One morning, I walked into the bathroom and saw this…
And I immediately thought, “Wow. What the heck is going on there? Oh, this is definitely ending up in one of my blog posts.”
And then later on in the day, I saw this on Twitter…
Oh snap! My husband just stole my blog material.
He felt horrible. And by horrible, I mean, he didn’t seem to care much at all. He claims, he’s given me plenty of blog material over the years.
“Well what am I supposed to blog about now?” I ask.
“How about that rye bread thing?”
“Oh you mean, the fact that we buy a rye bread each week, you eat the four slices in the middle, then throw the rest in the freezer because it’s no longer fresh. And now we have 14 bags of half eaten rye bread in our freezer. Yeah, maybe I’ll mention it.”
And then I gave a fierce warning…
“Rick – if Barbie dolls ever commit suicide again in our bathroom or anywhere else in the house – do not tweet about it. Or post it on Facebook. Or Instagram. Or write it on a poster board. Or even a post-it note.”
He seemed to take me seriously but it was hard to tell because he was focused on eating a fresh rye bread turkey sandwich.
“So what are you going to blog about?” he finally asked.
“I don’t know. I’ll think of something. Maybe a post about how you stole my blog post. That might work.”
The first time I ever heard about breast pumps was when one of my best college friends pumped in the way back of a car while a bunch of us were driving around on vacation in New Orleans. (She had left her baby for the weekend and needed to pump to keep producing milk while she was away.)
I didn’t really know what she was doing exactly in the back of that car but it was apparently very important because the term “liquid gold” kept being thrown around.
Once I had a baby, I learned all about the pumping thing. That basically you hook up a machine to your boobs and then it hopefully sucks the milk out like some sort of human cow while making a bizarre noise that sounds like a secret message from the dairy gods.
Meanwhile, the husbands have to act like it is completely normal to see their lovely wives attached to one of these medieval contraptions.
One of the worst things is pumping while at work. Because you invariably forget and all of a sudden you are in some meeting while your breasts, which have grown to the size of honeydew melons, are leaking faster than the BP Gulf oil spill. You have to immediately excuse yourself and seek refuge.
And unless you work for some fancy company with a deluxe breast pumping suite (I did not), you have to barricade yourself in cold, public bathroom so you can pump and bring yourself some relief. Then you shove the milk in a community fridge and hope Eddie from Ad Sales doesn’t mistake it for his vanilla creamer.
I’m on my 5th kid and I’ve barely pumped this go around. But my sister Quinn who works 3 days a week as a lawyer must pump regularly. Which is fine because she has an office with a lock.
Except the lock broke.
So when it was time to pump, she shut the door and left this note for anyone who might come by wanting to see her….
Surely, that girl deserves a new lock because it’s only a matter of time before some harried paralegal comes barreling in with a frantic deadline and has to witness what only a husband should have to see. They will be sorry indeed.
The nice thing about having a big family is that as I watch my older girls become more and more independent and just so ridiculously big, it helps me to appreciate the wonderment and magic of toddlerhood.
Which would be a real gift if my 3 year-old son wasn’t making me so crazy all the time. My son’s idea of independent play is independently saying “I’m hungry” a 1,000 times a day. So I simply explain….
“No one can eat 3 pancakes, a yogurt, applesauce, a cheese stick, and a bowl of cereal and be hungry. Do you have toys?”
“I have toys,” Chase confirms.
I knew he had toys.
“Do you know where they are?”
“If you don’t go play with them right now, I will throw them away.”
And then he scurries off to play with them for 45 seconds which apparently whips up his appetite again.
When it comes to naps and bedtime, he comes out of his room over and over again to complain about phantom stomach aches, unacceptable dinosaur sheets and hot pajamas.
And this is also a boy who will eat his entire dessert and then proclaim that he did not like it at all and throw a tantrum because I won’t give him another more acceptable dessert.
The 3-year-old mind is an intriguing place.
I look at my older girls (7 and 9) who seem to be moving further and further from me way too quickly and I plead with myself to enjoy my 3-year-old boy who adores books, loves magic and will say things to me like, “If this was my house and I was you, I would totally let me eat this candy cane right now.”
He is so loveable and frustrating and I know that someday he will make his own snacks, sleep for too long and be far too busy with his iWhatever to notice me.
So I try not to yell (too much), and appreciate his deep commitment to jumping and flying through the air whenever he sees the opportunity. There are lots of opportunities.
And at night, when he is finally asleep, I brush his strawberry bangs to the side and kiss his sweet lips and whisper, “God, I love you so much when you are sleeping.”
I was trying to figure out the best New Year’s post for you all.
I considered making a New Year’s resolution list but do you really need to know about my goal of not watching “Good Luck Charlie” when I’m alone? (I swear I only watch a few minutes.)
I thought about a “how to guide” on twerking or the Harlem shake. But I don’t really know how to twerk or Harlem shake.
Or a tutorial on who’s the cutest One Direction boy as determined by my girls and their friends. And don’t even mention Justin Bieber to them. He is so over.
Or a recap of the year in butt cracks. Like the photo below could be for the month of October. I actually know this nice girl. But take a look at the guy behind her.
Or I thought about starting a countdown clock to see how long it takes my husband to eat the case of mandarin oranges slices he bought at Trader Joe’s despite the fact that I have never seen him eat mandarin oranges in our 13 years together.
Another possibility was posting the 50 sexiest things Ryan Gosling did this year but someone already thought of that.
I thought about posting a poll… if you could only have candy, wine or TV in the coming year, which would you choose? But it seems depressing to even consider just a situation.
I thought about a list of all the things I’m grateful for but that seemed sort of Thanksgivingish.
So I thought I’d just tell you the one thing I am the most grateful for in 2013.
The one thing I can’t imagine my life without. The one thing that saved me, completed me and fills our lives with joy.
Yeah, that boy.
Wishing you a very happy New Year. Let us know if you need some mandarin orange slices in the coming year!
It’s hard to pick my most favorite moment of Christmas. I did really enjoy taking 7 month old Cash to the bathroom at church Christmas eve. Because a little boy pointed to Cash and then asked his mom, “Is that the baby Jesus?”
I’d be so ridiculously famous if that was the case.
I did not enjoy realizing at 10:30 pm Christmas eve that I only had two rolls of wrapping paper. But that’s the kind of moment you really appreciate living in the United States. Sure, we eat too much fast food and we’re too materialistic and we go to war too quickly but hot damn, if you need wrapping paper at 10:30 pm on Christmas eve, there will be somewhere open to buy it!
We hosted 25 people on Christmas and I was reasonably calm because my sister and brother-in-law are fantastic cooks.
I spent 2 1/2 hours shopping for Christmas dinner and only forgot one item. Pine nuts. I did not realize my error until I was attempting to make Debbie’s famous kale salad on Christmas day.
Since all the stores were closed or at least any store that sells specialty nuts, I sent my mother out on a mission. Knock on doors wishing people a Merry Christmas and inquire whether they have pine nuts. And that woman delivered.
As always, I really enjoyed spending time with my sister and her family who were in town from Memphis. I wanted to steal her little baby Callum but then I remembered that I had my own baby.
You know why I love my sister?! Because when we went out one night with our husbands, I was too cold and she was too hot, and so we just switched shirts at the table.
(We were both wearing tank tops under our “going out” shirts so it made changing a snap.)
Meanwhile, I was so happy to get to the end of Elf on a Shelf’s 2013 run. I even got mildly creative and on the last night, he and Barbie perused the holiday cards.
Unfortunately, I inadvertently left Barbie’s ass hanging out.
Oh well. I think we all know that it’s not really Christmas until Barbie has gotten naked with the Elf, you’ve made your mother trick or treat for pine nuts and you’ve changed clothes in the middle of a restaurant. Hope you had a fantastic holiday. xo