Thursday, October 22, 2015

Hammer Time


Stop trying so damn hard.

To be thin.
To be fancy.
To be rich.
To be current.
To be trendy.
To be cool.
To be beautiful.
To be popular.
To be funny.
To be organized.
To be accepted.
To be valued.
To be loved.
To be perfect.

Just stop it, already.

You are perfect. You are valued. You are loved. Exactly as you are.

In the words of one of the most brilliant lyricists ever, can't touch this (oh-oh oh oh oh-oh-oh).

I'm sorry. I had to. 

Sometime parachute pants are the only way to shock yourself out of a self hate funk.*

Now go have a lovely day. <3
*This is taken straight out of a psychology book.**

**That hasn't been written yet.***

***But should be. Because parachute pants.

Also, this made my day:

Okay, I'm done now.

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Tuesday, October 20, 2015

Vaseline. #$%&*!? VASELINE.

It's officially the "fourth trimester" and I've been watching vigilantly for signs PPD might be trying to sneak back in. This past week has been especially difficult as Grover went on a five day business trip and now I'm in that weird haze where you've overextended yourself so much you become what is essentially a potato with opposable thumbs.

I haven't really noticed any super hormonal weirdness, just the usual stuff. An overwhelming urge to whack my hair off (thank you, mom and highly skilled cosmetologist SIL, for saving me from myself), exhaustion, and my least favorite side effect - RAGE. Like everything goes red and I have to try really hard not to punch a hole in the wall* type rage.

*except nine eighteen-ish months of no exercise means incredibly weak arms and I'd probably just end up breaking my hand

This morning when I was in the kid's closet trying to extricate a lost baby sock from behind the piles of crap perfectly organized and important things I'm keeping because we'll probably need them someday (normal size broken baby gate, gigantic only slightly broken baby gate, nine pictures I've been meaning to hang for six months, my wedding dress cocooned in a trash bag because I'm totally going to get it preserved ... someday, the humidifier, a fan, five boxes of diapers, decorations from G's birthday party, a step stool I hid behind the wedding dress because the kids were using it to climb shelves, an overflowing hamper ... aaaand I'll stop there because who wants to read a blog post about the entire contents of closet???), I realized it was the creepy kind of "too quiet" that signals mischief and mayhem. I checked on the sleeping baby and the big kids in the living room and then walked into my bedroom to discover K smearing himself with Vaseline whilst sitting atop my bed, also smeared in Vaseline.

Cue rage.

In 37 seconds (maybe slightly longer because that closet is a time warp), K had turned the bed into a minefield of nasty slippery Vaseline chunks. Do you know how difficult it is to remove Vaseline? It's like what would happen if you microwaved a dead whale and it exploded and blew blubber bits to the moon and back and you only had 10 minutes and half a package of baby wipes to clean it up. No matter how much you clean, there will always be blubber bits you miss.

(I'm thinking maybe that's a bad analogy because the logistics of microwaving an entire whale are highly questionable, but you get the idea.)

Luckily, over the course of 4.5 years of momming I've managed to develop a mechanism that protects my children from my ragey hormonal outbursts (usually) - a sort of delayed reaction device that involves lots of breathing and praying. I calmly cleaned K up, stripped the bed, wiped down the headboard and the nightstand and the wall and the floor and the dresser, headed to the laundry room, and had a total come apart in there, cursing Vaseline in very imaginative wording ... and into a pillow because I've already inadvertently taught G to call people "D-bags". #parentoftheyear

Should I have learned the perils of the substance when T coated G's head in Vaseline a few years ago and it took weeks for her hair to un-grease? Yes. Should I have eradicated all traces of it from my home and never spoken of it again? Absolutely. Unfortunately, you need that shit when you have a tiny baby who poops every ten seconds. So yes, it's my fault for leaving Vaseline within striking distance of K, who can make a mess out of literally anything, but still I'd like to publicly state - EFF YOU, VASELINE. EFF. YOU.

Yes, I do feel better now, thank you.

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Wednesday, October 7, 2015

A Beginning and The End

He's here!

Finnegan Roarke Walker
September 29, 2015, 11:39 p.m.
7 lbs, 8.4 oz, 19 inches and one adorable chin dimple

This little man made his appearance 13 days early in spite of his momma being a total B. He's perfect and healthy and so far is an incredibly peaceful little soul. We survived the first week, which was more difficult than usual as I and two of the three older kids came down with a horrendous cold the day we got home from the hospital. I'm pretty sure I've morphed into Chuck Noland, but who cares?


There have been a lot of feelings this week. Realizing I'm responsible for four (FOUR!) human beings was my major freak out moment. Seriously, who authorized this?

40 toes, you guys. I am responsible for FORTY TOES.
It's the end of positive pregnancy tests and first baby kicks and counting down days and weeks and the terrifying excitement of labor and the mystery and promise of a new life.

(It's also the end of morning sickness and overwhelming exhaustion and being unable to exercise or eat raw cookie dough or drink wine and the end of feeling like I'm trapped in a bloated whale's body and having to pee every three minutes and insomnia and horrible pain and endless anxiety about things going wrong ...)

It's bittersweet, but mostly sweet. Ninety percent of me is shouting "HALLELUJAH!" (I don't love being pregnant and I'm not ashamed of the fact) and the other ten percent feels melancholy about such a monumentally life-changing chapter in my life being over so fast. Four kids in exactly four years and five months (I KNOW, RIGHT?!?) It's been such a crazy ride it's hard to process it all. Should I have enjoyed it more? Taken more pictures? Been less of an awful pregnant person? Used my raging hormones as an excuse to deck people? Eaten less ice cream? Eaten MORE ice cream? Probably.

Thankfully, though (soooo thankfully), it's over now. The last of the worry and wonder of this incredibly INTENSE stage is on the horizon.

It's the end of an era.

And the beginning of a brand new life.

Welcome to the world, little one! We love you so very much.
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