Domestic Diva: Strike Three and You’re Out

Tomorrow is C’s preschool holiday party and I am in charge of “treats,” which is a pretty broad term in my book. I much prefered the Thanksgiving party as I was in charge of “four apples, sliced in eighths and one bunch of grapes, sliced lengthwise.” Nice and precise, no questions or concerns about what was expected of me. “Treats” on the other hand, could mean any number of things. Cupcakes (but maybe those are reserved for birthday celebrations only?) cookies (if so, how many per child?) brownies (not terrible festive, are they)…the list goes on and on forever. After some debate I settled on cookies. Festive, but not too much sugar or mess. Now the big question remained, do I bake them or buy them? After much internal struggle I decided that I would make gingerbread Christmas trees with C as he had so much fun making them when we had done them as a holiday activity over the weekend. I could perhaps regain some of the domestic diva points I had lost during the cookie exchange fiasco last week.

I rolled, C wielded the cookie cutter, and we baked. All was good in the land of domestic divadom. I didn’t burn them, they all looked exactally the same cooling on the counter (as in a class of ten 2 and 1/2 year olds, all things must be EXACTALLY the same), and they actually tasted perfectly homemade.

As I was making dinner, however, I heard a crash, shatter, “mamaaaaaa.” C has dragged his step stool over to the counter to inspect the cookies and accidentally knocked half of them onto the floor. I no longer had ten cookies that looked exactally the same, but rather seven cookies almost intact and several broken ones. I silently sighed while reassuring C that it was all OK, accidents happen, and we’ll just think of something. He tearfully looked up at me and said “That’s OK Mommy, you go buy more at the grocery store.” No “we’ll make some more, right?” or “you’ll fix them, right?” but “you’ll buy them.” How sad is it that my son knew exactally what I was going to do, as at 8:45 at night I joined the line of other last minute mommies at the local grocery store casing the cookie display.

I think it might be time for me to scream uncle to the domestic diva gods. But for now I’m off to try to make pumpkin bread (from a mix) for C’s teachers. Wish me luck….

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My Desperate Housewife Moment

So last night I had a desperate housewife moment. M, still in Vegas, thanks for asking, was gone, and I was snuggled in bed watching Desperate Housewives. A woke up with an ear piercing “I am in PAIN” scream. I raced to her room, assessed that there was actually nothing really wrong, and placed her back in her crib. She hollered again. I debated briefly, then scooped up my somewhat suprised child and brought her back to bed with me so I could finish watching the show (and as an added bonus, TIVO had recorded enough that I didn’t have to watch any more commercials). She thought it was an adventure for about 10 minutes, then snuggled in and went back to sleep next to me. I got to finish watching my show, everyone won. And I am only slightly embarrassed to admit it all….

So Very Tired

I am so very tired. M is in Vegas this weekend (pleasure trip, a whole other entry could be written to describe the bitterness I feel) and I am running on a fuel of diet coke and coffee. Which is a double edge sword since I am still nursing A, and am just waiting for her to wake up wired. So far I’ve been lucky, but my luck never lasts long with these things.

C droppped his nap right about the time A was born (go figure) but still desperately needs it. So at 1pm pretty much on the dot my child goes from lovable cuddly happy child to hell on wheels. And from 1 until I can finally get him in bed at about 6:45, I am fighting a losing battle trying to keep him from hurting himself or others (particularly A) as his self control is gone gone gone.

About once a week I finally cave and force a nap on him by lying down with him when M is home on the weekends, and that seems to buy me a day or two of relative peace. Today I tried to swing it by myself and we just ended up waking A so I drove both kids around town for an hour so they could nap. The upside, I found our next neighborhood and narrowed down the houses I would like to a small handfull :-). The downside, C is still up and it is 9:10. There will be no sleep for the weary.

I have no idea how to resolve this situation, and frankly I don’t think there is a blessed thing I can do about it besides soldier on and wait for him to grow up enough so he doesn’t need as much sleep. Silly me thought it would be a transition of a few weeks, tops. I now think we are looking at many more months, if not years.

I keep looking at A and thinking there is something I can do to make her a better sleeper. And she is marginally better than C was at here age, but just marginally. I have a feeling that I will be tired for many more years to come. M has promised me two weekends away in exchange for this trip to Vegas (I think the guilt kicked in, finally) and quite honestly there is no place I want to go besides bed. Alone. With my pillow. And that is where I am now headed, as I think C has finally drifted off.

God’s Gift to the Weary

At 8:38 this morning God’s gift to the weary arrived on my doorstep, the Stop and Shop Peapod delivery man. I ordered my groceries for the week online yesterday, and for the very very cheap sum of $5.95, they were deposited in my kitchen by a man I very nearly kissed.

The grocery store ranks up there with laundry on my list of things I hate most. It used to be the perfect outing when C could be contained in the cart. Now that he can unclip himself, climb out and take off, it is my worst nightmare. People who used to coo happily at us as we cruised the aisles chatting happily now part like the Red Sea or run when they see us coming. I screach, he cries, and we often go home empty handed.

I haven’t quite figured out how Peapod makes money and have a niggling suspicion that they probably charge more for the same item, but quite honestly, I could care less right now. My food was delivered packaged by category, I didn’t have to fight with my children in public, and we will be able to eat for a week. Life is good.

Oh My Aching Boobs

This is a somewhat whiney post as my boobs are currently bleeding since A has achieved teeth and decided to use them. B (yes, you are deserving of a literary letter 🙂 ) always said this was the dirty little secret of breastfeeding, and indeed it is. By the time the teeth come in you are generally committed for the long haul and slog on through, figuring why discourage others behind you by giving the painful details of what sharp little teeth not yet worn down by chewing can actually do to your nipples. And I suppose it is the right thing to do as at week 5 with C, had someone told me what was to come, I might have run and never turned back instead of becoming the slightly over zealous breastfeeding mommy that I am.

I had actually forgotten the teeth issue but at the first brush of those little sharp prongs it all came flooding back. “Ooooh. Not good,” I thought with a mental sigh as I settled deeper into the glider in anticipation of what was to come.

This evening was particularly bad as I think she is working on her top teeth (fun fun and more fun). As I kept poping her off and doing the firm “No” routine, C leaned over her and wagged his finger back and forth saying “Baby, don’t bite Mommy. Not nice. You drink mommy milk like good baby.” Which cracked me up to no end as his biting phase makes her look like a meek little kitten.

When C started biting I shleped us to the lactation consultant because he would bite, I would scream and he would then refuse to nurse. I was convinced she would have some magical cure as she had done so well by me in the beginning. When she gingerly suggested that he was self weaning, I suprised myself (and her) by freaking out among all the poor horrified new mommies in the room dealing with latch issues. “I am NOT weaning this child after all we have been through. He is going to nurse until I say it is over and it is NOT over.” I huffed out and never went back. We eventually worked through it (C likes to eat, and when push came to shove, food won) and happily kept nursing for many more months.

This time around I had no such illusions that the stage would miraculously go away and instead pulled out the lanolin and soothies. Fortunately, A is more of a nibbler. She chomps and then pops off to look at me as if to ask, “How about that? Is that OK?” This first time she did it the look she gave me was so amusing I made the mistake of laughing so she chowed down until I screamed. She seems to be responding to the pop off routine fairly well, which is giving me false hope that she will also respond well to all sorts of disciplining techniques as she grows up (a mommy can always hope, can’t she?). But for now I guess I should just count my blessings that my boobs may survive this in slightly better shape than they did the last time…

Domestic Diva??? I Think Not

Tomorrow will hallmark two domestic diva failures for me. It is the day of the great holiday cookie exchange at which I can almost guarantee I will be offering up store bought cookies unless some divine intervention appears in my kitchen before the morning. It is also the day that I finally cave and try to deal with my housecleaner situation and admit that I need at least weekly help.

The cookie failure is particularly irksome. I am currently working on batch number 3 of meringues, and they show only slightly more promise than batches one and two. Batch one did not even pretend to look like meringues should look, it was more of an egg white and sugar soup. Batch number two showed early promise, and then fell (literally). Batch number 3 made it into the oven, but at last peek only loosly resembled meringues in a “if you squint really hard and look slightly to the left” sort of way. I am currently debating if the 4th would be worth the effort or if I should just throw in the towel and head to the store after dropping C off at school tomorrow. It’s a close call. Either way I need to go to the store as we are out of eggs, and when faced with the lovely looking store cookies or the potential of failing yet again, there is fairly good odds that I will cave to the powers that be. I should just admit that I cannot bake and move on.

On the housekeeper front, I currently have a lovely woman who comes every other week and does an adequate job of cleaning, a fabulous job of babysitting, and an above and beyond the call of duty job of catsitting when asked. In theory, I should be doing an equally adequate if not better cleaning the weeks that she does not come, in reality I will sometimes whip out the vacumn if the dust bunnies start rolling across the room.

I do not know how the Martha Stewart’s and Bree’s of the world do it. As I told M tonight, it is a good day if I can get all three of us dressed, cleaned, and fed. Dinner consists of a bagged salad and some sort of mystery meat most nights, and I couldn’t even begin to tell you when the last time I pulled out the windex was. But the chaos is wearing me down, so I will throw in the towel and see if she can come every week. So much for being a SAHM saving us money…between the cleaning lady and the multiple batches of cookies, today has turned out to be pretty damn expensive.