First Rule of Fight Club

Now that my kids are nearing 4 & 2 years old, our house is the equivalent of a UFC Fight Night. Only toddler style. And with less rules.

You know, when you have little girls, they always tell you the stereotypical B.S. about how they’re going to be little pixies, serene & soft-hearted. They’re going to sit primly at the table and host tea parties with their little doll friends. They’re going to be such gentle souls that butterflies will just naturally flock to the perfect little rays of sunshine. I’m here to tell you that for 95% of our lives, ALL OF THAT IS A LIE. My girls are rough & tumble monsters, just waiting to hit someone with a chair while they’re not looking.

Yesterday, my little 3 year old little angel threw her elbow so hard into my 1 year old’s mouth, it knocked her onto her butt & busted her lip open. Over a box of paper. Because she does not give a single f@&k about anything.

My precious, smiley baby has taken to seeing how many handfuls of hair she can remove from big sister’s head before said sister becomes bald. For really no reason at all. Other than to feel the sheer pleasure of making someone feel pain with your bare hands.

They’re absolute savages. They’re out for blood and don’t care about the consequences. They hit, they kick, they throw things, they push each other off of things. It’s to the point where I wouldn’t even trust them to be alone together while I go to the bathroom. The good news there is that, like every mother, I don’t know what a solo bathroom trip looks like. What a blessing, amirite?

The worst part of this has to be the fact that you can watch them attack, brutally and without hesitation, and they’ll turn around, look you square in the eye, and claim it never happened. It’s all a figment of your imagination. It’s terrifying. And seems never-ending. Will it ever stop? Maybe when they’re teenagers & they decide to join forces in waging war against the horrible parents they’ve been burdened with? Sounds about right.

 

When I signed up for this kid stuff, I don’t remember signing on to be a referee…

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hey, guyyyyyyys. I’m kind of tentatively back. I’m not creative to come up with stuff on the fly all the time, so instead, I’m going to attempt to blog roughly once a month. Yanno, unless I have something cool to say. Which is unlikely at best. So yeah, keep an eye out. I’ll hopefully be around. 🙂

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Planning and crying.

With the coming of Independence Day, comes the realization that I have less than a month before my babies are 1 and 3. Their birthdays are 6 days apart, so we’ll be having a shared party, as much for me as for them. I’m not sure any of us could handle two parties in quick succession. But as I begin finalizing the plans for their party, my joy is shaded with sadness.

R will be our last baby, and though I’m 100% happy with our decision to keep our family the way it is, there is an inevitable grief that comes with the end of baby days. With her first birthday, she’ll be a baby no more, and I’ll have to come to terms with the fact that my girls are growing quicker than I’m ready for.

This past year has been harder than I anticipated. I didn’t slide as gracefully into motherhood of two children as I did with just one. The transition from being equaled by L to being outnumbered all day was hard on me. To top it off, R was a colicky baby, and L was just a bit too young to really understand why we were spending 100% of our days trying to calm down a screaming newborn, when just a month ago, she’d simply had a mom with a huge stomach and all my attention. Together, they were hard to handle. Really hard. Tears on a daily basis kind of hard.

I’m sure I’ve mentioned that with both girls, I suffered from postpartum depression and postpartum anxiety. I was struggling just to get out of bed, then struggling to keep going, then struggling to sleep. It was 24 hours a day, and seemed endless. B was also working 6 days a week to keep us comfortable, instead of just scraping by. Everything about this first year with R was difficult. And now that I look back, I’m really sad that we didn’t appreciate more of our time with them. But I’m also really excited about the new phase that we’re entering, so that’s making it a bit easier to swallow.

I absolutely ADORE that 18 month age group. It’s by far the best, in my opinion. I can’t wait to watch R’s personality develop, and I can’t wait to see how L accepts R’s ability to keep up with her now.

So with this birthday, I’m going to have to try really hard to keep it together and focus on all the good times that we’re about to have as a family. I can’t wait to watch these little girls grow up, but I wish I could slow down the clock a bit.

I think these next few weeks are going to go way faster than I’m prepared for, and I’m just over here trying not to feel all the feels in the meantime. Wish me luck with that. *insert skeptical side eye*

“Momma”

As a mom, moments of sheer joy are often coupled with many more moments of exhaustion, frustration, and insanity. There are so many times when it’s nearly impossible not to just mutter to yourself “WTF is happening here?!”

I’ve had my fair share of those days. Far more than I even feel capable of handling, but we’ve survived. With the help of some well-placed bribes, lots of tears, and more chicken nuggets than I’ll ever admit to… ain’t nobody got time for gourmet. Our lives as parents have been utterly ridiculous. Ridiculously happy, ridiculously sad, ridiculously horrifying (like that one time my kid picked up and ate dog poop, because I needed tested on how quickly I could wash feces from a baby’s mouth before vomiting all over us… Neat).

Last night, despite the fact that I was up until 3am with R, because she decided that perfecting her version of a lion’s roar was far more important than sleep, I was overcome with happiness.

I’ll be the first to admit that I feel like I’ve missed out on some bonding moments with R. She was a colicky baby, and often, tending to her needs while she screamed at us was a 24 hour job. It left very little time for genuinely happy cuddles or enjoyable playtime. Pair that with a jealous toddler sister, and she didn’t get the time I had dedicated to L. Call it Second Child Syndrome, I suppose… But she was a tough baby to keep happy, with good reason. Who wants to put up with anyone’s crap when they don’t feel good? I don’t even want to look at another human if I have so much as a runny nose.

 

But last night, as we sat at a family celebration, something changed. She looked at me, and clearly said “momma”. Twice. TWICE!

Naturally, I flipped my lid (reining it in as much as I could because people were there and I don’t know how to feel feelings with witnesses present). I was ecstatic. She quickly brought me back down from my mommy high by trying to remove my eyeball from it’s socket with just her fingernails. But she can’t take it back now, no matter how hard she tries. It’s out there, for dear old mom to remember until I’m 97.

There are no words to describe the feelings you go through when your baby experiences a “first” in front of you. It’s like an emotion stroke. Or being choked to death with happiness. My pride was threatening my life.

I couldn’t even miss the sleep I was losing at 3am when she wanted a bottle and to babble at me. I instantly went from mombie to human person with feelings. If you’ve ever seen Warm Bodies, that’s a pretty accurate depiction of me in the middle of the night last night.

 

Fast-forward to this morning, when I woke up to “Momma! Momma! Mom-Mom-Momma!” Heart explodes. Happiness overload. Too many feels. It wasn’t just a fluke. She knows the word. She’s officially saying it. She likes me, she really likes me.

 

Long story short, these moments are definitely making up for all those disgusting diaper changes. But I’d be cool if those could just stop anyway. Just don’t grow up too fast, Shortstack.