Friday, April 24, 2015

Vasecto-me?

Well, I was just going to write the 3rd part of the Labor and Delivery story, but THEN I GOT SOME NEWS.

So, let me back up for a minute and let ya'll know that about five years ago my OB in California told me she thought I was going through early menopause and she didn't know if I'd be able to have kids.  I wasn't having my period, I had cysts on my ovaries, and I don't know maybe my uterus looked a little mean or something.  So, I tired a few natural things that may seem weird, but I am all about weird.  I started drinking soy milk, I gained some weight, and I rubbed my big toe to stimulate ovulation - and then out of nowhere, BAM! 4 kids in less than four years.




Lying doctor of lies.


Up until now I was pretty sure it was the Starbucks and the toe rubbing, because I'm logical.  But then my husband called me and let me know that his sperm are direct descendants of Super Man and Khaleesi, Mother of Dragons.  (Oh my God what if Daenerys and Clark Kent had a baby?!  IT'D BE THE MOST BEAUTIFUL BABY EVER.)

So, he got a vasectomy a few months ago.  Because four is enough, okay.  Four. Is. Enough.  I'm afraid if we had anymore I'd have some sort of psychotic break and run away to Mexico with my favorite to live on the beach and drink margaritas all the livelong day, but I can't decide who my favorite is so I'd be all, "Ok, I'll take Adeline.  And Tula.  And Luke.  And Henry.  Damnit now I have all four in Mexico and I'm pregnant.  This didn't turn out well.   *sigh*   At least they'll all speak Spanish."

After a while they have to do a fun little test to make sure there are no swimmers left.  Because 1 in 1,000 vasectomies fail.  So, Josh got the test and guess what happened?

WE ARE THE ONE IN A THOUSAND.

And what I screamed on the phone before I got on my knees and thanked the lord I was on the pill was, "I KNEW IT!"

Homeboy is like the Michael Phelps of baby making abilities.

And now we're facing the possibility of him having to do a second vasectomy.  Pretty sure after that one the opposite will happen and he'll be able to sneeze on me and I'll get pregnant.  Sperm will shoot out of every orifice he has and will just melt into skin and find it's way to an egg to invade.   My morning omelets will get pregnant before I have time to scramble them.

If we have to go through a second round and it doesn't work again I'm afraid we'll have to kiss our sex life goodbye.  At least with each other.  And then we will have to kiss Josh goodbye because if he has a sex life with someone else he'll turn up mysteriously murdered by me.

Ah love!

And now, some pictures that have absolutely nothing to do with this post!




My little helpers!  Is this not the best?
It only lasted about thirty seconds before they both tried to shove the babies off their laps so they could go watch Big Hero 6 for the hundredth time.



Addie summers in San Tropez.


Discussing yoga on the neighbors lawn.




My Mom is a professional baby wrangler.



Sleeping twins.  
Ugh the love is ridiculous.  I am overwhelmed every single day.







Wednesday, April 15, 2015

Irrational Fears and Dinner Dates

Well, it turns out I have some weird underlying fear of the sea.  I mean, I know I'm not like a mermaid, I like the ocean, I like swimming and snorkeling as long as I can see the bottom.  Once a cliff drops off I'm snorkeling my ass back to shore faster than you can say "That seaweed touched me and now I'm so scared I'm not thinking rationally!  I mean, I know it's just seaweed, it should be scared of me, I eat that shit, I roll it up with rice and avocado, but that's in a nice package I bought from the store, someone has already slain it, and I have no idea what I'm really afraid of, all I know is it's probably going to grab me and pull me under to a sea-torture-land and OH MY GOD IT TOUCHED ME AGAIN! Help!  I can't breathe!  SOMEONE SAVE ME FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.  Kids, save yourselves!  Mommy can't help you with no legs!"  And then I'm crying on the sand where the waves are crashing in on me, unaware that an entire beach is watching me, and that my boob is hanging out.

So, I didn't realize this was hiding inside me until I took this picture of the girls.






Cute right?  We bought different colored bath tablets for fun bath time, but the soap bubbles in this picture look like waves, the water is eerily deep-pacific-ocean green, and I start to feel nauseous and scared and want to yank them out of there because WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE.  

I mean it's even weirder that it's the picture scares me not the actual thing.

Anyway, this is probably something I should delve into in therapy, but that ain't gonna happen.  My imagination is overactive and I obsess.  There, I'll pay myself $150 now.


Moving on!  Now that the boys are three months old I guess it's time for the third and final installment of the labor and delivery - How Henry Got Here.  Which will be here tomorrow.  Or when he turns 18, depending on how the day goes.  I'm a single mom up in here for a while because Josh and his parents just left for Minnesota at 5am and my mom doesn't get here until later tomorrow.  I could be drinking a lot of wine tonight, or crying myself to sleep, depends on how the kids decide to spend the rest of the day.  Just kidding, I'll definitely be drinking!

Until then, here's some more pics as of late!




I've been working out lately.  When Luke lets me.  Usually he'd prefer I just hold him.  Sorry future spouse, my baby is a Mama's boy (yay!).



We've been hitting up the park early in the morning as a special little treat.  
It's beyond joyus.




Dress up at the museum.



 Oh, also, the other week we dropped the girls off for a sleepover at their grandma's house and took ourselves on a semi-date!  We took the boys with us, but they slept through most of it so it felt like we were alone, and it was glorious.


I mean, is this not the sexiest thing you've ever seen?
C'mon.










Thursday, April 9, 2015

Three Things

Hey there!  Sorry, it's been so long.  March madness really takes up a lot of my time.

Well, that and the four kids under four.  And yes, I'm saying that as much as possible until it's not true anymore.

So, anyway!  Three things as of late...

1. The boys are three months old today!!!  WHAT!  To celebrate they slept from 8:30 until 7am!  I mean, c'mon.  That's incredible!  I was all engorged and leaky, and you could have wrung my bra out to fill a bottle, but I got seven hours of uninterrupted sleep.  THANK YOU BOYS.


Three months old today!  To celebrate they are in clothes for only the second time in their lives!  
I just love the convenience of pjs too much to dress them.  But man they're cute no matter what.




Luke did his first honest-to-goodness giggle at me yesterday! While I was working out.  So either the sight of me kickboxing is hilarious, or it was me screaming, "Not again!" as another set of jumping jacks led me to pee my pants for the tenth time that video.



This one stops my heart.  I just can't believe those kids.  




Luke having a hilarious nighttime laugh while Henry thinks about it some more.



And then Henry joined in on the workout laughter.  These boys are the best audience.




2. I swear to God, as I started typing this I completely forgot what the second thing was.  Argh baby brain!  This seriously makes me question my doctors who have children (men and women alike), like, how do you guys remember anything enough to be a competent doctor.  If it were me I'd be staring at a patient with chicken pox like, "Maybe don't let her draw on herself? Does she have a . . . what's that thing called that makes you hot?  Give her some more of that stuff in a bottle.  You know, you measure it?  It helps make the hurt not. . . hurt anymore?  Do you have anything to eat, I'm so hungry."

3.  So, I have been making some mistakes lately.  Which is normal.  A friend of mine recently wrote to me saying only good parents worry if they're doing a good job, bad parents don't even think about it.  And it pretty much saved my life that day.  And it is now my personal mantra.

(And she has a wonderful blog she just started, starring the cutest little boy evar!  mommymomma.tumblr.com)

But even still, some days are great and some days I find myself going, What The Hell Am I Doing To My Children?  And that sounds dramatic, but Jesus Cristo, raising kids is dramatic.  I mean, you're making them into people.  That go out into the world.  And affect/effect other people (SEE!  I have never been able to get it in my head which affect/effect is which.  Now my kids are going to be illiterate and they'll never be president because I cannot click onto that dang difference!)(I do however know that it's 'supposedly' and the correct way to use 'whomever' so maybe that cancels it out).  And that's a lot of responsibility.

So, anyway, the mistakes lately have been about my body.  I've said some stupid things about myself, things I don't even really believe, and I just sat down and was so mad at myself.  Our society is so obsessed with perfect bodies and perfect hair and perfect everything that we are pretty much ruining little girls from the get go.  (I know, dramatic - sorry.)  But here's an example: Even though my lover, the man I have children with, the man I share my life with, has told me that he honestly doesn't find Victoria Secret models attractive at all because they don't look like real women, I still can't help but find myself passing by a store and wishing I looked like them.  At comparing my thighs to their airbrushed ones.  At wanting my boobs to be huge and perky and tan.

But you know what?  My thighs will NEVER look like that.  My stomach will never not have a hundred stretch marks on them.  And my boobs will never be huge and perky.  For many reasons.  It's not genetically possible, I'm not a photograph, and oh yeah, I've had four kids!  My boobs are saggy because I'm 35 and I breastfed.  My stomach is not unblemished for the same reason.  And my thighs will always touch, because I'm a goddamn human being.

And yet, this morning I mentioned something to Josh about not liking the way I looked.  In front of my daughters.  And I feel so guilty about that.  And lately anytime someone says to me, "Oh you look so good!", my natural response is to say, "Oh gosh, you should see me naked, it's not pretty."  Or, "No, it's just all sucked in super tight right now."  Why is my instinct to deny their compliment and want to let them know I think I'm less-than?  I don't know why this is, there's probably been a million studies done on the way women talk to each other, and I'm sure it's learned from a super early age that that is what you do.  I mean, in my case it is.  I have been lucky to have genetics that have left me tall and slender my entire life, yet I have never just been ok with it.  Partly because of being teased a huge portion of my childhood, and partially because that's how we (women) talk.  I complain about clothes never fitting right, I complain about never having boobs, and I complained about men not wanting to date me because I was too tall.  And these just aren't complaints, they're lifelong worries and obsessions and slight traumas.  I still occasionally get uncomfortable around men who are shorter than me because I don't want to feel oafish.  I get self conscious in a bathing suit because there's nothing to fill out the top.  And so on and so forth.

Most of the time this is not always the case.  I am a work in progress, I recognize these things as I am thinking them and brush them off and stand tall, and exhale and confidently conduct myself around people.  Most of the time. Most of the time I can be happy with my height, thrilled I don't have a back ache because of my chest, proud of my personality and the way I treat other people more than the way I look.

And it pisses me off when I don't.

And it pisses me off even more to think one day my girls might think horrible things about themselves.  It pisses me off and makes me horribly sad.  My beautiful, perfect, fantastic, hilarious, smart, generous, caring, thoughtful, quirky little girls.  They should never doubt themselves because of their bodies.

Never.  Ever.  Ever.

Shame on me for putting negative stuff out there in the world, especially about myself.  How unfair to me and my children, and my lover for that matter.  I would hate it if he walked around talking about how he hated his body all the time, because I'd start to hate it too.  Negativity breeds negativity, and all that.  This isn't a seminar, you know what I'm saying!

And so I am pledging that I will not say bad things about myself, because they learn from me.  They mimic me constantly.  And there's enough in the world for them to worry about other than the way their legs look in jeans.  I mean really, they're women.  All women look beautiful if they're smiling, because what makes women (and people in general) beautiful is what's coming from them.  What sort of attitude they're exuding, how they are to other people, their kindness, their heart, their life.

Obviously I'm not saying unhealthy is fine as long as you smile about it.  I want my children to be healthy and happy.  I don't want them to be obsessed with how much they weigh,  I just want them to eat right most of the time and exercise a little and have that be enough.

And I want to, no - I need to be that example.  Because who else are they going to learn it from?* Really, who else so close to them will set a good example?  I am the closest woman in their lives forever.  Who else do they look up to everyday and want to be like their whole lives, even if they say they don't want to, even if they grow up and say the dreaded words, "Oh my god I'm turning into my mother!"  I hope that's not such a terrible thing.  I hope it's slightly embarrassing, but I hope it has absolutely nothing to do with the way I view and value myself.

I don't need to feel bad about my body, I just had twins three months ago.  My body is fucking beautiful.  It does amazing things.  And more than that, my body does not define me.  My words do.  My actions do.  My heart does.

And tears are streaming down my face as I type this, mainly because I'm hormonal and super tired, but also because how hard it is to type the words, "My body is fucking beautiful" and mean it.  To really, truly embrace it, and love it, and mean it, and be so thrilled with everything this body has led me to and let me do in life.  But more importantly, to let go of it.  To have it not be a thing.  Because I don't need it to be a thing.  I have a lot more going on than my stomach, or my chest or my legs, or the way my hair looks, or how my makeup is.  Yes, I want to feel pretty, but I want a million more things too.  I want to feel smart, and funny, and engaging, and kind, and nice, and thoughtful, and all the things that make up a good person.  Because maybe, just maybe if I feel all those things, my girls will never let go of that feeling either.

Because they never should doubt how wonderful they are in every single way.  The are amazing.

And so am I.


























**(I just had to put in a disclaimer here to say that my Mom never talked bad about herself that I can remember. She used to call her thighs her "donuts" because "that's where her donuts went", but other than that she never said anything bad about her body, always wore heels despite already being 6'2" and married my dad who was only 5'8" but thought she was gorgeous. She always told my sister and I we were beautiful, even with crippling acne, flood-water length pants, braces AND head-gear, and hair that made me resemble a brunette Carrot Top. And yet I still had a bunch of insecurities.  Growing up a girl is hard.)



Thursday, March 19, 2015

Sad Girl Song

Kids are weird.  You'd think they'd prefer to watch Seasame Street over anything else, but let Tula decide between Big Bird and a Jessie J video and she'll always choose the latter.


That's right, this little gem.  #goodparenting






And when my sister and I were little all we wanted to listen to was Susan Vega's, Luka.  Which is essentially a song about abuse.  But we loved it.  We made out dad pop the tape in and we'd sing every word at full-off-key volume.  I have no idea why.  Maybe it's because it was dramatic and we could really get into it and pretend we were feeling it.  I longed for some sort of drama when I was kid.  My parents didn't beat me, no one did drugs or stole things, we weren't even adopted.  So boring.







And then Addie came along and she's the exact same way.  She always picks the sad or mean princess to imitate (which makes me want to throw away every princess movie ever! why can't there be a princess movie where the princess just shares toys and cleans her room?  make that romantic why don't ya!).  We watch a lot more Rio these days.  There are no princesses in Rio.

Anyway, so Addie loved Sinead O'Conner when she was littler and demanded to watch the Nothing Compares to You video every day.  She appropriately dubbed it "The Sad Girl Song".  'Cause Sinead be super sad in that.

I mean look at that beautiful sad face.  She's hard not to watch.








So, to follow suit, the boys absolutely love sad songs.  Especially when sung by their dad.  They can't get enough of him and I can't get enough of those smiling faces.

Seriously.  Love.


Friday, March 13, 2015

All The Things You Never Wanted To Know

You know you're a mom when you stand around talking about how many times you've peed your pants lately.  And those of you moms who don't pee when laughing or doing jumping jacks, I'm gonna go ahead and guess you only had one baby so your precious urethra is still strong a virile, like a teenager's.  Sometimes I wonder why my lover and I don't have as much romance as we used to and then I realize it's because I shout things like, "Oh my god honey, can you bring me some underwear?" and not because I'm being sexy.

Speaking of things that sounds sexy, but turns out is not...

The other night the boys slept from 8:30 until 6:15!!! This never happens, and I was thrilled I got so much sleep, until I realized my boobs were so big and heavy I could barely breathe.  I cannot even explain the pain of having not nursed in 8 hours.  It's like turning on a hose full blast and then plugging the hole with your thumb so it can't come out, and it just backs up in there stretching the hose and making it wish it was dead. It's probably sitting there in the grass composing a goodbye letter to it's hose mom in it's head, like, "Remember when you first taught me to water . . . " and then pleading with the thumb guy to release it and it'll tell him whatever he wants, offering up secrets about the neighbors and who really ate the tomato plant and then finally pleading for him to just end it all and kill him because the pain is too much.  Much like how a lot of college guys tried to explain blue balls to me.

And to that I say - f you sir.  Blue balls is nothing like needing to breastfeed babies.  You know why?  BECAUSE YOU CAN HANDLE BLUE BALLS YOURSELF you lazy b-hole!  I cannot nurse myself no matter how hard I try (and believe me, I did), and I know they make these things called breast pumps, but I don't have one right now so I was stuck there at 6 in the morning dying a slow, painful boob-death.  I considered asking Josh to help me out and then realized there'd be no coming back from that.

So, anyway, I was in serious pain and of course it took a million years to change the babies diapers and I was leaking everywhere, which you think should make things a little less painful, but it doesn't it just triggers another letdown, so now I'm even more engorged, and soaking wet in my own breast milk.  So, the boys are finally all changed and swaddled back up, and Josh leaves to go to the bathroom so I can do my thing and stop crying, and I rip off my shirt and bra to put on dry ones and of course then my boobs start shooting milk out of them like teeny tiny milk rocket sprayers, and it looks like I've decided to hose down the bed and the babies with a fresh coat of mother natures precious bo jango juice, and before I can get a bra or shirt back on, Josh comes out and sees me sitting cross legged on the bed, stretch marked and droopy skin flapping everywhere as I struggle, pretty much totally naked, holding two screaming babies and trying to stop the spray of milk with their heads, hoping at least some of it might make it in their mouths.  He freezes and just stares and  that's the moment I realize - we are really in love.

Because no one, I mean no one, can see you like that, just shrug, and come back to bed and rub your back while you groan with what I can only describe as incredibly painful ecstasy when the boys finally start eating and relieve the explosive pressure.

Best feeling ever.

So, now that you know all of that!  Here's some pictures of what sort of cuteness makes that sort of torture bearable if not downright fun.




My mom made these hats for the boys.  So ridiculously darling! 



Getting some outside use.  That scary bear-owl hybrid was not made by my mom.



The girls have hats too.  
She should really start an etsy store.  Anyone want a hat?  



Close up.
I don't know how I haven't eaten their faces off yet.
So much love.



Tuesday, March 10, 2015

Jams And Juice

Tula is talking up a storm lately, and she's practicing all the time.  Yesterday during nap time, she was so chatty she kept Addie awake while she yelled:

"Mommy, Daddy NO WAY."

*brief pause*

"Babies!  Dollies!  Babies dollies? Uhm. . . nnnnnnnnnnnnnnn-o."

*pause. ruckus.  am assuming she's knocking down the dry wall*

"Change you? Acky.  Gwoss!"

*was not drywall.  she ripped her changing pad off the changing table and is pretending to change her own dirty diaper*

"Witch.  Sophia witch.  Addie?  WITCH."

*no response from Addie who is smartly ignoring the screaming lunatic*

"Addie?  Blankie.  Addie blankie?  NO!  Mommy, Daddy blankie.  No way!"

*loud rustling. sounds vaguely like she's playing with packing peanuts.  still not sure what that noise was.  would not put it past her to have hidden a crate of packing peanuts for play somewhere in her crib*

"NIGH NIGH!"

*and she's out*



Oh man she's hysterical.

Also, we've been having GLORIOUS weather.  Like flip flops and tank tops.  It's making everyone happy even the babies!






Still have to wear bear suits even with the warm weather.  Because they're babies.  And because the bear suits ARE SO CUTE.



I mean, stop.  That's too much.
(Also, Hammer Time.)



Addie is thrilled to be in Target with her helmet on.



\
You never know when the cart might tip over.  Always be safe.



\
They love jams and juice.
(Jams and Juice is the name of my hip hop album)



Friday, March 6, 2015

8 Weeks Old Today!

And the boys celebrated by dressing up.




Love. It. So. Much.




They've started to be awake more, which is wonderful because stuff like this happens - 



The elusive double smile!  
Usually they only give this to the ceiling fan, but clearly they wanted me to have the best morning ever!



Those moments are amazing, and make up for the times they're both screaming at me and pooping on me and screaming at me some more and oh yes, more pooping on me.

Even with all that, they really are wonderful babies.  They are cuddly and darling and gaining weight, and really at 8 weeks old that's about the gist of it.  I tried to get them to teach me chess but Luke was all, "Aaahh cooo," and I was like "I can't understand you with that pacifier in your mouth." And Henry was all, "Galbarggah," and I was all "A pawn cannot do that. Wait a minute, do you even know what you're talking about?" And then Luke puked in his own ear and I was like, "Ok, well now you're making no sense."  And Henry started crying like a baby and so I threw up my hands, "Ok fellas, let's call it a night.  This is getting us nowhere."

Babies.  They don't know how to play chess AT ALL.