Goodbye Alfonso

Remember when I said that the transition from 2 kids to 3 was somehow easier than from 1 to 2 or even from 0 to 1? I take it all back. I was totally wrong. Stuff has exploded all over my house and I just can't seem to keep up. Laundry, people. OH THE LAUNDRY. And toys. Tiny, mismatched toys that are everywhere. I can't clean the bathrooms at the rate necessary for all the urine the boys produce. I just spend so much time cooking meals, serving meals, cleaning up after meals, preparing snacks, serving snacks, cleaning up trail mix remnants from the dining room floor, repeat. I mean, I am all for a positive outlook, but this is real talk. Just the amount of stuff is really mind boggling.

So, we made the obvious decision, which is to downsize our home from 1600 square feet to 1000 square feet. Of course this is the best solution, right? RIGHT? Here's the rub: Jeff got an awesome job opportunity in our favorite city, San Diego, he took it, and we're moving down this week. But guess what? Finding a place to live in a major city near the beach is much harder and much more expensive than in our current city, Fresyes Fresno. Thus, the downsizing. The place we found has a stellar backyard and is walkable to some great parks, restaurants, and the neighborhood elementary school. And we get to live next door to my sister, also known to the boys as The Cool Young Single Aunt. But also, 1000 square feet and five human beings, one cat, all boys' toys ever invented, all boys' clothes sizes 9 months to 5T, way too much fabric and too many craft supplies, way too many board games, floor puzzles like whoa, kitchen aid mixer, high chair, excersaucer, play tent, AND THE LIST GOES ON. Did I mention the new place has no hall closet? Or pantry? I feel equal parts scared to death and completely elated. I've been donating and selling things with this really wonderful abandon, and it's just very freeing and empowering. I've found the purging has to happen in rounds.

First round: maternity clothes, nonsentimental newborn stuff, broken tricycles, Target dollar section toys, world's largest food processor, ridiculously awkward double stroller

Second round: superfluous and overly specific cooking utensils, crockpot, panini pan, neglected cookbooks, tacky children's books, ugly wall art

Third round: waffle maker, wok (one large, one small), one dresser, all nightstands, guest bed, Hungry Hungry Hippos

Fourth round: couch, most pots and pans, excessive baby blankets (how did we end up with all these baby blankets?!), desk chair, coffee table, giant bouncy rocking horse, originally named Alfonso as a nod to that fantastic 80s version of Pippi Longstockings.

You see? Each round offers me more boldness. Soon I'll be posting everything on craigslist: my wedding ring, the vacuum, the dining room table, and so on. It's a slippery slope and it just feels so so good to be sliding.

If any of you have ever lived in a small space, I'd love to hear your tips or advice. For example, where will I keep my vacuum if I choose not to sell it to someone in a Rite Aid parking lot?

Busts and the bust

I promise that I frequently have great topic ideas for this blog. But then I sit down to write and all I want to talk about is co-sleeping and nursing. Which is ridiculous, I know. Like, do you know about bath nursing? I call it dive bomb nursing, and it's the best. I admit, I often get in the bath with my babies when they're under 8 months or so. It's easy to wash them this way, free of reaching over the side or using those obnoxiously awkward baby bathtubs. Around 6 months (which is what Gus is now), the baby gets a bit more coherent and mobile and will turn to look at you in the bath. There's this cognitive light bulb when the baby sees your chest and realizes, "Those are my food source! And here they are, completely exposed, beckoning me with no fabric or snaps or nursing pads hindering my way!" And then (this is the best part), the baby flails his body towards your chest, because he Just. Can't. Resist. and you have a sweet little naked nursing session, with his tiny feet making splashy noises the whole time. It's just absolutely precious.

See, I'm off track again! From here on out, this post is no longer about nursing.

The house next to us has been vacant for five months, but then this weekend a couple and their baby boy moved in. He's here for medical school, they're clearly hiking hippies, they drive a station wagon, and both she and the baby are gingers. I mean talk about friend alert! They moved from Los Angeles by way of San Francisco, and we had a nice little chat yesterday about the pros of suburban life. About saving money and Costco and gated communities and short commutes. And then this morning, there was a drug bust in our cul de sac. So I'm sure they're feeling really great about their move now. The boys and I were playing in the front yard when suddenly, seven agents in drug vests holding pellet guns were charging the house three doors down. We spent some time hiding in the laundry room, and Jeff came out of his office to defend our safety by wielding the closest thing our house has to a weapon: my plastic kitchen broom. We survived. We'll be sticking to the backyard for a while I think.

What do you think, can you handle a co-sleeping post in the near future? I promise it wouldn't be preachy and superior, more like dreamy and cuddly. Let me know.

So you want your kid's teacher to like you

Having been a teacher for a short time and now being a parent of a kid who goes to school, I feel like I have some real perspective. Like real, adult perspective. Joni Mitchell, I've looked at love from both sides now-type perspective. Seeing both sides (now) makes me have more compassion for the mothers of the squirrelly, overly-active boys with pockets full of wood chips and the moms of the bratty little girls, wearing dresses too fancy for school on Tuesday. I try to think back to my teaching days to wonder if I offered enough encouragement to parents who really were trying hard, even if it didn't always show in their kid's behavior. I'm trying to be a good parent of a student, because I know teaching is a really hard job and that parents have a huge impact on a teacher's sanity. Also because I know my kid is prone to talking too much, knocking over other kids' towers, and forgetting to wash his hands. So, how can you be an awesome parent of a kid in school? Here's my list:

1. Simplify. Send your kid to school in play clothes. Avoid the fussy and fancy. Go with shoes your kid can put on himself. Just say NO to sending a backpack with a preschooler.

2. Help. Volunteering in the classroom is awesome, but if that doesn't work with your schedule or if you're just an over-achiever, offer to make play-doh to bring in, pick up new boxes of tissue, or take the glues home and refill them. Ask her favorite drink and pick her up a coffee once a month. You know, classic goody goody stuff.

3. Focus. On your kid, that is. Teacher doesn't need to spend an entire parent-teacher conference discussing your educational history, how much you love Renaissance fairs, that weird growth on your back, or why you lost your job. It sounds obvious, but you'd be surprised how many parents just want to talk about themselves. Save your stories for your friends. If you don't have friends, start a blog.

4. Communicate. Email, phone, texting, notes. Make yourself available and stay updated on how things are going. Take a moment to greet the teacher every morning, and teach your child to do the same.

5. Bridge the Gap. If you notice your kid's letter writing is illegible, do some practicing at home. If you know that unit on space is starting, do a little something to prep your kid. I'm not talking flashcards here. More like read a space book or go out stargazing.

6. Reward. I feel very strongly about teacher gifts. First, let me say, no gift other than a thank you card is really necessary. If you don't choose to give a gift, don't sweat it. But if you do, I think it absolutely must be an illustrated, handwritten (or transcribed) thank you card from your kid. Make him write specific things he likes about the teacher and activities he enjoyed. With this, a gift card. I suggest Target, Barnes and Noble, Amazon, Starbucks, or a restaurant. Five to twenty dollars. Teachers do not want wooden jewelry, body lotion, quilts covered in handprints, miniature rock fountains, mugs, framed photos of your child, or brownies. Real talk.

So, I guess you're all set now. Years of formal education, completely demystified. I do what I can.

Who Needs the White Meds?

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"Never go with a hippy to a second location." -Jack Danaughy, 30 Rock


So it turns out that breast milk fixes all the world's problems. You have a weird rash? Breast milk. Headache? Breast milk. Split ends? Muffin top? Hang nail? Breast milk.

But seriously, it turns out the good stuff treats a multitude of ailments. It all started when our new pediatrician recommended I use expressed milk to flush Jonah's stuffy nose. I smiled and nodded with my best crunchy smile and nod, hoping my hair didn't look too tame and that my mascara wasn't showing. Whenever hippies scare me, I find doing a lot of nodding and smiling allows me to avoid actually discussing something weird. "Just express some milk, and squirt it up his nose like you would nose spray." "Oh okay. Wow! Thanks." Smile. Nod. And then I went home AND I ACTUALLY DID IT. Mind you, I pumped in secret and told the boys it was "white medicine" in order to avoid a really awkward  preschool moment when your five year old makes announcements involving the word "breast".

It's pretty much been downhill from there. I mean, I'm not always the best at moderation. Here's other reasons I've administered the good stuff:

-clogged tear duct(give a little squirt whenever you feel like it)
-stuffy nose (this is a lifesaver when baby can't nurse)
-healing belly button
-baby acne
-diaper rash

I've heard breast milk also works for ear infections, cradle cap, and excema, but we've been free of these problems thus far. Also, full disclosure, I haven't use any on myself, but maybe some people do this? I don't know. I feel like I could be only days away from making my own Mama's Milk Cheese, and quite frankly, that thought both scares and excites me. WHO AM I?

Just to be clear

I was reading back the last post I wrote and thought to myself, "Oh no. It sounds like I have it all together." Which of course isn't true, and I was worried it might make some other mother or mother-to-be out there feel bad that she cried yesterday over the dishes in the sink or left a half-filled grocery cart in the middle of Trader Joe's because her 4 month old was shrieking and she didn't know what else to do (been there). 

So let's be clear. When I said going from two to three was not that bad, what I meant was that, strangely, it's an easier transition than going from zero to one. In the months after Jonah was born, I felt like I had been shot at and hit. I had no idea how people existed and cared for a tiny, delicate, screaming baby. Sleep deprivation was so much more painful than I thought it would be. I couldn't even fathom how women showered, dressed, dried their hair, applied makeup, and got out the door with a baby in tow (lesson learned: start showering with the kid, stop drying hair, stop applying makeup). It was like there was this whole secret world of parenting and NO ONE HAD EVEN TOLD ME (which is funny, because aren't people always telling pregnant ladies, "Oh man, you're in for it.")?

So yes, adding a third child to a house already filled with toys, dirty clothes, baby soap, dishes in the sink, and missing puzzle pieces isn't such a shock. I've done it before and survived and I know that each month is easier and yes, all babies will sleep through the night eventually. They will stop crying so much and learn to sit up on a blanket and drool happily for maybe 20 minutes while I start a load of laundry or load the dishwasher or read a real life book.

I'm eternally thankful for the whole "fourth trimester" concept, because it's so very forgiving. It's okay for me to have a fantastic morning at the park with the boys, Gus happily napping in the Ergo, feeling like mom of the year when I remember I magically have two baggies of pineapple chunks, extra pants for Henry, and hand sanitizer in my purse, then find myself texting Jeff at 3:30 pm with messages like "Where ARE you?" and "Take out for dinner?" and simply "!!!". To take in stride the nights where we don't make the boys pick up their toys before bed, and we're just too tired to do it ourselves, so we just shrug and say, "Ahh, it'll all be out again in 11 hours anyway." That Jeff doesn't roll his eyes when I whine at dinner about postpartum baby weight, eat nothing but salad and green tea, then march to the kitchen at 10 pm announcing  "I'm eating three Oreos because I DESERVE IT!" Or when I beg Jeff to take the boys out for a long walk so I can clean the bathrooms that are used by two little boys with poor aim, wave them out the door, then race upstairs to take a hot bath instead. I mean, I really did want to clean the toilets, but, then...

Luckily, everything doesn't have to be easy to be great. I think parents should remember that. Just because you're exhausted or hormonal, or mourning a life that was a little cleaner and easier and thinner and free-er, it doesn't mean that life isn't good. That you don't enjoy this crazy journey of making and maintaining humans. Parenting is a constant juggle of highs and lows, and that's okay. Here's to hanging in there. Pass the cookies.

The Groundhog Day of Babies

Hi everybody! We're still alive around here and almost out of the fourth trimester. Believe it or not, transitioning from two to three is not that bad (note: bad is always relative). The trick to success mostly involves caffeine and breast milk (not consumed together). Gus is all the things babies are supposed to be and we're definitely keeping him. He has oddly large ears that appear to have no cartilage whatsoever. We're calling this a win. His brothers are (mostly) sweet to him and have ample time for wrestling/eating toothpaste/building pillow forts/terrorizing the cat now that I'm glued to the couch, nursing like a mad woman. Also, I'm pretty sure we now own every article of baby boy's clothing ever manufactured in the universe. So far highlights have been comments of Gus's masculinity (?), his ability to sleep somewhere other than our arms (!), and the pediatrician's opinion that breast milk is the solution for every health problem (You guys, she suggested I drop expressed breast milk into my five year old's stuffy nose and then I DID IT.).

 I have so much more to say, but I guess I should spread it out a bit. Topics to come: being asked by a new friend what my body used to look like, cloth diaper snobbery, tummy sleeping guilt, and how I weaseled my way into a Mormon Mommy Playgroup.

Here are pictures of our three little spawn(s?), all taken around the 2 month mark. Clearly my uterus is a cookie cutter of Y chromosome awesome:

Can you spot that floppy-eared goodness?

And Then, Gus

August Shepherd was born on October 26th at 8:12 in the morning. 

He weighed 8 pounds and 6 ounces and measured 21.5 inches long. 

He's absolutely lovely.

Just think of how much King Henry VIII would have loved me!