Walk A Mile In My Shoes

A Day in the Life of a Toddler: As Told by Audrey Murphy

( A small excerpt of time and struggles of a 19 month old)

6:30 am: Wake up. Notice once again there is no one in your room waiting to greet the day with you while providing a full buffet of food. Service here is terrible. Must call grandma. Or CPS.

6:32 am: Occupy yourself by disassembling the window blinds.

6:33 am: You seem to have somehow tied yourself up in said blinds. You heard the neighbor kids have pottery barn blinds. I bet their blinds wouldn’t dissemble so easily. Make note to talk to mother about quality products for yours truly.

6:34: Gently request your mother’s presence in your room. When that doesn’t work try out your new Xena Warrior Princess cry.

6:35 am: Just call me Queen Xena for the day, thank you very much.

7:00 am: Crawl into high chair. Sample the stale cereal provided to you by your former incubator.

7:03am: Request a proper breakfast and for your mother to put on a bra. Gravity must be heavier in the kitchen: That or she misplaced her dignity last week with your favorite sippy cup. Get it together woman.

7:05am: Polish off mandarin oranges and cereal. Sample the pop tart provided. Opt to rub pop tart in your hair instead. Attempt to admire your loveliness in the oven reflection. Unfortunately, your mother hasn’t cleaned the oven since 2012 so a proper visage cannot be seen.

7:10am: Request a new mother.

7:15am: The other child who never leaves is awake. Some refer to her as your sister. You are not convinced. Take “sister’s” stuffed elephant. Throw it on the ground while she cries. Stomp on it. Walk away. Allow one backwards glance and small smirk.

7:30 Physical altercation with your DNA sharer ensues.

7:35am: Xena wins again.

8:05am: Other children begin to arrive-wait to reserve judgement on this.

8:10am: Shove 15 pieces of cereal down your diaper.

9:30am: No one offers you a piggy bag ride. You opt to ride the dog.

11am: Begin to feel peckish. Eat the stashed cereal, some crackers, and 3 pieces of toilet paper.

11:45am: Lunchtime. Eat 28 chicken nuggets and nothing else.

12pm: “nap time”

12pm: Opt out of nap time.

12:30pm: Let mom know you’ve skipped nap by making sounds similar to a dying yeti. When she doesn’t immediately come retrieve you from your den of torture reach over to your dresser.

 Yeah that dresser she wasn’t smart enough to move out of your arms reach. About to have her third kid and still a rookie. Some people.

12:35pm: Speaking of third kid. BAD IDEA. I'll address this with you later but really doesn’t work for me. In order to work through this middle child syndrome pull the clothes out from all the drawers on top of you. Destruction is the best therapy.

12:37pm: Xena cry

12:40 When your giver of life finally decides to spring you, increase noise volume. You know there are other kids in this house who made the mistake of sleeping during nap time. Fools. Good thing they have you to assist them in rectifying that mistake.

12:45 Ok mom’s sweating. Things are getting good. Mission is accomplished. Yep, she got the snacks. I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again. Rookie.

12:47pm:  Dump all the Scooby snacks out on the bed. Roll around in them.

1:00 pm: Get one squashed in between your toes

1:01m: Cry. Eat that snack first. It cannot be trusted.

1:05pm: Gather the rest of the snacks in your fist. Wave the fist at your mother. Laugh when she appears frightened. Rookie. Shove all ten on the snacks in your mouth.

1:10 pm: Fall over, snacking has overcome you for a short second. Sit up immediately when your mother runs over to make sure you aren’t choking. She really should run faster. And loose 10lbs.

2:00pm: Rejoin your fellow toddlers. Let them know you missed them by pooping.

2:10 pm: build a block tower

2:12pm: When mom doesn’t immediately take note of how brilliantly you’re playing chuck a block at her head. Laugh.

2:14 pm: Time out, also known as mother’s futile attempt to “discipline”. Make note to “discipline” her at a later time. You know very well she has a bag of Cheetos stashed in the washing machine, so her hypocritical sermons of sharing will fall on deaf ears. Deaf ears and dirty diapers. Time out ends in 3…2…..1…..

2:15 pm: Poop

2:16pm:  Diaper change, which you would think she would be faster at by this point. I swear good service is so hard to find. Stick your hands in your own poop to encourage her to move things along.

2:22pm: Poop again. Alligator roll while she attempts to change you. Once you’ve secured your freedom, grab the dirty diaper and run. Pause only for half a second to appreciate the feeling of air flow between your cheeks. And not the cute ones on your face. Carry on.

2:23pm: She should really get a gym membership or just stop crying. She would have more air supply and probably be fast enough to catch you.

2:30pm: Xena down! Diaper removed from possession.

3:45pm: Note the lack of sensory table in the room. Remedy this problem by playing in the toilet water. Shove half a roll of toilet paper, 4 cotton balls, and your diaper into the toilet. Leave quickly. It is more fun to let them discover your handiwork at a later time.

4:05pm: Eat crayons.

4:30pm: Dads home. Cry while pointing at mom.

28 years

What does 28 look like to me?

28 looks like scattered sippy cups,

Cereal on the floor
It looks like nearing 38 weeks of pregnancy, my third baby in 4 years.
Night lights, blocks, a house that shows the signs of so many children, and a mom who never quite keeps up.
Who probably won’t ever keep up,

But tries.

It is wrinkled t shirts and yoga pants

unwashed hair, and tired eyes.
It looks like morning snuggles, toddler shrieks.
Whispered I love you’s
And shouts of NO.
Tickle fights,
And make believe.
It’s fierce pride in the little people you’ve created
But also heartbreak in every year and milestone as they grow.
It is princess parties
And mud puddles.

It isn’t perfect.

 It’s always messy.

And I won't take a second of it for granted.

 

 

the INCIDENT

We had an Incident this morning. You know it has to be serious when it ends up in bold on my blog. This place is a 3 ring circus and let me tell you, I am not in any way, shape, or form the ring leader. Side show freak? Maybe. The title of ringleaders goes to the hooligans that used to hang out in my uterus and their buddies that come over to egg them on, err I mean show support.

Back to the Incident.

For those of you who do not know, I run an in home day care. This basically means I am clinically insane. No, I kid. I’ve never been to the clinic so no official diagnosis.

My sweet angel babies have completely and totally used this situation to their advantage. Mom’s not looking? Sweet. Shove a cracker in the DVD player. Mom’s changing someone else’s diaper? That’s rude. She should only change mine. I should probably take mine off and poop on the couch to keep her in line.

Anyways, part of my job is potty training. I have a very sweet little girl and we are in the trenches right now. Men have been lost. The battle still rages. I may smell like urine. By may, I mean I do. So, it is time for us to visit the potty together again. I clear the living room of all weapons of mass destruction (such as but not limited to: toy brooms, large balls, and fruit snacks), lock both baby gates TIGHTLY and off we go.  This little girl and I spend about 5 minutes in the bathroom. We have an in depth discussion about life, loss, play dough, and Callioux. Unfortunately no pee.

We return to the living room. I do a head count. Anyone with a day care or who just has a bunch of kids knows about head counts. You do them constantly. No soldier left behind. I count 2 heads missing. I’ll let you guess which 2 heads.

As I have previously mentioned, my children know how to work the day care system. I have bought multiple gates. Meara hasn’t met a gate she cannot outsmart. It appears she and Audrey felt the call of the wild. So now I’m in reconnaissance to find my escaped children. I find Meara in her room with the door shut. This has never happened in day care history. Meara doesn’t leave the group. Torment them? Yes. Willingly vacate. No. Alarm bells should be going off at this point, but ignorance is bliss. The search continues for the smaller of my hooligans.

I find her. Oh do I find her. She has shut herself in the other bathroom. Located a cup I have literally never seen. Where is this cup from? Did she stash it in her diaper and travel with it during the escape? Has she been fashioning it out of diaper wipes and cracker particles during nap time to use at the most opportune moment? We will never know. What I do know is Audrey took that cup and bailed out the ENTIRE toilet bowl of water.

Every

Last

Drop

I’m going to repeat this. Audrey bailed out the entire toilet bowl of water onto the floor and was doing her very best impression of a piece of frying bacon rolling around in it. Because she didn’t want me to be sad about the lack of water in the toilet bowl she went ahead and filled it with toilet paper. Because the toilet bowl was lonely empty. And no one likes a lonely toilet.

Of course I very calmly tell her this wasn’t very nice and ask her to leave the room. When that doesn’t work I have my own bacon frying seizure and stick her in my room to clean up. After the Incident is taken care of I go to my bedroom to grab Audrey.

She has found the only source of water in the room. A cup next to my bed, and is currently doing her best impression of either the pope during an important mass, or possible a priest during an exorcism. Literally flinging it everywhere while walking around. You know, because staying in one spot wouldn’t be an effective water dispersal system.

At this point I’ve totally given up. I return to the living room where everyone else, whose parents have managed to raise their children correctly, unlike me, are playing nicely.

Except for my potty trainer. Who is standing in a puddle of her own urine that rivals the amount of water needed to fill the Grand Canyon. At this point all this liquid is personally calling me, so I decide to regroup in the bathroom. I need to either cry or pee, or a combination of the two.

Since my children are criminals in training Meara loves fake tattoos. Her dad tatted us all up last night. We look extremely classy. He put one on my stomach but since I’m huge I couldn’t see it. I hadn’t had time to actually look at myself in the mirror but I decided during this pee and mental sanity break to check it out. What did he give me?  A cute butterfly maybe? Or sweet puppy. No. No he did not.  

 

Yeah, that’s a squirrel.

About being clinically insane. Like I said, no official diagnosis yet.

Signing out,

Mom of the Year.

Therapy: My Gift to You

This evening as I started to make myself a lovely kale and spinach smoothie I discovered I didn’t actually have any spinach, kale, or an actual smoothie maker. However unfortunate this discovery was, one must power on in the face of adversity, so I sent my husband off to get the next best thing (chocolate milk shake from McDonalds). After the snack debacle was rectified I paused to reflect on my day. It involved a lot of screaming. And crying. And then the kids woke up.

Ha, I kid (kind of, these ankles would make you cry too).

Instead of feeling terrible about this I have decided to find the positive. The silver lining here is much like supporting small businesses my children will keep therapist in Kansas employed for years to come! Basically, I am single handedly turning the tide in the recession over here. You are welcome America!

 25 Reasons my kids need therapy:

1.       The underwear they peed in when they did NOT have to go to the bathroom is wet

2.       Santa isn’t coming today

3.       He isn’t coming tomorrow either.

4.       Oh, and neither is grandma.

5.       Boys do not have vaginas. Meara used to think I could fix everything, now that I cannot fix her father her innocence is basically shattered.

6.       I went in the kitchen and didn’t return with a 4 course meal.

7.       Baby gates

8.       The water was wet during bath time

9.       I could not properly identify all the different food types that made up Meara’s last bowel movement as it floated in the toilet.

10.   Speaking of toilet. Ours is white, not pink.

11.   Chewing on all household chords has been strictly forbidden

12.   So is riding on the vacuum. Basically I no longer go by “mom”. My new name is actually “kill Joy”

13.   Speaking of riding, I wouldn’t let them ride the dog

14.   I incorrectly sang the song “Old McDonald”. He didn’t have a sheep. He will never have a sheep. Do NOT mention a sheep.

15.   I did not turn into oncoming traffic when driving, even though I was directly order to “GO THIS WAY” by the tiny 3 year old dictator in the back seat

16.   I took a bite of her snack. This is the snack she didn’t want to see, eat, smell, look at, or be in the same room as.

17.   Didn’t let the youngest toddler suck on her dirty diaper

18.   There is more than 1 toddler in this house

19.   I told Meara about dance class and didn’t immediately take her. Dance class starts in September.

20.   It isn’t September

21.   Napping inside the fireplace isn’t allowed.

22.   The block tower fell down.

23.   Her sister looked at her. Twice.

24.   I didn’t look at her while she did a front roll for the 8 hundred millionth time

25.   She front rolled into the couch. My bad.

So, to all the therapist out there. You are welcome. I plan on keeping you in business for many years to come. And after you’ve fixed all the ways I’ve undoubtedly traumatized my children for life go ahead and sign me up for a membership. Do they do therapy memberships? I think I would be more likely to get a therapy membership at this point than a gym one. I don’t think I am medically cleared to approach a stair stepper until I really address the post-traumatic stress motherhood has caused me. And then after that I will need to address the current traumatic stress….

Why Britney Spear's is My Mom Idol

I start my days early, usually between 5:30 and 6. We can all pretend this is so I can lovingly prepare a GMO free breakfast artfully in the shape of endangered species for my family (Words I never thought I would say: Meara please do not throw your Blue Footed Boobie Muffin at your sister!). In reality it is because this is one the few times I can successfully hide from my children for at least a 15 minute span and eat their processed cupcakes that will probably turn my gallbladder, and soul, neon pink.

This morning as I was hiding I decided we all need a Mom Idol. Someone we can look up to in our times of struggle. Someone to really give us that inspiration we need. After a long internal debate ( 3 minutes while trying to find Dr. Phil on the tv) I have decided on Britney Spears. Britney Spears you say in shock, well she is a hot mess! To this I say, well so am I! But remain calm. I have done extensive research (five minutes on google) and can back this conclusion up with facts based on her song titles. So here we go:

Why Britney Spears is my Mom IDOL based on Song Titles:

1.       Oops I Did it Again

Um she nails it with this one! Is she referring to my third pregnancy in 3 years, or is this a reference to my children’s behavior such as, but not limited to: Audrey consistently pooping in the bathtub 3 times a week, while Meara screams POOOOOOOOP as turds and bits of lettuce float by, or maybe she is referring to the fact for 3 years Meara has stashed snacks in her diaper or underwear and has zero shame whipping out a Dorito from her pants in public places and offering it to friends. She could also be referring to Meara’s new fascination with her lady parts which has cued her to ask random strangers to see their “gimas” in wal mart.

Yes Bspears, They did it again. And Again. You get it.

2.       Toxic

Well she definitely has kids based on this song title.  I’m sure she is talking about all the toxic substances my kids have tried to ingest over the years while I was doing an excellent job watching them: dog food, foam plats, teething on Clorox wipes, paint, toilet paper, toilet water, dirt, rocks, shaving cream, lotion and laundry detergent. I’m sure I’m forgetting at least 200 more household items but let’s be real. It is a miracle they are alive and that I still have any nerves left.

3.       From the Bottom of my Broken Heart

This one was clearly written from my Children’s perspective. Because nothing knows a crushed spirit more than a toddler who isn’t allowed to eat a pool noodle. As a mother I spend 10% of my time changing diapers, 20 % of my time locating my children I have misplaced, 20 % of my time making meals no one eats other than the dog, and 50% of my day is spent crushing my children’s spirits into the ground by not allowing them to kill each other, or their close personal friends.

You think you have angst, no one knows true pain like a 3 year old whose mother didn’t wash her Minnie mouse panties.

4.       I Wanna Go

Now I know a lot of people assume celebrities have nannies and other people doing their dirty work but judging on this song title clearly Ms. Spears has potty trained. They wanna go, they don’t wanna go, they want to go in a different location, they “accidentally” went behind the curtains, they need to go in the dark while listening to classical music, they need you go to go first to demonstrate, they need a team discussion to analyze the bodily fluids now hanging out in the toilet or floor. This song really resonates with all the toddlers whose diapers have been unjustly taken away, and the moms covered in feces dreaming about wine.

5.       I’m a slave 4 U

My personal favorite! Because the second that wrinkly little ball of love and poop enters the world its game over. Prepare to constantly be doing things for everyone else with very little acknowledgement. Your new name may be mom, but that is just code word for slave.  You better learn how to dress a Barbie in under 10 seconds, while building a block tower, and cooking a grilled cheese that isn’t too grilled, all at the same time.  And trust me, if you brown that grilled cheese sandwich at all kiss your crust eating privileges good bye for a 2 week minimum. It’s only fair.

I could go on, but  I'll just leave you with this. So that is why, in a nutshell, Britney Spears is my new mom idol and probably should be yours too. Clearly she gets us!

For My Mommas

Humor is how I survive. It’s how I get through the sleepless nights, the frustrations, the self-doubt, the moments where my own short comings are glaring me in the eyes and it feels blinding. I seek the joy in life. I try to find the humor in every second of my day because the truth of motherhood is complex.

Because it is hard.

And thankless.

And incredibly heavy.

We choose this weight. Naively, because nothing can prepare you for this. Nothing can prepare you for the second your heart becomes less of your own, the breath stealing love you feel for your children. Nothing prepares you for their first smile, or giggle, their first steps, their first tantrum (in the case of my children let’s just pause and visualize a scene from the exorcism.)

I am writing this for you momma. For the mother who is tired. For the mother who is overwhelmed by life and responsibilities. For the mother who catches a glimpse of herself and wonders when in the world she lost herself the same way she loses the car keys twice a week.

Because sometimes the 8^th time your toddler wakes up at 3am to talk to you about monster trucks you have visions of riding away in said monster truck. Or being run over.

And sometimes when your teething baby is on day 6 of no nap you find yourself drifting to memories of that one time you showered. And went out with friends. It was five years ago, but you still have vague memories of it.

Hang in there. It gets better. It may not be today, or tomorrow. That baby may still be teething, and that toddler may still think she is actually Dolly Parton, and therefore an expert on all things life and beauty. But it will. Find those little moments: the quiet ones where you are the center of your child’s universe and their very happiness is in orbit around you. YOU. The loud ones where their shrieks and laughter drown out your own thoughts. The moments of clarity where you see your baby become a child in a blink of an eye, and watch them demonstrate the ability to be empathetic and caring. The moment of pride because you taught that baby what empathy is by your actions every single day.

This job is hard,

And thankless.

And incredibly heavy.

But you are doing it. You, not anyone else. Little old, imperfect, haven’t showered in days, not sure what this crop top phase is, surviving on the crust of your children’s sandwiches, YOU.

So cut yourself a big break, and if possible a piece of cake. You’ve got this. And if you don’t think you do, just ask your Dolly Parton impersonating toddler. She seems to be an expert on a lot of things.

The Time I Threw Caution and my Underwear to the Wind

So, I know most of the pregnancy sites give great advice. I like to read these while I'm eating my deli meat sandwich, drinking a soda, and polishing it off with a large bowl of ice cream. I'm usually also watching my yoga DVD during this time. Key word being: watching. I feel like its important to support these flexible, athletic woman, but I do my best supporting from the couch with snacks.

But I digress: One piece of advice that is given is to take baths. Because when you're the size of a house its best to go ahead and acknowledge the fact that your naked body can no longer be submerged fully in a tub of water. I've never looked better than when desperately trying to pile bubbles on body parts that have morphed into alarming facsimiles of their old shapes. These lovely lady lumps need a medical intervention, but according to professionals I should strip down, get an eye full, and try to drown 34% of my sorrows. The other 66% of my body is above water level, cold, clammy, hypothermic, and experiencing a mild case of depression.

Since my current past time of watching other pregnant women work out hasn't been giving me a whole lot of relief I decided to go the bath route. We are trying to sell our house( that is a WHOLE other blog right there in itself). We had several showings yesterday evening. So, after I harnessed my inner domestic goddess I shoved the laundry under the bed, dusted only the visible parts of the furniture, sprayed cleaning products haphazardly at random counters, and vacuumed around stuff- we headed out. We were gone a good amount of time. My husband, noting my cheery disposition with the children decided to give me a little break. He dropped me off and headed to run an errand.

This is when I made the fateful decision. I decided I was going to try to take a bath. So, I strip down to all my naked glory. At this point it really is a sight let me tell you. I'm in the bathroom, naked, trying to avoid direct eye contact with myself in the mirror. If I don't visually confirm with my own eyes my current pregnant situation it doesn't exist. As I am gliding(waddling) around naked to prepare my bath I hear a knock and cheery HELLO!

This is when my heart stops and my uterus contracts. The last showing must be extremely late. All the doors are open. I am naked. Naked. Full blown panic mode ensues. My flight or fight response is engaged. I am the baby rabbit being chased by the hyena. Except in actuality I am a giant, fat, swollen, naked, pregnant lady who hasn't seen her feet in 2 months and these are innocent bystanders just looking for a roof over their heads- not  extreme trauma or a heart arrhythmia. Most sane people would just try to get dressed quickly and leave. Well, I don't do rational decisions well. What do I do? I make the split second decision that attempting to put underwear back on this glorious frame requires way to much time and energy so I THROW my underwear in the trash and toss on random clothes. I should mention the trash was completely empty. Therefore, my lovely maternity panties are BLARINGLY obvious. In my fit of panic this is the price you pay for trying to submerge yourself in some water surrounded by children's toys.

I run out of my room. Scare the realtor half to death. Mumble some random statements, and run out the backdoor without shoes. I should mention I don't have a vehicle. And it's raining.

So here I am, sitting outside, no underwear, no shoes, a hell of a lot of problems, in the rain waiting for my husband to come rescue me.

So, THAT, ladies and gentleman is why pregnant women should not take baths. Random house hunters do not need to see these lady lumps, and unless there is a major shortage in clothing material I should always stick to wearing underwear.