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A lot of beers

We’ll just pretend that this conversation didn’t start with hangover poop and jump in midway.

Me (to my husband): You didn’t really have that much of drink last night, though…?

Husband: I had two whiskeys and two beers. It’s a lot more than I normally drink.

Three year old pipes in with: Two beers plus two whiskeys is four. That is a LOT OF BEERS, DADDY.

Do we feel pride at her early math skills or chagrin at being judged by our toddler?

The world may never know.

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This, too, shall pass…

Image

 

See that? It’s a pebble. Relatively innocuous, one wouldn’t think that something so small and insignificant could cause so much smelly annoyance.

 

Guess what my husband and I have spent the last 24 hours doing? If you said lounging on the beach, fruity umbrella, hand-in-hand, basking in both the beautiful sunset and our love for one another, you’d be close.

Except not at all.

If you said putting on rubber gloves and alternately squishy & sifting through every particle of every bowel movement that has passed through my daughter’s adorable butt cheeks in search of the above pictured rock, you’d be closer.

And, of course, they are the smelliest, smelliest bowel movements she’s had in months. There I stood, hunched over the toilet bowl squeezing turds into the toilet. It’s become a science, and I’m very concerned I might miss a spot. Seriously? Are you kidding me? This is what my life has been reduced to?

I should have known this was coming when I discovered a sticker in my daughter’s poop at  7 months of age. Not in her poop as though someone had stuck it in her diaper, but in her poop like she ate it, unsuccessfully attempted to digest it, and then pooped it out. This child is more obsessed with actually eating foreign objects than anyone other baby  I’ve ever met.

I’ve washed my hands 300 times today and still don’t feel clean. And the feces smelled so bad you could actually taste it, rather than just smell it.

*sigh* I’m wrapping her in bubble wrap and we’re never leaving the house again.

 

So now for the big question: do I put the rock in her baby book?

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Mama Failed Today

Our poor little 15 month old child is a hot mess.

Oh, don’t get me wrong. I adore her, she completes our family, she makes me laugh, she is silly and weird (see my shoes post:  https://parentingseatpants.wordpress.com/2013/09/04/no-boob-required/  ) but she’s gotten the genes of a retarded monkey.

Born with severe but silent reflux, hasn’t slept a solid 5 hours in her life more than 10 times, has eczema, was born with a urachal remnant (  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Urachus ) and accompanying belly cyst (and just for those of you keeping score, yes, it did rupture and require a culture), had surgery at 13 months of age, had four surgical complications, persistent infections, has been on seven rounds of hard core antibiotics within a four month period, and once that was cleared up she was then diagnosed with the auto immune disorder dermatographia ( http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dermatographia  ) just last week at her 15 month checkup. She’s not had more than two solid weeks off of medication since she was five weeks old. Luckily she’s still a happy-go-lucky, smart, developmentally advanced, adorable little girl.

Enter Mama. Today I was having a very rare morning play date at my friend’s house with two moms who I haven’t seen in ages. (If you are wondering why, please reread the preceding paragraph) I’m holding baby girl who instantly decides that she wants to be put down. So I swing her towards the floor, chatting away, enjoying my semblance of freedom among women I really enjoy, not paying attention to what I’m doing.

*SMACK*

I, in my haste, put my child down too quickly. Her head, accounting for about half of her total body weight, slammed into the linoleum kitchen floor. She immediately starts sobbing and I pick her up, snuggle her and apologize profusely, feeling like a complete ass in front of my friends. Yes, boys and girls, I just brained my child on the kitchen floor in perfect few of two witnesses. Baby girl is sucking on her pacifier, whimpering like a kicked puppy. I feel awful.

Then the blood starts. I can’t figure out where it’s coming from or what is up. Then I see there’s copious amounts of blood coming from around her pacifier. She looks like a baby version of Dracula. (No, NOT Edward. Or any other bullshit Twilight character. Stop it.)

Poor kid had a gaping, ragged tear in her upper gum. Of course I didn’t notice it at the time. Nope, not me, mother of the year here. It was over two hours later when I was putting her down for her nap that I first noticed how swollen her lip was. (I keep telling myself that it was because it took that long to swell). I peeled back her upper lip to inspect (as I’m trying to dodge flailing limbs because it clearly hurts and she does NOT want me messing with her face, at all!) and that’s when I discovered the chewed up looking tissue that was now part of my beautiful baby’s face.

I call the dentist to see what to do. They tell me to bring her in.

We narrowly avoided sutures, but she got a nice flush and an antibiotic injection (right in her gums). This is also, of course, my daughter who is terrified of doctors, all shapes and sizes.

There’s no funny punchline to this post. I only wish there was.

I know, you’re all going to tell me that things happen, we all make mistakes, etc etc, but I really just want my daughter to be and stay healthy. And especially not get worse because of my carelessness. We all beat ourselves up, over things more minor than this, but I can’t stop thinking that if I just paid more attention and wasn’t being so selfish she’d be fine.

Mama needs a sippy cup and baby needs more ibuprofen.

Is it Friday yet?

**Side-note: baby girl did hear me ask her sister if she needed a hug and ran to me exclaiming “Hug! Hug! Hug!” Over and over again, which is a new word for her. So hopefully there’s no permanent brain damage.

2

Day Drinking

This conversation actually happened between two moms that I know via facebook. Their identities have been changed to protect them from CPS. And you.

(Not me): Dude we should be day drinking the way we are posting

(Not a friend of mine): lol I try to avoid day drinking because it makes me sleepy

(also not me): it only works if you can KEEP drinking, you know, to a BAC of like 0.3 when you pass out. So you know, totally feasible because you live in a frat house are are independently wealthy.

(again, no one I know): right… but then I’m the drunk bitch stumbling to the bus stop to get my kid in the afternoon

(someone other than myself): HAHAHAHAHAHA. Nice. That will totaly be me. Next year.Except I’ll be walking to the school. So I’ll be the drunk bitch AT the school. Why did we have children again?

(another person’s friend): I ask myself that question daily.

1

No Boob Required

My itty bitty baby girl, who just turned 15 months is hilarious. And weird.

Today, I was putting her down for a nap and in my haste (I had three other children under four I was simultaneously trying to toilet, feed, and get down for naps as well) I accidentally put her to bed with her shoes on. Cute little strappy numbers that have velcro flowers on them. White. (commence retching now. I did not buy them. 95% of my children’s clothes are hand me downs, the other 5% are from grandparents – judge away!)

After I had gotten the rest of the house silenced (which was no small feat) I hear an odd noise that I cannot place. Thinking the cat had was wreaking havoc somewhere else in the house like the kale fiasco ( https://parentingseatpants.wordpress.com/2013/07/17/kale-is-the-new-crack/ ) I wanted to put the smack down on this as soon as humanly possible. After 10 wasted minutes of searching in all the places, silently, like a ninja (you can’t ruin naps in my house or you get punished!! Mommy included!) I realized it was emanating from the baby monitor. I go up to check on the baby, who I thought was sleeping. I open the door and she looks up at me from her crib, grins, and riiiiiiiips the shoes (that I had left on her feet) open and then closes them. Then giggles. (The giggling was entirely for my reaction. She had not been giggling prior to my opening the door).

Pause.

Look at Mama.

Riiiiiiip

Giggle.

I enjoyed the show for about two minutes and then said, “Okay, baby girl. Clearly your shoes are keeping you from sleeping. Let’s rectify that.” So I remove the shoes and set them (silly me) on her dresser. In plain sight.

Then I leave. Mama needs a nap, too, remember?

Wailing begins. Usually she fusses for about 30 seconds when I leave the room but then settles down for her nap. Yup, I’m a horrible person who allows her child’s voice/tears to rise above 6.7 decibels when she’s *gasp* alone in her room for more than 5 seconds. Don’t tell anyone, but sometimes I even let her cry for five MINUTES. Oh, the horror. Call CPS now.

So after waiting about three minutes her wailing becomes high pitched and shrill. (This is a sign that no amount of time waiting will induce sleep or a calm state.) As I walk towards her bedroom door to pull out the magic sleepy device (also known as “THE BOOB”) she starts talking between her cries.

“MAMA!” wails “Shoe. My shoe.” wails “Pweeeeease?” wails “MY SHOE PWEEEEASE?! PWEASE!”

Hearing my baby daughter cry/yell the word please has me dissolving into laughter outside my door.

So I did what any parent would do. I opened the door, picked up the shoes, and put them back on my child.

She immediately replaced her pacifier, picked up her lovey, laid down and closed her eyes.

 

No boob required.