Meggans a mom.com - Meggans guide to a brighter life

Break It Down

It has been a few days since I updated.  I have blogger’s block.  I can’t think of anything to write about, even though plenty has been happening.  I thought I would give a rundown of the latest days events and let the record speak for itself.

Friday:

Went to church Mommy group at local cafe, on best behavior.

Received text from Harrison, the sheriff is at their friend’s house, where the boys are visiting. The boys were “accidently” throwing water balloons at cars, boys not on best behavior.

Explain to Mommy group about text, then continue eating danish and coffee, wonder if anyone in group has the sheriff at their son’s house.   Sigh deeply, shift in chair and smile faintly.

Saturday:

Change three poopie diapers, two unexplainably smell like egg salad.

Take boys, plus one of their friends, to IKEA for new bed for Reilly. 

Break up fight between the boys in parking lot, escalator, main showroom, mattress display area, housewares, bookcases, and at the register.

Listen to husband, listen to boys, listen to baby.   Feed husband, feed boys, feed baby.  Clean up after husband, clean up after boys, clean up after baby.

Assemble new bed from IKEA with boys.  Discover Reilly was taking out garbage, as asked, just not taking it to the garbage can. 

Take boys to indoor trampoline gym, Sky High.  Wonder if I will be able to actually jump with the boys, instead of just jumping and then peeing myself…fallout from child birth.  Hopeful as I approach trampoline room.  Jump once and IMMEDIATELY get my answer.  Spend rest of evening damp, waiting for boys, and playing Ms. Pacman in the arcade.

Sunday:

House smells funkified.  Convinced there is a wet diaper loose in the house.  Crawl around on hands and knees sniffing.  No diaper discovered.

Baby spikes 103 fever.  Stay up all night rocking and soothing baby.

Wish worrying was an exercise point earning activity for Weight Watchers.  Would of earned 25 activity points worrying about baby and lost 5 pounds.

Monday:

Hold baby in arms and think about my life and past weekend. 

Realize how blessed we are. 

Love husband, love stepsons, love baby, love every second of it, despite still not being able to find stinky diaper.

"No No Meggan…No No"

SSSSHHHH...don't tell Barbel

I live in fear of letting down one person.  It’s not my Mom.  It’s not Oprah.   Even Jesus runs a close second.  The person who strikes fear in me, who can break my heart with a down turned sideways glance,  who can communicate her approval or disapproval with one well placed “hmmm”, is my German housekeeper Barbel.

Barbel knows cleaning, and she has no time for any foolery or excuses when it comes to housekeeping.  Barbel can make a bed with corners more precise than the best trained soldier in boot camp.  What she does for showers will bring tears of gratitude to your eyes.  Dust consider it an honor to be cleaned by her and literally throw themselves into her dustcloth.

Her speciality though, her calling, her coup de grace…is floors.  I have never seen anything like it.  Perfection, and I don’t have to tell you my version of perfection and Barbel’s version are more than just a little different.   Barbel’s version of perfectly cleaned floors is to clean them to the point that it looks like no one lives here, my version of perfectly cleaned floors is to clean them to the point that it looks like homeless men don’t live here…anymore.

The funny thing though, I swear ALL I DO IS CLEAN.  I am constantly doing laundry, dishes, sweeping patios, and yes, even the floors….daily.  I just can’t ever seem to get anyting clean.  The day before Barbel comes I am a nervous wreck.  I run around barking orders (to myself), “empty the trash cans, change the sheets, do the dishes, mop the floors…STAT!”  Inevitably though Barbel surveys the land and silently extends or withdraws her approval.  Mostly she mumbles to herself as she sweeps the floor.

Barbel: “No no Meggan, no no.”

Me: “No no?  I am so sorry Barbel.  Is the floor bad?  I tried to clean it.”

Barbel: “No no Meggan.”

Me: “I’m really sorry.”

Barbel: (While deftly mopping).  “Um Meggan.  Meggan.  Meggan.  Do you have animal?”

Me: “Ummm, no, no animals.  I have boys though.”

Barbel: “GASP!  No no Meggan.  I thought animal did this to your floor.  Thank God, I am here.”

That’s usually when the German starts and I shamefully make my exit.  The above photo is from when my 15 month old animal got into the Kleenex box.

My Pancakes…Myself

I decided to cook pancakes for Lucas the other morning.  I have never been a huge eater of pancakes, but I bought this organic pancake mix and making pancakes on a rainy day seemed like a very mothering thing to do.  I heated up the organic butter, I carefully cut up some organic strawberries and added them to the mix, and then I whisked in a cage free organic egg.   I felt like I was doing everything right…except I cooked up two pieces of flat turds.  I tried my best, but instead of fluffy pancakes I got, well let’s just say my pancakes didn’t look like the picture on the box.

I sighed and stared at my pancakes in half-hearted disbelief.  I realized that, like the pancakes, I too was feeling miserably flat (and I am not talking about my breasts after nursing and pumping).   My pancakes were a symbol of exactly how I have been feeling lately.  Flat, rough around the edges, and in desperate need of some sweetness..or syrup.  In a nutshell the cause for my depression is that my feelings got hurt recently and it has sent me for a big fat emotional loop.  I heard through the grapevine (which is always dangerous) that some people that I trusted and let into my life were saying some not very nice things about me or my family, including Lucas. 

I know gossip should always be taken with a grain of salt, is dangerous, and a black hole, but my feelings were hurt and I didn’t expect it to crush me like it did. I started to buy into the gossip.  What if “they” were right?  What if all I do is spin my wheels, what if no one takes me seriously, what if my baby is Baby Stewie from Family Guy, what if I am inappropriate on my website….what if what if what if.  Suddenly I couldn’t stop myself.  All the nasty and negative, from a lifetime of feeling like I am on the outside looking in came flooding back.  I played the tapes in my head, You know… “Meggan is different, Meggan needs to settle down, Meggans in over her head with Ettore and those boys, Meggan is only after the money, Meggan is not talented enough, Meggan has no business being here…she’s too young, old, tall, thin, fat, silly, serious, tired, spastic, tomboyish, girly, flirty, stand offish, scattered, pushy”…..it could go on forever, if I let it. I don’t want to let it. 

I have always wanted to not care what anyone says, but I do care.  Not caring is so much easier said than done.  I care a lot, about a lot of people, even people that hurt me; and I have hurt people.  I can be snarky, gossipy, and judgemental too. I try not to be, but as Ettore says, “sometimes Sweetheart, you are just mean,” at which point I throw my head back in loud evil laughter.  Side note:  Ettore might have a point.  With the exception of occasionally acting like Cruella Deville from 101 Dalmatians, I try to treat others as I would like to be treated.  So not being one who lives in a glass house all that is left to do is forgive the people that spoke ill of me.  They don’t know me and saying hurtful things back and gossiping back does no one any good.  Even when I want to double snap and kick some ass.  To move on, I need to forgive others and myself, and realize I am not for everyone, but I am doing the best I can.  Forgiveness for others, and myself, might not come immediately, and it doesn’t mean I will continue these friendships, but it will come and my pancakes and myself will be feeling fluffy again.  As far as my breasts, well that might be another story.

So, to heal my wounded and sensitive psyche, I took myself to Therapist Richard and for $125.00 he assured me not to change a thing about myself (my Mom says she has been doing that for free for years).  Also, despite the pancakes or me not being perfekt; Ettore, the boys, and I are just fine (and will continue to be).  They love me, and I love them with all of my inappropriate, spinning wheeled, in over my head, money grubbing, and imperfect heart.  As far as the pancakes,  Lucas ate them up.  At the end of the day that is all that really matters.  We love each other, do the best we can, and my child didn’t throw his food on the floor.

I Love Being A Little Shit

I have been staying with my Mom this last week, so she can help me take care of Lucas since he has been sick.  She has been very helpful, but the absolutest, bestest, most funnest thing about staying with my Mom is that for brief periods of time during the day I get to revert to being the child.  She is now the parent and I am the child.  I get to be the one who nags that they are hungry, I get to throw a fit when I am tired while we are doing errands, and I definitely get to be the one who rolls her eyes, and I am going to be totally honest…I LOVE IT!!  LOVE LOVE LOVE IT!!  It makes me deliriously happy to be a Little Shit! Today we went to Michael’s Crafts.  My Mom is spending $75.00 in crafts to decorate a bird house that will be auctioned off for $25.00 for charity by the Retired Teachers Association.  My Mom is taking decorating this bird house very seriously.  Don’t let the whole “retired teachers” thing fool you.  These ladies are fierce bitches when it comes to decorating birdhouses.  There was no way my Mom is going to let her birdhouse suffer by comparison.  This is the second craft store we have been to in two days because my Mother HAS TO HAVE A LITTLE CAT TO GLUE TO THE ROOF OF THE BIRDHOUSE.   She wants to then glue a little mouse she found next to the cat.  We looked and looked.  Trust me, no such little cat exists in Sacramento.  The Little Shit came out today deep in the scrap booking section.  Me:  “Seriously Mom, just write a check.  It’s easier.  Tell them to shove their birdhouses and write them a check and then move and change your number so they can’t contact you ever again to do this.” My Mom did what she has been doing to me for 36 years.  She ssshhed me.  That was all the Little Shit in me needed.  I got a reaction.   A smile crept across my face as it It felt like I was ten again and I was loving it.  As she looked for miniature cats to glue to birdhouse roofs I begged to leave and get a coffee.  I kind of accidentally bumped her more than once with the shopping cart (a personal favorite of my stepsons) and just to make sure she didn’t forget, I let my Mother know many times I was hungry.  Gaining steam, I looked my Mother straight in the face and drank from HER watter bottle without asking – even when she told me not to, and when I had to pee, I pleaded with her to go with me.  It was my turn to be the kid again.  I was no longer the Mom, the responsible one in charge of keeping kids fed, safe, and pee free.   It was wrong, but it felt so right.  If I was twelve, my Mother would of been reaching for the Ritalin. When we got separated I swear to God I had separation anxiety and took great pleasure in walking through the store bleating out like some stray lamb, “Moh-moh-moh MOTHERRRRR!!!”  “Maaawwwm, where are you?”  My heart swelled when she barked back,  ”WHAAAAT…DAMNIT!!!” “Nothing.” I told her.  “Just wanted to let you know I love you.”  “Uh-huh, what do you want?” my Mother asked. “Just one thing,” I said.  “A cookie.”

Diagnosis: Cancelitis

Once you have children the first thing to go, besides your waistline, plucked eyebrows, fashion sense, clean floors, sense of direction, memory, and pedicures, is the ability to commit to scheduled plans.  I would say that I make it to about 20% of the appointments that I schedule.  With that average, if I were a baseball player I would definitely have a scorching steroid problem to stay in the game.  Well, I don’t play baseball much, or have a steroid problem.  I have cancelitis: the chronic canceling of plans.

Cancelitis affects all mothers, but especially mothers of toddlers and young babies.  My calendar is nothing more than wishful thinking with lines scratched though dates of appointments.  The biggest pain in the ass is always have to come up with watered down reasons why I can’t make it to an appointment.  I always say, “sorry the baby is unexpectedly sick, or I we just couldn’t seem get out of the house in time.”   Which is true. 

 Sometimes though I fantasize about just letting the truth hang on out.  I fantastize about calling up the hair salon, and when the nineteen-year-old stylish salon receptionist curtly asks why I can’t make the appointment I want to tell her to go Google explosive diarrhea.  Tell her what she is looking at on Google is only partially contained in my son’s diaper, the rest is on me.  THAT is the reason I will not be making it to get my hair trimmed, and thanks to hormones after pregnancy, get the back of my neck shaved.

I want to tell the dentist that I am sorry that I have to cancel my appointment for a teeth cleaning because I have not been able to be very clean myself as of late…and my teeth are just scratching the surface.  We are waaaay beyond not flossing.  With the house, dishes, laundry for three boys, toys, cars, bathrooms, and baby butt to keep clean, sometimes I don’t see a shower or toothbrush, for quite a while.

I have cancelitis this morning.  I was supposed to meet a contractor at the house to get an estimate on a bike shed.  Fair enough.  Then I spent all last night in the ER with a son who was spiking a 104.5 fever and coughing his lungs out.  Turns out my baby has pneumonia.  Once again I have packed up to my Mom’s and we are hopefully on the mend, but meeting the contractor will regretfully not happen.

Sometimes when you have cancelitis friends cancel you.   I was actually dropped by a new friend, also a new Mother oddly enough, because I wasn’t returning ALL her phone calls.  It truly wasn’t intentional.  I want to keep up with everyone, but with three kids…etc. etc. etc. I honestly don’t know where the days go. 

Unless you have walked a mile in my bathrobe holding a baby, while doing homework with a twelve-year-old, while texting your teenage stepson so you know where he is after school…don’t judge.

The good news, my friends with older children tell me that the cancelitis gets better as your children get older.  You are never 100% cured of cancelitis, but you can manage it with childcare, play dates,  and hopefully a little one with a rockin’ immune system by the time he starts school.  That being said, my good friend Cheryl just had to cancel dinner plans last weekend when both her girls (age 6 and 7) unexpectedly came down with the flu.  We are hoping to get together some time before her kids start high school.

Motherhood Has Taken Me To New Heights

I have risen to new heights in Motherhood…81 1/8″ of new height to be exact, courtesy of Reilly’s IKEA bunk bed.

I was told Motherhood would be a whole different level.

We have been having a lot of bed and sleeping drama as of late.  Lucas is not sleeping, which means I am not sleeping, which means Ettore is not sleeping.  On top of that our bed broke, nothing scandalous from the throws of passion.  Ettore simply sat on the bed and a few of the nails gave out on the support beams causing the mattress with me on it to go thudding to the floor.  All I could think of at first was, thank God it wasn’t me that broke the bed.  I am having enough body issues without a bed breaking underneath my weight!

It took a few days to get it fixed, and since we didn’t have the older boys we took up residence in their room.  After both of us struggled to get comfortable on Harrison’s double bed I reached for the stars and climbed the bunk bed ladder.  All 5′10″ of me spent the night in the bunk bed.  Who says you can’t revisit your childhood.  This time though a trip back to childhood also includes a trip to the adulthood chiropractor.

The Trail of Tears…

WARNING!! The above photo, not for the sleep deprived!!

I wanted to CRY!!  The photo above is from my latest visit to Target.  What you are looking at is my coffee that spilled ALL the way from the front door of Target, to my car.  WAAHHH…NOT MY COFFEE!!!  For a Mom who is EXHAUSTED, you know we live on one thing and that is coffee.  To see all that liquid gold spilled on the ground was heartbreaking.  I just stood there staring at the ground in disbelief…WHAT…HOW…WHY GOD WHY!!!  Where did I go wrong?  Was it checkout?  Was it when I checked my receipt, was it when I re-positioned Lucas in the shopping cart?  Breath Mom breath.  I had to pull myself together, I was losing it.  They are right, never cry over spilled milk, coffee.