Last night, I spent the night, awake, on the couch, with a 103 degree 20-month old.
This morning, I was greeted with, "Mommy, I frew up in my bed," followed by B telling me that L also had diarrhea.
B and I had to attend separate church services because our boys were sick, on a very special service that would have been powerful for us to attend together.
Today, I've worried over two sick little men. I've mopped foreheads and pushed fluids and forced probiotics.
I received a homemade, heartfelt card from B with a mall gift card and the promise of a night out of guilt-free, child-free shopping.
However, I was more concerned with the never ending fever and bathroom issues than the scheduling of said evening.
Being a momma is tough. But I don't mourn the hardships of my Mother's Day today. I know too many women who would give anything to rock a baby, even a feverish one. To clean up after a child, even if it includes pukey sheets. To worry over thermometers. To wipe tears and bottoms.
I know women brimming with hopefulness and those who have lost all sense of hope.
I'm praying that my boys get better, but in the next breath, I'm praying for the mommies who are mourning the loss of their babies and/or who are praying they'll finally get their own diaper-clad miracle.
To ALL mothers out there...namaste'.
Showing posts with label motherhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label motherhood. Show all posts
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
When you are a boy mom
When you are a boy mom, you don't get to pick out dresses or debate over leggings vs skinnies, knowing that either one will be ridiculously cute on your little lady's bottom.
When you are a boy mom, you don't get to marvel over teeny tiny painted piggie toes and sigh over their sweetness in flowered sandals.
When you are a boy mom, you don't get to perfect pigtails and adjust sweet headbands, celebrating when the flower matches the ruffled dress just right.
When you are a boy mom, you get to get attacked with giggles and punches, mid-bathroom cleaning. You get to get greeted with "Hold it right there, Sister!"
When you are a boy mom, you get the reward of giddy smiles when you agree to be the bad guy. And even if you don't know how to fight like a bad guy, it's okay, because little boys are more than happy to coach you if you are willing to play. When you are a boy mom, you'll hear things like "Bad guys don't tickle!" and "You're supposed to tackle me now!"
When you are a boy mom, you get workouts at home from fighting with Batman. And if the rest of your body isn't sore from said workout, your abs will get sore from laughing so hard.
When you are a boy mom, you can play rough and tumble and perfect your fake punches without fear of messed up hair or clothes or piggie toes. If you're lucky, you can sneak in a hug or a kiss while you do so.
When you are a boy mom, you are a superhero, just because you are a mommy. Because even though you don't get to wear matching dresses or get mommy and me manicures, nothing rivals the love that a little boy feels for his mommy. As protective as a momma is for her baby bears, a little boy will puff out his chest and stand up tall to protect his momma bear right back.
I am a boy mom and it's everything I've ever imagined it would be. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to locate my cape.
Namaste'.
When you are a boy mom, you don't get to marvel over teeny tiny painted piggie toes and sigh over their sweetness in flowered sandals.
When you are a boy mom, you don't get to perfect pigtails and adjust sweet headbands, celebrating when the flower matches the ruffled dress just right.
When you are a boy mom, you get to get attacked with giggles and punches, mid-bathroom cleaning. You get to get greeted with "Hold it right there, Sister!"
When you are a boy mom, you get the reward of giddy smiles when you agree to be the bad guy. And even if you don't know how to fight like a bad guy, it's okay, because little boys are more than happy to coach you if you are willing to play. When you are a boy mom, you'll hear things like "Bad guys don't tickle!" and "You're supposed to tackle me now!"
When you are a boy mom, you get workouts at home from fighting with Batman. And if the rest of your body isn't sore from said workout, your abs will get sore from laughing so hard.
When you are a boy mom, you can play rough and tumble and perfect your fake punches without fear of messed up hair or clothes or piggie toes. If you're lucky, you can sneak in a hug or a kiss while you do so.
When you are a boy mom, you are a superhero, just because you are a mommy. Because even though you don't get to wear matching dresses or get mommy and me manicures, nothing rivals the love that a little boy feels for his mommy. As protective as a momma is for her baby bears, a little boy will puff out his chest and stand up tall to protect his momma bear right back. 
I am a boy mom and it's everything I've ever imagined it would be. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to locate my cape.Namaste'.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Best of Both Worlds
During my Spring Break, I was a stay-at-home mom. At the beginning of the week, I was ready. Excited. Thrilled at the thought of having a week off with my boys. Visions of library trips and picnic lunches filled my head.
And we visited grandparents. We played games. We did indeed visit the library. And had picnic lunches every day.
It was fabulous, not having to go through the chaotic evening routine of checking backpacks-making lunches-throwing dinner together-baths-bedtime routine in the four hours I get with my boys after school. It was refreshing to enjoy their presence, to eat lunch with them and, I admit, to enjoy the quiet time during their naps. I got to prepare dinners during the day and the mad rush wasn't missed, even remotely.
However... it was exhausting. I was referee, maid, cook, nurse, policewoman, and snuggler. One afternoon, I text messaged B, asking him to stop for booze for me on the way home from work because the whining that day was epic. It was hard. Harder than I expected. A five-year-old and a nineteen-month-old isn't easy, alone, day in and day out. Stay-at-home momming is not for the faint of heart.
So when I returned to work, I breathed a sigh of relief. Until I had to deal with frustrating children (and adults) all day at work, scarf my lunch in 25 minutes, then rush to pick up the boys after school, get them home, and start the head-spinning evening to-do list.
I missed my boys during the day, but I'd used all my patience on tantruming/struggling students at work, so I was quick to snap when they whined during witching hour. I didn't get five minutes to myself...literally. Working momming is not easy.
Like breastfeeding vs formula, organic vs. nonorganic, and a myriad of other debates, I know that the SAHM vs working mom debate is going to stand the test of time. I'm one of the lucky ones, who gets the best of both worlds. I'm off work at 3:45. I get snow days, Spring Break, Christmas break, holidays, and that long glorious summer to be a SAHM. And all the other days, I join the other mommas in the working world.
I'm here to tell you, once and for all, that neither one is easier. I'm simultaneously dreading and counting down the days until summer break starts. And I give props to all of you mommas, no matter which momming road you choose.
Namaste'.
And we visited grandparents. We played games. We did indeed visit the library. And had picnic lunches every day.
It was fabulous, not having to go through the chaotic evening routine of checking backpacks-making lunches-throwing dinner together-baths-bedtime routine in the four hours I get with my boys after school. It was refreshing to enjoy their presence, to eat lunch with them and, I admit, to enjoy the quiet time during their naps. I got to prepare dinners during the day and the mad rush wasn't missed, even remotely.
However... it was exhausting. I was referee, maid, cook, nurse, policewoman, and snuggler. One afternoon, I text messaged B, asking him to stop for booze for me on the way home from work because the whining that day was epic. It was hard. Harder than I expected. A five-year-old and a nineteen-month-old isn't easy, alone, day in and day out. Stay-at-home momming is not for the faint of heart.
So when I returned to work, I breathed a sigh of relief. Until I had to deal with frustrating children (and adults) all day at work, scarf my lunch in 25 minutes, then rush to pick up the boys after school, get them home, and start the head-spinning evening to-do list.
I missed my boys during the day, but I'd used all my patience on tantruming/struggling students at work, so I was quick to snap when they whined during witching hour. I didn't get five minutes to myself...literally. Working momming is not easy.
Like breastfeeding vs formula, organic vs. nonorganic, and a myriad of other debates, I know that the SAHM vs working mom debate is going to stand the test of time. I'm one of the lucky ones, who gets the best of both worlds. I'm off work at 3:45. I get snow days, Spring Break, Christmas break, holidays, and that long glorious summer to be a SAHM. And all the other days, I join the other mommas in the working world.
I'm here to tell you, once and for all, that neither one is easier. I'm simultaneously dreading and counting down the days until summer break starts. And I give props to all of you mommas, no matter which momming road you choose.
Namaste'.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Every party has a pooper.
Every week, I see a 22-month old little boy for private speech therapy. I'm not gonna lie...sometimes it's hard to go in the evenings. However, it's really, really easy (and great) money and that makes it easier.
Usually.
This week, I entered the house during dinnertime. My little boy was in his high chair, eating dinner. We worked on him saying, "more, please," and naming his food. At one point, I was pretty sure he was pooping, but I didn't say anything. That's not exactly in my job description.
I got him done from his high chair when he signed, "all done," and we started playing with his toy kitchen. He wanted to put all the plastic food in the oven, and I made him say "oh" to request me to open it each time. Because I had to be near the kitchen to hold the oven door closed, and my belly is ridonculously large, he kept rubbing up against my tummy as he put the food in the oven.
I didn't think much of it, but I should have.
I mentioned to his dad that I saw something on the back of his leg, and his dad explained that he had a rash from his antibiotics that he was on.
For the last ten minutes, the dad read a book to his two little boys as I filled out my time sheet and coached him from my seat on the couch.
Suddenly, the dad said, "What the...."
I looked up.
"Oh, no," he said, clearly disgusted. "What a mess. He pooped all over. Can you do me a favor and watch his brother while I run him upstairs and take care of this mess?"
Of course, I agreed. I settled in with the older brother to read some books. Halfway through the second book, something caught my eye.
There was poop on. my. belly.
Nasty, antibiotic-induced, not-my-kid poop. A great big blob of it on my yellow tee shirt.
Trying not to gag, I jumped up, faster than I knew I could at 8 and 1/2 months pregnant. I ran to the kitchen sink and scraped it off, then started soaping and wiping and cringing.
The dad came down the stairs as I was frantically cleaning my shirt.
Trying to be lighthearted and have an "oh-what's-a-little-poop-this-happens-all-the-time" attitude, I said, "Looks like he got me too! Heh, heh." I think I could have won an Academy Award for covering up my disgust.
The dad offered me a shirt, but I just wanted to get out of there. I shoved my time sheet in his face for him to sign, and ran out to my car. B had been blowing up my phone, as I always call when I leave. When I called him back, he explained that he was working on the crib in the nursery and needed me to run to Wal-Mart for a needed supply.
That's when I lost it.
"I got pooped on! I am not going to Wal-Mart with shit on my shirt!! I know I won't be the only one there with bodily fluids on my clothing but I will NOT do it!"
I still think I deserve a bonus for that evening.
*****UPDATE:
As I was typing this, L called me into the bathroom.
"Mommy? I dropped my car in the potty!"
I got up, waddled to the bathroom, and peered in the toilet. I didn't see the car. Know why? Because it was covered in...what else...poop. To make matters worse, L's bowel movements have been less than normal lately. We think it's because of the influx of fruit/soy/fiber/all of the above in his diet.
B was cooking breakfast, so it was up to me. I begged B to let me flush it. I gagged. I cried. I might have yelled. Ultimately, I went to the grocery store and bought a pair of thick rubber gloves. The toilet was saved. The Hot Wheels, however, was a casualty.
In a few weeks, I'll be quite literally, up to my elbows in poo, with two butts to wipe besides my own. Here's hoping I get a short break from getting shat on until then.
Usually.
This week, I entered the house during dinnertime. My little boy was in his high chair, eating dinner. We worked on him saying, "more, please," and naming his food. At one point, I was pretty sure he was pooping, but I didn't say anything. That's not exactly in my job description.
I got him done from his high chair when he signed, "all done," and we started playing with his toy kitchen. He wanted to put all the plastic food in the oven, and I made him say "oh" to request me to open it each time. Because I had to be near the kitchen to hold the oven door closed, and my belly is ridonculously large, he kept rubbing up against my tummy as he put the food in the oven.
I didn't think much of it, but I should have.
I mentioned to his dad that I saw something on the back of his leg, and his dad explained that he had a rash from his antibiotics that he was on.
For the last ten minutes, the dad read a book to his two little boys as I filled out my time sheet and coached him from my seat on the couch.
Suddenly, the dad said, "What the...."
I looked up.
"Oh, no," he said, clearly disgusted. "What a mess. He pooped all over. Can you do me a favor and watch his brother while I run him upstairs and take care of this mess?"
Of course, I agreed. I settled in with the older brother to read some books. Halfway through the second book, something caught my eye.
There was poop on. my. belly.
Nasty, antibiotic-induced, not-my-kid poop. A great big blob of it on my yellow tee shirt.
Trying not to gag, I jumped up, faster than I knew I could at 8 and 1/2 months pregnant. I ran to the kitchen sink and scraped it off, then started soaping and wiping and cringing.
The dad came down the stairs as I was frantically cleaning my shirt.
Trying to be lighthearted and have an "oh-what's-a-little-poop-this-happens-all-the-time" attitude, I said, "Looks like he got me too! Heh, heh." I think I could have won an Academy Award for covering up my disgust.
The dad offered me a shirt, but I just wanted to get out of there. I shoved my time sheet in his face for him to sign, and ran out to my car. B had been blowing up my phone, as I always call when I leave. When I called him back, he explained that he was working on the crib in the nursery and needed me to run to Wal-Mart for a needed supply.
That's when I lost it.
"I got pooped on! I am not going to Wal-Mart with shit on my shirt!! I know I won't be the only one there with bodily fluids on my clothing but I will NOT do it!"
I still think I deserve a bonus for that evening.
*****UPDATE:
As I was typing this, L called me into the bathroom.
"Mommy? I dropped my car in the potty!"
I got up, waddled to the bathroom, and peered in the toilet. I didn't see the car. Know why? Because it was covered in...what else...poop. To make matters worse, L's bowel movements have been less than normal lately. We think it's because of the influx of fruit/soy/fiber/all of the above in his diet.
B was cooking breakfast, so it was up to me. I begged B to let me flush it. I gagged. I cried. I might have yelled. Ultimately, I went to the grocery store and bought a pair of thick rubber gloves. The toilet was saved. The Hot Wheels, however, was a casualty.
In a few weeks, I'll be quite literally, up to my elbows in poo, with two butts to wipe besides my own. Here's hoping I get a short break from getting shat on until then.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)