rockstar for every drip and dribble of milk then mixed it with formula. I then had it in a syringe attached to a butterfly catheter and put it next to my nipple. When I would offer baby my breast he would suck and I would then feed him the contents in the syringe. This allowing him to nurse, get food, and help my supply to come in. It was a pain in the ass! I did this for 8 days. Then finally, voila! My boobies were full of milk. I was able to stop the catheter feedings and I nursed my boy for 18 months! </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I was passionate about nursing. The beginning was hard, emotionally more than anything. I believe that having the emergency c section made me even more driven to make breast feeding my baby a must. I was not going to give up. I needed to do this for him! For me! For us! </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I love, love, love nursing. I love the closeness, intimacy, bond, and extra snuggle time that I have been able to share with my children. </div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I also know I am fortunate. I know that not every woman’s journey with nursing is easy and that some are simply not able to. For this I am beyond thankful for two boys who are awesome at nursing. It definitely takes the child and the mother to make it work. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I am now nursing my 10 month old. He, like his brother, is a pro. I know I will never regret being able to do this. One thing is for certain, I know I will miss the day I get to hold my child, nurse them and look into their eyes. There is something magical that happens in these moments.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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</div>LizB214http://www.blogger.com/profile/02628568817640825601noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3065065304125700001.post-17183415974589220702014-08-01T12:49:00.000-07:002014-08-01T12:49:06.515-07:00Celebrating Boobs<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">August is <b>National Breastfeeding Month</b>, and this first week is <b>World Breastfeeding Week</b>. For those of you who know me, either personally or just in Blogland, it's pretty apparent that I'm a devoted breast feeder. Before I became a mother, I never would have imagined how passionate I would feel about breastfeeding and about supporting other women to breastfeed (if that's what they choose to do, or course). <br />
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Throughout the month of August I'll be posting stories from close mama friends of mine. My goal is to share an array of breastfeeding experiences, from amazing to challenging (and everywhere in between). Enjoy!</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.troll.me/2011/12/19/ryan-gosling/hey-girl-breastfeeding-is-sexy/">Photo Credit</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><i>Disclaimer: Nursing is one of those things that you can't truly understand or appreciate unless you've actually done it. Probably akin to running a marathon... it requires hard work, dedication, commitment and support. All women deserve to be supported- by family, friends, society, policy- if they make the choice to breastfeed. Please don't interpret my supporting and educating women to breastfeed as shunning women who don't- just as supporting gay marriage is not a condemnation of hetero marriage.</i></div></div>LizB214http://www.blogger.com/profile/02628568817640825601noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3065065304125700001.post-4081329133035114332014-06-25T13:20:00.001-07:002014-06-25T13:20:12.142-07:00Talking to Kids About Race: Don't Complicate It<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The other day we were riding home from daycare and out of nowhere, Harrison says, <i>China people have eyes like this.</i> And he pulled the corners of his eye out toward his ears. </div>
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Now, I'm a social worker, I'm "culturally competent"...so you can possibly imagine that inside, I was MOR-TI-FIED!!! </div>
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<i>Yes, people from China do have eyes that look different than ours... but it's not ok to make fun</i>.</div>
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<i>I wasn't making fun, it's just how they look.</i> And he proceeded to do the eye thing again. ::shudder::</div>
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<i>Yes, people look lots of different ways- some are tall and some are short, some have light skin, and some have dark skin... but doing that with your eyes could hurt someones feelings- it might feel like you're making fun</i>.</div>
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<i>You mean like Dora?</i> (oh yes, the poor girl whom you recently threatened to kick in the "bagina")</div>
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<i>Yes, Dora is from Mexico (I think???) and her skin is a little darker than yours</i>.</div>
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<i>And the Ninja Turtles! They have green skin because they're from You Nork.</i> (Translation: New York)</div>
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<i>Yes, babe... just like the Ninja Turtles</i>.</div>
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I know this won't be our last conversation about race- I made it clear that it's ok to notice people's differences, but not ok to make fun. Someday I want him to have a deeper understanding, to know what oppression means and that diversity is something to be fostered and not feared, but for now, I believe this was enough. </div>
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<b>How have you handled similar conversations with young children? </b>LizB214http://www.blogger.com/profile/02628568817640825601noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3065065304125700001.post-71241165664978797952014-06-10T10:54:00.001-07:002014-06-10T10:54:41.585-07:00The City Mouse and the Country Mouse<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
We recently took the boys to a fishing derby in the small town where Dadd-O and I grew up. It was so nice to slow down our normally fast-paced life and spend a few hours by a pond. Harrison liked the idea of fishing at first. He happily casted a couple of times, but he quickly lost interest. Most of his time was spent walking around, supervising and eating goldfish (crackers) from a Tupperware. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Staying hydrated (he stole that water)</td></tr>
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I immediately began to blame myself for his lack of interest in the great outdoors- don't get me wrong we spend time outside, but we're usually in our backyard or at the park. Clearly, we have not gotten this boy out into the woods enough- I wanted him to catch frogs and climb trees, get dirty and skin his knees (not an intentional rhyme, but I think it works here). He's a social butterfly, with a kind, sensitive soul, but woodsy he is not.</div>
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Our littlest one, on the other hand, was handing me worms (unlike his father), looking for rocks, and digging in the dirt. It's clear that he loved being outside and was not afraid to get his hands (and feet and face) dirty.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Contemplating throwing something into the pond</td></tr>
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I've always been amazed at just how very different siblings can be from one another. They were raised in the same home, by the same parents, in a similar fashion, so maybe it's nothing that I did or didn't do enough... maybe they're just different. </div>
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<br />LizB214http://www.blogger.com/profile/02628568817640825601noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3065065304125700001.post-58573967551149747472014-06-02T12:00:00.002-07:002014-06-02T12:00:36.130-07:00Real LifeI've been solo parenting for close to a week now as Dadd-O is away for work. Evenings have been pretty uneventful- pick up from daycare/preschool, play outside, eat dinner, playtime, Harrison watches TV while I put Jaxy to bed, I fight with him to brush his teeth and go to sleep... And repeat. <br />
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Yesterday, I thought I'd mix it up a little, and decided last minute to stop at the local playground. I wasn't really dressed in playground attire, but I figured, <i>What the heck? Live a little!</i> (yes, this is my life now). As we pulled in to the school parking lot, I realized how busy it was- and I also realized that I had to pee BAD. If you've given birth to a child (or more than one) you know how that can take a toll on your bladder. So when I say I had to pee, I had to pee NOW.<br />
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<i>I'll be right back,</i> I said. <br />
<i>I wanna come</i>, screamed Harrison.<br />
<i>No, I'll be right back. I just have to pee.<br />
So do I!</i><br />
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Of course... of course you do. I can't leave screaming children in my car in a school parking lot with 100 <strike>witnesses</strike> people nearby. I didn't see a porta-potty and I'm not familiar enough with the school to know if it was locked, or even where the bathroom was, and things were getting pretty urgent. I took the boys out of their car seats, held their little hands as we crossed the busy parking lot, and walked carefully into the "woods". (By woods, I mean five feet of trees between the parking lot and some one's backyard.) <br />
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<i>Sssshhhh,</i> I said. <i>I'm just going to pee really quick</i>. Luckily I was wearing a skirt, so I squatted down and went to work.<br />
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<i>Are you pooping?</i> Harrison yelled.<br />
<i>No! Ssshhh!</i> <br />
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And that's when Jaxy squatted down to check out what I was doing right up close. <br />
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<i>Bubbles!</i> He exclaimed.<br />
<i>Yes, there are bubbles... from my pee.</i> <br />
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Harrison then proceeded with a less than accurate anatomy lesson on how girls pee differently than boys and "baginas" are grosser than penises.<br />
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I finished up, drip dried and stood to head out of the "woods". That's when I realized that the back of my skirt was wet. Not just a little wet either, the back of my skirt was soaked in urine. <br />
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<i>Shit!<br />
Shit's a bad word,</i> Harrison reminded me. <br />
<i>Yes, it is, sorry.</i><br />
<i>Can we go play now?</i><br />
<i>Yes, just a second. I need to get something out of my car. </i><br />
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Thankfully, I'd been driving my gym bag around, unused, for the past two weeks. I reached in and found a pair of yoga pants, slipped them on under my skirt and voila. But wait... I can't wear my dressy work shirt with yoga pants. <br />
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<i>Boys, stay right there on the edge of the grass.<br />
Why are you getting in the car?</i> <br />
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I stealthily slipped one shirt off and the other one on, while the boys threw rocks onto the grass (apologies to whomever mows). I'm telling myself that no one saw a thing.<br />
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<i>Why did you change your shirt? Did you pee on your shirt?<br />
Who wants me to push them on the swing?!?</i><br />
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I can't make this shit up, people. <br />
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LizB214http://www.blogger.com/profile/02628568817640825601noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3065065304125700001.post-2728183489797334342014-05-28T05:39:00.000-07:002014-05-28T05:39:42.899-07:00Like Mother Like Son<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It’s amazing how another person can be so much like you. So often I stop and smile because Harrison is such a mini version of me. Not only do we look quite a bit alike, but, for better or worse, he acts like me too!<br />
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He has a ridiculously good memory. He still tells me stories about (real) things that happened when he was only two. He can easily recall people he’s met and places that he visited quite a long time ago. I’m kind of the same way; I have some freakishly detailed memories of random childhood moments. <i>And, yes, I just used a semicolon.</i><br />
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He wants things to be fair, ALWAYS. Right now it’s usually about his brother getting more pushes on the swing (because he’s big enough to pump), or making sure no one gets more cookies than him. I remember in sixth grade my parents had to meet with my teacher because I was having a hard time “understanding other children’s differences.” I just wanted everyone to be treated the same, no special treatment for anyone. I’ve become more tolerant, and surely less selfish, with age and I’ve realized that fair does not always mean equal. I hope that H continues to fight for fairness and justice... and not just a bigger piece of pizza. <br />
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He’s a bit of a know-it-all. This past winter when we were on vacation to Disney World, Harrison told some boys he had just met on the bus, <i>I’m kind of a ninja expert</i>. And in his mind, he is. Luckily, they were sweet and didn’t laugh right in his face. There are some subjects that he feels so strongly about that he wants to learn every detail, and then he shares them with you, repeatedly. It’s kind of savant-like. “Did you know that the blue ninja used his full potential… blah, blah, blah… and Lord Garmidon is Lloyd’s father and Sensei Wu’s brother… blah, blah, blah.” I can only half listen because it makes my head hurt- but he’s so very passionate about Ninjas and some other cool stuff too. I have no idea where he gets this trait...<br />
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Lastly, he's fucking hillarious! He loves to shake his booty, make up silly songs and just have a good time. He brings out the good kind of crazy in me and I love that! There's honestly nothing better than just letting loose and being goofy with your kid as they laugh wildly. I hope those are the memories that he'll cherish forever.<br />
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Love you lots my little love bug! </div>
LizB214http://www.blogger.com/profile/02628568817640825601noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3065065304125700001.post-35388071742764751222014-05-07T12:28:00.002-07:002014-05-07T12:28:48.336-07:00Mother’s Day<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My mama and Me, Circa 1984</td></tr>
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I prepare myself for people who don’t know me well to ask, well intentioned, if I’m doing anything special with my mom on Sunday. Then there’s the awkward moment where I explain that she’s gone. I hear coworkers talk about their plans to get a pedicure or have a fun day of shopping with their moms, and I feel envious and just a little lost. </div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Thankfully, I only had to endure one Mother’s Day after losing my own mom before I became a mother myself- and even then, I was a few months pregnant and already a mother at heart. I am grateful to have children of my own now to shift my focus from feeling sad and lost, to hopeful and happy. Not a day goes by that I don’t find myself doing something that reminds me of her… </div><br />
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Snuggling my boys to sleep, and waking them in the morning with gentle smooches<br />
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Dancing like a freak to make my boys laugh… or sometimes just to bug them<br />
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Calling Harrison <i>Love Bug</i><br />
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Blasting age-inappropriate music, dancing and singing my heart out in the car<br />
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Sitting patiently with my Harrison, on his bed, as he works through difficult feelings of anger, stress, and anxiety<br />
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Saying <i>I love you</i> about a million times each day<br />
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</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Treating my children like people, truly valuing their feelings</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I realize that I was raised by an amazingly, patient, kind, hardworking, selfless mother who taught me what it means to love unconditionally. There are so many times on this crazy road called parenthood, where I wish I could call her for advice... or just a good cry. But by trying to mirror her mothering style, I can almost feel her presence. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The way I remember her</td></tr>
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</div>I showed Harrison this picture the other day and he said, <i>You look like your mudder</i>. <br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Thanks buddy, I sure hope so.</div>LizB214http://www.blogger.com/profile/02628568817640825601noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3065065304125700001.post-70583057717752560562014-04-28T07:07:00.003-07:002014-04-28T07:07:52.832-07:00Recommitted<br />
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Sometimes I do this thing where I feel bad for myself- I get frustrated that I (poor, me) have to worry about my weight and the food I eat. Other people seem to have it so easy- <i>they</i> don't have to plan every meal ahead of time... but not me, I have to think about every little thing that I put into my mouth, every day for the rest of eternity (or so it feels). I go to this irrational place in my head, where everything is black and white. If I make one "bad" food choice, then I might as well throw in the towel and order a cheeseburger, with bacon... and fries. If a meeting runs late and I miss an exercise class, I might as well skip the gym altogether. And that, my friends, is what I call a case of the <i><b>fuck-its</b></i>. </div>
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I've had it bad for the the last two weeks. It's been two weeks of...<br />
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<i>Overeating<br />Anxiety<br />Excuses<br />Lethargy<br />Guilt</i><br />
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And to a certain extent, <i>Freedom</i>. </div>
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Today I am recommitting to health... to happiness... and to <b>ME<i></i></b>! </div>
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LizB214http://www.blogger.com/profile/02628568817640825601noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3065065304125700001.post-10338433844148807502014-04-21T06:32:00.000-07:002014-04-21T06:32:45.971-07:00The Mysterious Case of Poop in the Tub<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<em>Disclaimer: Some of the things you're about to read may make you want to judge me as a parent, and maybe even as a human being. Resist that urge.</em></div>
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It all started after a long-ass day of solo parenting. The boys were getting restless, hungry and tired, and Dadd-O was due home any minute. I <strike>opened a can and microwaved</strike> made their dinner and tried to get them to focus, but they were still all over the place- take a bite, jump on the couch, take a bite play with trucks- which was making a mess and driving me batty! <i>Chef Boyardee stains, you guys!</i></div>
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"Bath time!" I cheered, trying to drum up interest. "But we're still eating," said the big one. "You can eat IN the bath!" <i>That should at least keep the mess contained, right? </i>They both happily stripped down naked, they're boys after all, and climbed into the tub. I took turns feeding them each a bite. By request, I pretended they were my baby birds (minus the pre-chewing and spitting into their baby bird mouths, sorry Alicia Silverstone). And then, something amazing happened- Daddo came home! "You're feeding them in the tub?" he asked. "Just go with it," I said and quickly passed off bath duty, <i>I seriously hate bath duty,</i> and retreated to the kitchen to make the adult dinner. </div>
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Washing, chopping, sauteing, roasting... all with the sounds of bath time in the background. I hear, "If you guys are good and let me wash your hair, we can go get a creemee." Daddo popped in to the kitchen to sneak a kiss and quickly discuss how our days went. And that's when it happened...</div>
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"JAXY POOPED IN THE TUB!" <br />
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"Shit!" We both said, in unison. <br />
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We've been through this before, so we have a systematic approach. Daddo promptly gets the boys out of the tub, cleaned in the sink (if necessary), dried off and dressed, while I tackle the hazmat situation in the tub. <i>Daddo has a so-called "weak stomach." Whatev.</i> I don a single blue rubber glove that I found on the floor and take all the toys out of the tub and move them to the sink for decontamination (i.e. soaking in hot water and bleach). I run the shower to wash the poop down the drain... but this poop won't budge. I bend down slowly, to examine said poop, which still won't move. With my gloved hand I reach down and pick up the poop only to realize it's a FUCKING MEATBALL!!<br />
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"HARRISON!!!!!"<br />
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This next part is a bit of a blur. I tried to stifle my hysterical laughter, while teaching an important parenting lesson. Harrison spent some time in his room thinking, while I threw all the toys back in to the tub... and it turns out, he didn't want to wash his hair. He figured if there was "poop" in the tub, they'd have to get out and he'd be off the hook. I got myself together and had a talk about lying, how it's not OK, blah, blah, blah. And to drive that lesson home, we didn't go get a creemee... THAT was the hardest part of this whole debacle. <br />
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<br />LizB214http://www.blogger.com/profile/02628568817640825601noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3065065304125700001.post-34954569703215047872014-04-11T05:46:00.000-07:002014-04-11T05:46:52.728-07:00Honesty's the best policy, right?Let's face it, kids ask A LOT of questions... I mean A LOT! Some are pretty easy to answer, <i>What's for dinner?</i> Others, a little tougher, <i>Why does the moon only come out at night?</i> <br />
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Just the other morning, Harrison and I had this conversation:<br />
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H: My balls have these little ball things inside- what are those?<br />
Me: Those are your testicles.<br />
H: What are they for?<br />
Me: When you get older, they'll help you make a baby.<br />
H: I'm not having a baby!<br />
Me: Well, your wife... or girlfriend... if you have one...<br />
Then I got the side eye and we ate breakfast in silence. <br />
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Or there was this gem:<br />
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H: Let's pretend I'm still in your belly and the doctor comes to cut me out.<br />
Me: The doctor didn't cut you out of my belly.<br />
H: Well, how did I get out?<br />
Me: You came out of my vagina.<br />
H: <i>(Looking terrified)</i>, let's just pretend the doctor cut me out.<br />
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Although a little uncomfortable at times, I'm completely, 100% confident in my decision to answer Harrison's questions about bodies and sex (when the time comes) with honest, and age appropriate, answers. Since Dadd-O and I have both lost parents, I even feel pretty comfortable talking about death- <i>when someone dies we never get to see them again and it can make us sad. We can still think about them, talk about them and look at pictures to make us feel happier.</i> <br />
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With training and experience as a social worker, you'd think any conversation would flow from my mouth with ease... I mean, I've confronted drug addicts, called DCF (child protection) with the family in question with me, provided mediation between angry neighbors, told many people who were without housing, that in fact, I could not help them. <br />
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But when questions start being thrown at me about Santa, the Easter Bunny and the motherfucking Tooth Fairy, I freeze... I have no friggin' clue what to say! <i>Do I lie? Do I tell the truth? I don't want to ruin the magic of childhood (or whatever). I'm a terrible liar!</i> So far I've managed to give some short, simple answers <i>it's magic, he has helpers,</i> and sometimes ::gasp:: <i>I don't know</i>. My kid is smart and a bit of a know-it-all (I have no idea where he gets it) and I know eventually he's not going to buy this crap anymore. <br />
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<b>Wiser, more experienced parents- how do you handle this???</b>LizB214http://www.blogger.com/profile/02628568817640825601noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3065065304125700001.post-14416525898281131182014-03-24T07:06:00.003-07:002014-03-24T07:07:20.336-07:00I Almost Forgot...It wasn't intentional, really, but I forgot to share... I saw a nutritionist. I saw her three times, actually. I thought I was eating "right" and I was exercising regularly, but the weight just wasn't coming off. I figured it was time to call on a professional for help. <i>Bonus: My insurance pays for three visits!</i> As a know-it-all perfectionist who has struggled with my weight for, like, ever... this was really scary for me. What if she tells me I'm doing this all wrong? What if I cry? What if she makes me get on a fucking scale??? But, thankfully, it wasn't like this at all. <br />
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<b>Visit #1</b><br />
I brought in a three day food (and poop) journal so that she could get a sense of my current eating (and pooping) habits. I also had to write down my "food story," which ended up being a page full of bullet points listing all my crazy food/weight issues... so that was fun. There was some cheesy getting-to-know you conversation, we talked about my reason for coming in, and my goals. I told her that I wanted to lose weight...that I was an emotional eater... that I wanted to be healthy and feel good about my body. And best of all, I didn't cry. This is big for me- when I'm mad, I cry, sad, I cry, overwhelmed, hungry, tired... you get it, I cry. I told her that my goal weight was 150... and then I waited for her to say that was a little high for my height... but she didn't. She said that sounded realistic and healthy and then we moved on. She looked over my food journal and gave me some homework for the coming week: (1) incorporate a non-green vegetable into your diet, (2) add a walk/run interval workout to your weekly routine, and (3) eat more carbs. <br />
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<b>Visit #2</b><br />
A week later, I had made <i>baked</i> eggplant Parmesan for dinner (check), I had actually used the Couch to 5K app that had been sitting on my iPhone for months (check), and I upped my daily intake of carbs to closer to 40% of my caloric intake(check). I was feeling confident and proud of myself- even though there was no movement on the scale. The first visit was where I spilled my guts, and this visit was more about me taking information in. Based on what I had told her, she had put together an eating plan for me- complete with new recipes to try! <br />
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1. Eat every 3-4 hours to avoid getting "hangry." <i>This is huge for me. When I get hungry, I get cranky and I often don't make good choices about food. By staying ahead of hunger, and keeping my blood sugar stable, I can stick with the plan I've made for myself... and be nicer to those around me. It's a win-win really.</i><br />
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2. Include protein and carbs in every snack/meal. <i>And aim for no more than 30 grams of protein at a time because your body can't use any more than that.</i> <br />
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3. Limit (not avoid) processed/frozen meals. <i>I knew they weren't great for me (sodium, or something?), but Lean Cuisines had become a go-to lunch for me. I learned that even though they are low in calories, they also lack in good protein and that's why they really don't keep you full for long.</i><br />
I left feeling excited to try some new recipes and follow a real plan! I'll post the apple oatmeal recipe soon- AMAZING! <br />
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<b>Visit #3</b><br />
I really fell into a groove- I was sticking with my new plan, exercising three times a week AND I had lost three pounds!!! We talked about ways to avoid emotional eating and how to manage healthy eating when life gets unpredictable (a challenge for the control-freak in me). Acknowledging that my insurance won't cover anymore visits, we said our goodbyes and she offered advice or support anytime.<br />
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I really found that the biggest change was that I am being more kind to myself. It sounds simple and a little silly, but really it's not. If I make an unhealthy food choice, I forgive myself and move on- instead of making an excuse to eat everything in sight for the rest of the day (or week). And if I make a conscious decision to eat something deliciously unhealthy, that I know isn't in my "plan" for the day, I own it, enjoy it... and try to get in some extra exercise that day. <br />
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Reluctantly, I know that managing my eating and weight will be a part of the rest of my life. Rather than be pissed about it, which I still am pretty often, I'm trying to think of the process as a learning experience, rather than a chore... I'm figuring out what works for me and what's just not gonna happen. I know that I can plan <i>most</i> of my meals ahead, I know that I can eat every three hours, I know that I can make it to the gym three times a week... and I also know that my sons love to bake cookies on the weekends, I love going out to eat, wine with friends is fun, and playing outside with my kids can be my exercise for the day. It's really about finding a balance and maybe acknowledging that I'll never get back to my wedding weight, and my size 12's feel just right. LizB214http://www.blogger.com/profile/02628568817640825601noreply@blogger.com5