Soggy kibble & sticky bums

As I type this there are exactly 14 frazzled, over-processed strands of I'm-going-to-fall-out-any-minute, postpartum hair, which is free of any of the $12 anti-frizz serum I bought and has been neither blow-dried nor brushed yet today, that I am futilely attempting to blow out of my eyes.

I get a kick out of the use of "yet," as if there is some hope that despite it already being 4:45 6:15 in the afternoon evening, that I might actually get to "doing " my hair today.

Briar is upstairs hollering at me, at first I thought it was the standard, "Mom! Mom, I pooped!" delivered in her trademark sing-sing screech, but I was wrong. Upon more careful listening I heard, "Mah-um! Mah-um, there is no toilet paper up here and I pooped."

I rolled my eyes and silently chided myself for not having given the much needed, "Check for toilet paper before you start" sermon.

"Ok, I'm coming," I popped Fin in the Boppy and started for the stairs, but a sound stopped me.

"Avery, please leave the cat food alone," I called as I bounded up the stairs.

"I'z just playin' wit' it," she called back nonchalantly in her oddly hip-hop sounding toddler-speak. Briar was waiting for me at the top of the stairs with her clothes on.

"Did you wipe?" I asked.

"Yes, a lot," she answered seriously.

"But the toilet paper, you said there wasn't any," I marveled.

She led me into the bathroom to see a very empty roll on the wall and a very large, Adirondack mountain peak like mound of toilet paper sitting in the toilet.

"See, there is NO toilet paper on there and here there is a lot," she was moving to lift the tp out of the bowl, but I managed to communicate in a series of squawks and sputters that it wouldn't be necessary.

I replaced the roll, supervised Briar washing her hands and then headed downstairs.

Click. Clickety click click click. Splash.

"Ave! Please, no more cat food in the water," I barked.

"S'ok, I'z just playin' wit' it a little bitty much," she said as she continued pawing pale kibble over a ledge and (mostly) into a dish of murky water brimming with bloated kibble, a sight that never ceases to rise the tiniest amount of bile in the back of my throat.

Briar shook me from my reverie by running up to me and breathlessly declaring that she'd be pooping again as she hopped on the downstairs toilet.

"My comin'in wit' you?" Avery asked hopefully.

"Ok, but you have to let me concentrate for the poop," Briar said seriously.

"Ho'k, concentrate for poop," Avery said nodding.

I turned, a juicy morsel of waterlogged kibble exploding beneath my foot, and laughed. I hate cats and I don't particularly enjoy wiping poopy bottoms, but somehow the absurdity of it all struck me as an utterly hilarious blessing.

Mamarazzo

Dude, easy with the flash!

What Not to Do

You know I'd love the title to be What Not to Wear and have this be a post about how Stacey and Clinton are poised to thrust $5,000 at me for new clothes which will define the narrowest part of my waist, hoist up the girls and show the world how sassy and hawt my backside is, while Nick Arrojo and Carmindy wait in the wings to tell me how lush my tresses are and how gorgeous my hazely-green eyes are, alas, it's not that. I fear my current propensity for whipping out my impossible-to-contain boobs makes the secret footage not-so-secret and way too hard to keep the cameras dry.

Nope, this post is about what not to do in the weeks following the birth of your third child. As we learned in week one- Don't walk to the park, and in week two- Don't go for an Adirondack hike. Now, just shy of week three, I bring to you a third and a fourth lesson - Do not agree to a photo shoot* and wait until the morning of said photo shoot to select the clothing you and your two youngest children will wear. More specifically, do not wait until 8am to establish that, no, in fact none of your non-maternity pants do really fit, and furthermore, neither do any of the shirts you had in mind reach the waistband of the previously mentioned pants.

At 19 days postpartum the best you can hope for is great drape to your clothes to mask miserable back fat, devastating michelin rolls, and covenient tendrils to disguise facial bloat. You absolutely must not look at the photos expecting to see something that does not resemble Chastity Bono. No offense to Chastity, but under normal circumstances we don't look alike. Yesterday's photos, however, reveal the lesbian, rockstar daughter in me.

Where is the chiseled jaw I have glimpsed in the mirror? The surprisingly flattish stomach? The kinda-lean for 19 days later physique? Ain't nowhere to be seen.

Sigh.

Perhaps I exaggerate. perhaps not. Soon I'll have proofs to share with you and you can decide for yourselves. Luckily, no matter how ridiculous I think I look, the kid, well, she looks dynamite. And the product we are promoting is every inch the lifesaver it's touted to be, I have not had mine out of my sight since we brought Fin home.


* Melissa, I don't regret it. I think the results will be great, but I'd be lying if I didn't say this tests the vanity bone.

Just This

Thanking the universe for this blessing.

Summer of Lust

Seems that with the warmer weather come the inescapable pangs of longing.

Coveting.

Oh-my-god-I-must-have-it'ing.

Last year we explored a pool. Our girls love the water, a boat seemed too expensive and too logistically challenging, a pool on the other hand, while requiring maintenance and vigilance, would not require dock space, gas, insurance, one of those steel ball thing-a-majiggers on the back of the car and, since I did not grow up around boats, strikes a kind of fear in my heart of spontaneous exploding that I have never suffered with a pool.

Well, as once upon a time we pissed off our mayor and we have certain nosy neighbors, it seemed inevitable that we would get caught in some sort of tangle of small town zoning hell. Sure enough, the part of the yard we would have selected for the pool is in fact our "front yard," though we use the door on the other street, our mailbox is situated on the other street and we are invited to the block party of...the other street. Laws here state that you may not have a pool in your front yard. (Despite the shit some people have in their front yards)And our back yard? No, just no, no, no.

We spent last summer ferrying the girls to the lake, the access to which can only be gained (by the unmonied folk like us) via a three mile hike through brambles and bushes, over boulders and crevasses...ok, perhaps I exaggerate, but toting two toddlers can make a moss blanketed path seem like a wild jungle gauntlet. We also trekked to points along the Hudson, but they were even more remote and favored by the hard drinking, nature wrecking kind of folks you don't particularly want to be around, especially with no witnesses for miles and miles.

We are trying to be proactive this summer, thinking about what will best suit our family, and doing what we can in advance of Mother Nature so that we are prepared. Three kids under four, a small business to run, insane gas prices and a desire to make the sweetest memories we can...any ideas? Well, as much as Avery loves getting into the car and pretending to drive places, we thought we could do a bit better.

So...we're shopping swing sets, well, actually we are shopping "play systems." The way we see it we have another 5 solid years of playground time. Sometimes the park is great, but other times you want the luxury of a bathroom, kitchen and a safe, moderately private time out area. The plan is to fence in the "front yard" and install a play structure- swings, slide and sandbox. We have neither the yard, nor the budget for the $20,000 systems that make me gasp, I like my playtime with a side of imagination and change (is that the singin' truck?), thank you very much. And, I think I found the winner today. I give you the 3 daughter wonderland contenders:

Option A:


Option B:


Option F:



Care to vote?

Cerrado

We're closed.
Off to romp in the Adirondack sun.
A mama, her girls, and her man.

Oh, happy day!

:)

Friday Hooky

Sean took the day off. For real!

We spent the morning taking the slow route to getting ready, Briar frolicking in her dress-up gown until well past nine, Avery scampering about with bed head that made her look like a lost member of The Romantics and Fin warming and lighting the room as she radiated her perfect, newborn goodness.

We took the girls to the sitter's who was going to take them to the park which thrilled them to no end, then we made for downtown. Falling into the category of anything-is-fun-if-you-do-it-with-the-right-person we took care of a few pesky little parking fine issues at City Hall, deposited checks at the bank and popped into the coffee shop.

Plans for a grand outing were sort of dashed by the fatigue of the last week, but there was a bright spot to be had between errands and naps...kissing. Yup, lots and lots of wonderful kissing.

Three kids, a needy old house and demanding jobs and still the fire burns.

Hehehehe. Life. Is. Good.

Go kiss someone!