That's Okay, I'm Done Sleeping Anyways

It doesn't take long to realize that when you have kid(s), your blissful days of sleeping are over. Of course as Mason got older, we all fell back into a blissful sleeping pattern of (for Mason) 9pm-8:30a and (for us) 11pm-8:30a.

Until recently.

Mason started preschool and we started getting up at 7:30a. Not too bad. It's not just that we are getting that full 11p-7:30a rest though. Well, especially not me.

This is what a typical night looks like for me right now:

11p-12a: Fall asleep somewhere in here once I am comfortable
2a: Wake up to pee.
[Paul is snoring}
3:30a: Mason comes in our room in a sleepwalking stupor.
4a: Binx the Cat decides to clean his butthole for a good 15-20mins then procedes to puke somewhere in the room.
[Paul snores somewhere in here]
5a: Our neighbors let their 7 obnoxious dogs outside and leave them there to bark until they drag their lazy asses back outside to let them back in. This goes on for at least 30 minutes.
[Paul is still snoring]
6a: Get up to pee again.
7a: Mason comes in the room and makes noises, bugs us to watch a cartoons, wants breakfast, whines, etc. Binx jumps on the bed at the same time and stares at me and purrs until I pet him.
7:30a: We give up and get out of bed.

Wow. After actually writing all that down, it's no wonder I am always tired. I thought the second trimester was one of puppy dogs and rainbows and endless energy! Weeee. Not for me! At least I'll be fully prepared to bring another non-sleeping human into this house. And maybe I'll get a puppy while I'm at it!

I am now 18w5d or something. I think!

Here goes nothing...

I have always been one of those people that go on and on about how I will NEVER drive a minivan because ewww and shit. Who needs all that room? Who wants to look like a douchebag? I mean, minivans are for moms and old people with lots of grandchildren. "I won't give in!" I say. "I won't lose my cool!" There's "plenty of room in my Jetta!" "SUV's are totally enough!" You get the idea.

I 'pshawed' the car dealer when she suggested that I check out a Routan when I surprisingly declared how super tiny the Tiguan crossover was. "Nope. Never. Don't even talk to me about it" I said. After a little coaxing and a huge "what the hell!" I hopped up into the mom-mobile. "At least this will shut them up" I thought.

You know what? It wasn't so bad. The seats were leather...and soft. The touchscreen was FUN! I love touchscreens! It has how many DVD screens? You can watch 2 videos at once, you say? The doors do WHAT with the click of a button? Damn. Look at all that room! I could fit all of my photography equipment in here PLUS leave Mason's carseat and still have tons of room. There's plenty of space for another baby (when we have one) and a bigger stroller. It's comfortable. I don't feel like I am sitting on the dashboard and simultaniously smelling the backseat passenger's breath. It has a V6. It drives like a car.

Was I *gasp* losing my cool? Was I going to drive a minvan. Was I going to look like a mom? Wait.

Hold it.

I am a mom. I run a business that requires me to lug around all sorts of equipment and chairs and reflectors and props. What's the problem? Suddenly, I couldn't even tell you why I thought minivans were so bad? A "soccer mom" stigma? Maybe. But again, I am a mom. Doesn't everything have a stigma? You drive a 4 door sedan...you must be slow. And old. You drive an SUV? You must hate the environment. You drive a big truck? You must be overcompensating. You drive an expensive car? You must be snobby. Why do you need a HUGE SUV when you are a childless couple? Yadda yadda yadda.

No. I think you drive your car because you like it. Imagine that. My husband never bought a sportscar because he was going to take it somewhere and race it. My in-laws didn't buy Mini Coopers because they plan on re-enacting a scene from the Italian Job (that I know of). My mom didn't buy an SUV because she is short and couldn't see the road in a smaller car. Love you, mom! And your T-Rex arms!

I guess I never thought about all this before. I thought I knew what I liked. Maybe I was trying to hold on to someone that I am not. I am a mom, but I am still Tiff. Just because I drive a bigger car that has self-opening doors doesn't mean I am someone different. I still like to drink wine! I still like to dance and watch bad reality shows! I am the same boring, child-toting, vertically challenged, cackle-laughing person...I just drive a car that has more room for your judgemental ass. So hop on in! Pop in the Hangover and let's go out on the town! I will even let you take a nap in the back if you like!

September.

September was birthday month. It was lunch dates, dinner dates and good times with old and (kinda) new friends. A month of phone calls and bookings and "can I do this?". Hair cuts, suckers, new toys, new clothes and new shoes. September was also a month of tears, frustration, lonliness, hopes up and hopes down. September had 30 pretty much beautiful days, that quickly turned into darker evenings and cooler temperatures.


But September is gone. October is here, when I drink lots of beer, and a new month brings a new beginning. Sure, there will be more dates, bookings, lots of work, another haircut (hopefully no more new clothes or shoes or toys), even cooler-yet temps and even shorter days. But this is the point where I do raise my imaginary beer and say: Here's to October. Here's to zero tears, frustrations, minimal lonliness (Paul does have a little travel this month), and hopes turning into reality. Here's to 31 gorgeous fall days of nothing but happiness and rainbows and puppy dogs and shit. (Now, you didn't think I would really make it through a serious post did you?)

Have a great Scotch-tober my friends.

A little piddle diddy.

We are still in the deep depths of hell potty training. Actually, that's not fair. Mason has been doing wonderful with telling me when he has to go. Just not every time. He only tells me when he feels like it. So behold. The Potty Training watch. He loves it. It plays music. He dances. It helps my fried brain remember to take him to the potty. He knows it means he gets a gummy bear (or three! If he goes).

The other day, I was making lunch and talking on the phone when he told me "Mommy, potty! Let's go! Alright!" and starting running for the bathroom. I can't tell him no, so I followed, leaving lunch on the stove and continuing my conversation. I helped him with his pants and diaper, handed him a book and headed back to the stove. Of course I heard an "UH OH!" so I ran in only to find a huge puddle on the floor and Mason splashing around in it. Then, OMG you guys. He stood up and stomped in it. I hung up the phone. Stood there and squeeled a little bit, told him to sit back down and did what any totally equipped, grade-A mom would do. I yelled for Paul. I could barely speak, let alone tell him that no, his child was NOT bleeding and no, nothing horrible had happened.

It was worse than horrible.

There was pee. On the floor! And he was standing! and playing! Squeeeeeeee.

Paul basically looked at me, raised an eyebrow and told me to just take care of the burning lunch on the stove. Mason was placed in tub. The floor was mopped up. Crises over. It's all good.

Oh, and he PEED! Errrr Yay!? Biggie boy!? Here's a gummy.

pooH

I think he took the whole saying "poo goes in the potty" a little too seriously.

The one where I clog the toilet. Again.

We are being forced to make some very difficult decisions for the new house. We are often asked to get in the car, drive somewhere that sometimes looks like an abandoned crack den, and pick out things. Important things. Like sinks and toilets and lighting fixtures and stone, oh my. Recently, we drove, sans child of course (because an 18 month-old + lighting fixtures/unsecured sinks does not = a good time, or rational decisions) about 30 miles away to pick out the plumbing fixtures for our new house. It wasn't in the best part of town, and after seeing the building, our conversation went something like this:
Me: This is a little scary.
Paul: Well, they are wholesalers.
Me: Wholesalers, as in, we steal this stuff and sell it to you for a reasonable price?
Paul: Possibly.

As I said before, this building somewhat resembled an abandoned crack den. This was not par for our contractor - he usually sends us to really nice showrooms because he lacks the ability to do anything half-assed. Or cheap. Ahem. Anywho, I had a feeling that we were going to stumble upon a.) a syringe-toting drug lord that would rob us of everything we have - including my mom's car (that's right, we live with them AND drive their vehicles) or b.) the land of Oz-like showroom. Luckily for us, it turned out to be the latter. Sort of. It was definitely very un-assuming on the outside, let's just leave it at that.

We met a very nice lady, who made sure to make it very clear that she was the only one who was working there and that they closed at 4:30 (instead of the 5 o'clock that was posted on the door) and that she no longer worked Saturdays. We started in on the kitchen sinks and she had to run into her office to look something up when the feeling came over me: I had to poop. Now. I told Paul that I needed to use the restroom and he directed me toward the back of the showroom. When I got in there, I was totally expecting to be blown away by the coolest fixtures they had to offer. Letdown. Then I noticed a sign beside the toilet: PLEASE RETURN THE SEAT TO THE CLOSED POSITION AS THIS IS A WORKING EXHIBIT. Nice. So, what they were trying to tell me is, if I really liked that particular toilet, the lady would say, "Oh, sure. Come with me into the ladies room. We have a working exhibit!" Eww. Just as I was reading the sign I thought to myself, "Gee, self. It would really suck to clog this bitch up". I finished my business and flushed....

DAMNIT. ShitshitshitSHIT! Clogged. I swear, for such a small person I can really drop some logs. I panicked and looked around. No plunger. Not behind the toilet, not under the sink. Nothing. Men's room. If there is one thing I know it is that men always have the plunger. I ran over and peeked in. Nothing. I was going to have to do the unthinkable: reach in and pull that turd out go ask for a plunger. I arrived before the saleswoman returned and whispered to Paul that I had clogged the toilet. No, there is not plunger. No, not even in the men's room. Then he told me to reach in. F that! When the lady came back I said, "This is really embarrassing, but do you have a plunger?" she ignored me so I spoke up, "DO YOU HAVE AH PLUNGER?!" she looked up at my red face and said, "Uh, no. Don't think so. Don't worry about it hun. I'll call the guy." Oh Jesus. Great. She was going to have to call someone who was going to have to plung out my shit probably a good 3 hours later. Poor soul. We SOOoooo weren't going to get their best prices.

As you can imagine, moving on from that conversation and back to the task at hand was kind of akward. For me at least. She seemed to not skip a beat and went about showing us the options for soaking tubs. Sure. Whatever. Got any of those around? I am sure I can somehow clog the drain with hair or something gross. Needless to say, it was an awesome day. I was pretty proud of myself as that was my first real public clogging. If the quote that we recieved for the plumbing fixtures is any indication of the impression I made on the saleslady, it was rich. Priceless even.

Just a little sleepy.

There isn't too much going on over here. We are dealing with allergies now, because the other sickness has moved on, so you know, there has to be something new. We can't ever just be healthy. Not until at least May...Anyways, here is kind of what has been going on:
Just your typical Luc narcolepsy.


Hope everyone else is doing better than the bubble family!

Therapy with Tiff

Two posts in two days! I know, right? It's like the old me is back.

You know how people who work in post offices are always incredibly unhappy? You do. Don't lie. Unless you work in a post office ::waves:: then YOU my friend, are the most delightful person I have ever met. No, wait! Don't leave!! Anywho, so these people. They are always soooo miserable. I have always wondered why. Why oh why USPS peeps, are you so down on life? I have a plan. Let's talk it out, I will give you some talking points, you let me know if I am right.

1. Those lights. They are YELLOW. And not "happy sunshine" yellow. God-awful pee-stained carpet yellow. I would probably lose the happy as well.
2. The most exciting part of your job is when a new line of stamps come out. And you get first dibs. Star Wars, anyone?
3. You repeat words like "perishable" and "liquid" all day.
4. It smells of carbon-copy paper in there. Ick.
5. You cannot accept credit cards without a valid signature. No, you cannot even accept cards with "PLEASE ID" on the back accompanied with the correct identification.
6. Every piece of paperwork you encounter is overly complicated. And the people filling them out are stooopid.
7. Your place of employment always has a dusty and dingy feel to it.
8. You are the only person that can work the counter. EVER. There is never anyone there to help you dwindle down that line that is now out the door. And if there is a second worker that day, it's Maude. The 80-something bored lady that smells of moth balls and applied for this job just to bug you and operate in the SLOWEST fashion EVER. ::big breath::
9. There will no doubt be a line that extends out the door at 5pm.
10. People bring their car-obsessed, super-tantrum throwing 18 month-old children with them and procede to keep asking you to repeat yourself as you try to explain how the PO Boxes work. This person also has to keep running away to chase said child as he darts for the parking lot.

Now. Why would you ever hate your job so much that you would make every person that comes into contact with you want to swerve into oncoming traffic after visiting you? I guess I will never know.

It feels good if you play with it long enough.

Fun fact: Every time we change Mason, he immediately reaches down and begins playing with himself and laughing. I asked Paul, "Does it really feel THAT good, that fast?" His answer: "If you play with it long enough, yes." He will then, while still squeezing and pulling, point to the blocks on his shelf and say "cocks?". We are still working on the BLLL blllllllllllocks.

Hmph. Well then. I guess I am moving from teaching Mason to say "truck" instead of "car" to saying "penis" or at least "peepee". Which brings me to my next topic: Embracing your genitals (hey, there was no other way to put it). It really irks me when parents get all wierded out by their kid's "play time with themselves". Yes, they should be taught to NOT do it in public, but rather in their room or bathroom but I think it is horrible when a parent starts telling the child they are being "gross" or "wrong" or "disgusting" or just refusing to talk to the kid about their genitals AT ALL. Way to give your kid a complex, genius. Of course I am also of the thought that teaching ONLY abstenence from sex is wrong so there should be no shocker there.

Yes, I am aware that some day Mason will probably read this and give me a big old "MOOOOOMMMMM!!!!" and not speak to me for a while because I told the internets about him playing with himself, but that's what you get when you get stuck with me for a mom. That and Teddy Grahams and Yo Gabba Gabba  math equasions all day.