Tattoos and Drool

This is why I keep him around

He makes me laugh.

Real, full-fledged belly laughs.

Today marks four years since we vowed to deal with each other’s farts and lame jokes for all eternity, and like cheese or wine (or farts), it’s only gotten better with age.

I added this app to my iPhone called Loopt Mix. It allows you to make a simple profile and then, using your location, links you to profiles of people in your area so you can make friends or network or whatever. You know, one of those totally pointless apps that seems like a good idea but really is just a useful tool for stalkers or booty calls. Yeah.

So last night we’re sitting there watching Dog the Bounty Hunter (yeah, we go there) and it’s 11pm and my phone goes off. “Who the hell is texting me at 11pm?” I grumbled, because I was in a grumbly mood and everything was making me grumble. It’s a Loopt Mix message. From a guy, again, because Loopt Mix is a total sausage fest and sausages apparently can’t read the words “women” or “friendship.”

“I know it says you’re interested in women but let me know if you want to bone.”

Oh fer fuck’s sake. Grumble grumble grumble.

I fire back an “I’m married, asshole” and go to turn it off when I notice, hey, that avatar picture looks familiar.

My husband responds, “Well ask him if he minds.”

Blink. Blinkblink. Punch husband in the shoulder. Laugh, a lot.

Yeah, this is why I keep him around.

Four years and counting.

And on that note, why am I still sitting here?

The husband is walk, walk, walking the baby and I’m sitting here freezing and refusing to turn the heater up any higher. We haven’t gotten to spend any quality time together in over a week ever since Sleep Is Not For Babies ‘09 hit. Although my Bejeweled Blitz score has flourished, our *ahem* closeness, if you will, has suffered. Such is life with an infant. I’m still convinced babies don’t sleep simply for the purpose of keeping you from getting knocked up again at three days postpartum.

Not that we need help in that area.

And not that we actually do much of anything when we do get that sacred, fleeting time alone. Because instead of being all, hey baby, wanna put your bike in my trunk? I’m all, so hey, I haven’t talked to you in like fifty-seven days, and I know we aren’t wearing pants, but did you know your son can fart the alphabet now? And he likes to comment on my mustache? And he’s like THIS IS NOT WHAT WE ARE SUPPOSED TO BE DOING HERE.

I have a short attention span.

(Hey! He got her in the crib! How long will it last this time?)

Shelby has always been the Baby Whisperer. He has a sixth sense for noticing the tiniest quirks and preferences in our babies and using them to his advantage. Like, he’ll figure out that Avonlea falls asleep almost instantly if you pat her back really hard and fast, and she likes the closet door to be at a certain angle so the light hits her face in the perfect spot, and if we put socks on her hands she’ll stop being so squirmy, and she really likes this one certain song on her Ocean Wonders Aquarium. You know, the little things.

He also was always the first to wake up when Beckett would cry in the night, and he’d go get him while I was still snoring away. Same with Sawyer’s infancy – he was the one who fed him at night, sometimes so efficiently that I’d wake up the next morning and think he had slept through the night when he really hadn’t.

I used to feel bad about this, almost inadequate. I am the mommy and the mommy is supposed to be the one to make everything better and rock you to sleep and know all the secrets. Over time though, I’ve realized what a special bond it has created between my children and their daddy that he has a few tricks Mommy doesn’t know about. I have the boob powers but he has everything else.

Some day, sooner than either of us can really imagine, this will all be a distant memory. No one will will need walked or patted or shushed. No one will wake up in the middle of the night for a cup of milk or dry sheets, or a head-over-heels frolic down the stairs. Some day we might actually get eight consecutive hours of sleep again and won’t wake up from it thinking the baby monitor is broken. (At least, I keep telling myself we will. Don’t ruin that glimmer of hope for me just yet.)

Until then, I guess we do what everyone else does.

We get really good at multi-tasking. Sexytime combined with the weekly booger recap? Why yes, yes we can.

Home is where your Wii is

The most depressing part about vacation, and the part that makes you wonder what could have possessed you to subject yourself to such an inhumane form of torture, is the drive home. Even though the kids were angels (GASP! SHOCK!) Shelby and I were about ready to toss out some banana peels and red shells Mario Kart style by hour seven.

Which brings me to a subject I must address. Two-lane highways. We’ve all driven on them, yes? We all know what the left lane is for, yes? Faster traffic and passing, yes? Most commonly, going slightly above the speed limit, yes? WELL NO, NO APPARENTLY EVERYONE DOES NOT KNOW THAT. And apparently everyone does not also know that if you take a quick glance in your rear view mirror and notice that there is a line of bumper-to-bumper traffic behind you FIFTY FRICKING MILES LONG, maybe you should get your ass back over in the right lane. There had to have been fiery hot daggers visibly shooting from my eyeballs because I was NOT. HAPPY. For at least an hour we drove behind morons like this, constantly having to slam on our breaks because they were tailgating each other going SIXTY-FIVE IN A SEVENTY. IN THE LEFT LANE. AND YES THE ALL CAPS ARE NECESSARY BECAUSE THIS IS SERIOUS BUSINESS.

Ahem.

Oh, and Chicago drivers? Eff you. Plz to not be slamming on your breaks at 75 miles per hour just because you see a cop clocking people. Guess what, brainiac, he’s probably already clocked you long before you pass him. So lets not be taunting death by bringing my front bumper within millimeters of your tailpipe, mmkay?

Road rage? Moi?

Other than the torturous trip home, our third Wisconsin vacation was fabulous. Surprisingly relaxing, or as relaxing as it can be without leaving the kids locked in a closet at home with a box of Twinkies. All three were appropriately fawned over and spoiled, and we all survived no TV for a whole week. Beckett learned to climb out of his crib, Sawyer only took a sleep-walking adventure that involved using the carpet as a urinal once, and Avonlea SLEPT THROUGH THE NIGHT once. Yes, my poor boobs were feeling that one.

My mom hosted a Tupperware party for me and even though I felt like a blubbering idiot through half of my demonstration, the guests seemed to enjoy themselves, my mom got free stuff and I made some decent commission. I got to eat delicious cheese curds not once but twice, as well as a burger called the Horseshoe that sounded and looked lots better than it actually tasted. Shelby and the boys spent copious amounts of time outside, digging in the dirt, fishing, and doing general dirty gross boy activities. And we all had to hold back the giggles and snorts every time a waitress said “Theere ya gooo!” Sarah Palin style. And the weather. OMG the weather. was. GORGEOUS. Still working on whittling Shelby down enough to convince him we need to move.

I’m kicking myself now because my camera stayed packed away in the diaper bag until the last day and that is so unlike me. So I have little to no photo evidence of the trip, sadly. However, the boys tripped my dad’s wildlife cameras a couple different times, which made for some pretty priceless photography:

As fun as it was and as much as I miss my family again already, we’re glad to be home. Sawyer especially, because he missed the Wii so much that I think he might hug it and kiss it and ask to take it to bed with him tonight. He likes to play in the Mii plaza and create new Miis. He played my sister’s but wasn’t allowed to touch her Miis and it drove him insane. He’s already told me he plans to make a new Mommy Mii with a “crazy mouth.” This is to go along with the one he already made of me that is sporting a fu manchu and squinty eyes. That is, if he and Beckett don’t kill each other before nap time.

Ah, home sweet home.

Over the hump

So, did anyone notice anything special about the picture I posted? Anyone? Bueller?

Look a little closer and you’ll see that my baby girl’s scrumptious cheeks are RASH FREE! Thank you, Aveeno baby wash and Hydrocortisone cream. No more angry red hives or crusty ears. Now I can move on to worrying about other things, like that annoying flat spot she’s developing from having a right side preference, or that her poop may possibly not be the right shade of honey Dijon yellow. Lets hope I learn to stop obsessing over everything by the time she’s twelve.

My emotional state has improved tenfold in the past week or so. Thanks, in part, to a massive blow out in which I aired all my thoughts and fears to DH and he thankfully didn’t declare me loony toons and run for the hills. And also thanks to a baby who sleeps amazingly well so I haven’t had to deal with any sleep deprivation thus far.

I used to think that a newborn being a good sleeper was a myth and anyone who said they had one was lying through their teeth (although I still secretly hated them and wanted to land a swift punch right in their well-rested eye). A quick read through my archives will have you understanding the sleep hell I dealt with when Beckett was a baby. But Avonlea is different. I now know that easy babies DO exist. I also know I had every reason to hate those bitches because it is A-FLIPPING-MAZING. You’re free to hate me, too. But I was about due for an easy one this time around, if you ask me. DH is loving it too, because it means he doesn’t have to walk a stroller around the block at three in the morning every. single. day. Thanks for that, Beckett. Yes, the man is a saint.

I should probably stop talking about it now, because my superstitious subconscious won’t stop whispering that it’s going to come back and bite me in the ass in a couple months. That’d be my luck.

We have a busy weekend ahead, filled with cleaning and packing and my first Tupperware party tomorrow. (Which, by the way, if you’re just dying to get your hands on some air-tight-sealed goodness, jump over to my website!) Avonlea has an appointment with our chiropractor tomorrow afternoon to deal with this pesky side preference. Sunday will be devoted to packing, making lists, checking off those lists and then checking again to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything, as well as cat-proofing the house so they can’t destroy anything while we’re gone. And then we’re leaving bright and early Monday morning for the 8-hour trip to the land of cheese curds and no cell phone service, aka Wisconsin.

Eight hours.

With three kids.

I have a feeling the DVD player in the Pilot will become my new best friend, so much so that I may want to name my next child after it, much like babies end up being named Bob or Gary thanks to a good anesthesiologist. Samsung Melban has a nice ring to it.

Crafty gifts are the best gifts.

I don’t much care for Valentine’s Day, but my hubs is a sweetie so I wanted to do something for him without spending money. I also needed to practice hand-stitching quilt binding, and he likes showing his military pride. So voila, a quilted service flag is born. He loves it.