Baby G is seven months old!

The stuff her hair does cracks me up:


This is what it looks like after a pony tail all day.

She is so fun. This time I understand how truly brief the baby stage is, and I'm trying to soak it up.



She is rolling as a form of transportation, sitting up without flopping backwards anymore, eating solids like Gerber puffs (in fact, now that she's had those she's not terribly interested in purees), and pushing herself in circles and backwards with her arms when on her tummy.

She is at that golden baby stage where they're interactive, they sleep pretty well, they can entertain themselves, and they can't crawl off and stick a butter knife into a light socket. Perfection.

You gotta know when to hold 'em;

know when to fold 'em.

"'em" in this scenario would be questionable footwear choices.

(smirk)

I learned something about myself on Friday.

I wouldn't last long in the wild.

On Friday morning Dan and I slept in a bit. I woke up a little after 7 a.m. I stared at the ceiling, stretched, and then turned onto my side to check the clock. I turned to face a set of blue eyes.

My reaction? I gasped, flailed my arms, and yelled "Jesus Christ!".

Awesome survival skills there.

Then the blue eyes said "Hi Mommy!".

He had a collection of toys spread out on the floor, y'all. He was playing in our room while we slept. I'm seriously contemplating installing a master bedroom security system.

The last 24 hours.

Sibling snuggles:

These are pretty much my life blood at this point.

Pig Tails:

"If I eat the comb she'll be interested enough in avoiding further E.R. trips to avoid buying more combs, right? No combs = No more torture sessions. It's a plan."

Pig tail aftermath:

"Wait, what are we laughing at?"


If you didn't yell "CHEESY POOFS!!!" at the screen, you're a better person than myself.

And yes, that bib reads "My Mom is hotter than Your Mom". Dan bought it for her while I was still in the hospital after her birth, so the odds of that statement being correct were infinitesimally small...

And finally, my kid Lady GaGa'd me at Target. I'm dead serious.

Warning: Nearly obsolete pop culture reference ahead.

Last night Payne was in the car with the family and sort of babbling on in his own imaginary world.

After watching a train go by, he said in a tone of great agitation "Dere's nakes on a twain!"

(cue hysterical laughter from Dan and I)

Aaaand the remaining car ride might have involved with quips about mother effin 'nakes on mother effin twains.

Mr. Awesome.

Boring people simply unwrap and eat their fortune cookie.

Mr. Awesome constructs a fortune cookie system of transport:

(This is my new favorite shirt. An ant eater sucking up ants? Come on!)

Genevieve fell asleep on the floor and Payne wanted to join her "seepin":



Payne has a bit of an emptying/unrolling fixation right now, so he's been logging some hours in time out. Tonight he was chillin on the ottoman of shame for destroying a roll of paper towels and I told him that I needed him to stop pumping hand soap into thesink/unrolling toilet paper/wasting paper towels. He was appropriately contrite.

About five minutes later he said "Mommy, my deed you to dop putting me in time out."

Why I should really stick to just the two children: Reference day #1.

This morning:

- Genevieve cried during a nap attempt, as Payne cried through a morning bath.

This afternoon:

- Genevieve napped for 20 minutes
- Payne did not nap, and promptly ended his nap attempt by pooping in his underwear, taking them off (and leaving his poop on my parents' guest room carpet), and earning his second bath of the day.
- Genevieve did a mean pro-wrestling impression as I tried to clip her nails for 15 minutes.

This evening:
-Payne peed his pants. This included soaking his sneakers through.
- Payne went into pre-dinner hysterics after the pee incident. He was cured with a cheese stick.
- While waiting for a table at a restaurant, Payne pulled his post-accident reserve sweatpants down (due to circumstances beyond my control, he was going commando under the sweatpants) as I was distracted by trying to feed Genevieve baby food out of one of those AMAZING pouch thingies as she sat on my hip. I looked down to see my three year old boy bent at the waist with his pants around his ankles. My kid flashed a hefty portion of the patronage of Cheddars. I just....I still don't know quite what to do with that.
- Payne spilled his chocolate milk.
- Payne stole most of my portion of chips and queso.
- Payne spilled his water, onto my leg.
- Genevieve lost it because she was up late.
- I left dinner early to get them both to bed. As I was making Genevieve's laaaaate bedtime bottle she smacked it with her hand, sending water logged formula powder chunks all over the kitchen counter, into the drawers, cabinets, and my diaper bag. I cried, while laughing at myself for literally crying over spilt milk.
- Payne opened the bag of our dogs' food for our friend's dog, as he cheerfully said "Der! Dat's all you need!". It took me a couple of minutes to process that statement, so Fido had probably 180 seconds or so of pure bliss. I'm dearly hoping there are no gastrointestinal consequences for my poor friends to deal with.

These kids are more than I can handle as it is! No more. No more. No more!

I do have to say though, there was one moment when Genevieve was crying and Payne insisted I pick him up to face her. He took her face in his hands and said "Right here, Gen-veeve. Right here!" trying to calm her. He does this because when he does it works most of the time. That fact makes all of the crazy worth it....sometimes. Heh.

Giddy Up!

This is what goes on behind me most nights as I do the dishes:



Does Fisher Price make tack?

This is my level of dedication to your entertainment.

In order to tell this story I need to share something deeply personal and embarrassing with you.

I have a little bit of peach fuzz on my upper lip.

It's not quite blond.

I have a little bit of dark-ish fuzz on my upper lip.

Okay OKAY!

I have a mustache.

There.

I bleach my 'stache, as do most women that share my affliction. This is done with a handy little chemistry kit type thing (mixing plate and spatula included!) provided nearly everywhere through the generosity of Ms. Salley Hansen, whoever that is. The process is visually...arresting. I hole up in my bathroom while coated in bleachy goo and avoid encountering anyone at all costs. I think Dan and I were married for three years before he finally walked in on me mid 'stache bleach. He knew I did it, but had never seen the process before.

Yes, he laughed. No, I did not.

So today I put the kids down for their naps and decided I was in need of a little 'stache eradication. I happily applied the stuff and plopped down on the edge of the tub with my phone as entertainment to wait out the fume ridden and...tingly...ten minutes required.

Then I heard the guest bathroom toilet lid open.

This sound cannot be ignored, because it's possible, quite likely really, that Payne might be in need of some adult assistance with cleanup. I can't in good conscience avoid that responsibility. So I creep in there hoping just to check on him and duck out if he had completed less than serious business. Unfortunately, he was in need of my help, so I went in, and asked "You need help buddy?". He responded with a quick and inattentive "Yeah" and then glanced up at me briefly.

I kid you not. My three year old did a double take.

Payne: (wide eyed) "Mommy, wat daaaaat? On your mouf?"

Me: "Oh. It's, um, soap." (really, go ahead and try thinking of a way to explain relative cultural ideas of beauty and semi-permanent body alteration to your young child, ok?)

Payne: "Soap? 'Dinky soap!"

I'll give him that one. It does have a tendency to burn one's tender nostrils.

Me: "Mmm. Hmm..."

Payne: "You 'ave a mustache?"

Me: (nervous giggle)

Ah. Don't you love it when children say something superficially correct but also even more correct than they realize?

Nice.

So, at that point I was expending a considerable amount of effort in not laughing, because 'stache bleach kind of sets, and if you smile or talk much after it's been on there a couple of minutes it does this lovely thing where it cracks and half slides off and one ends up with chemical burns on one's lips.

This story does have a happy ending. Payne was re tucked, bleach was washed off, and I now have nice blond upper lip fuzz.

I wonder how much I'm going to regret having posted this tomorrow.

An exhibition.

I have named this very artistic gathering of photos, simply

(dramatic pause)

Tolerance.


What six month old could possibly be interested in poor dangling Mr. Cow when there is a toy labeled with that seductive "3+" nearby?

Payne managed to keep it together for a bit, and then calmly handed me his toy Caterpillar truck to put away for later.



Boy watches TV, Girl watches Boy..for 30 minutes. Fortunately, he doesn't appear to require much in the way of visual personal space.



Godzirra baby poised to decimate the train population of Sodor.

After she smashed his train, Payne stoically rebuilt it; minus the engine that he handed to Genevieve to play with.

Bipolar.

I've noticed over time that this is how my blog sort of comes off. I have a post or two where I express delight in my children and my gratitude that they exist, and promptly follow with a post about how they made me go all Braveheart on their little butts.

This is because Mothers are bipolar. You're welcome.

For example, I'm pretty sure I hit about ten serious highs and lows today.

High: Genevieve slept all night and woke up squealing in a good way. At the same time I thought we were doing well time wise and going to get to the gym by 8 a.m.

Low: We managed to burn 20 minutes, making me "late" to my self appointed goal time, dealing with biological refuse. I put Payne's pants and shoes on. I put on Genevieve's coat and then smelled her. Went to change her and it. was. everywhere. I had to toss her clothes and the changing pad cover into the wash. I got her redressed and then Payne had to pee. Unfortunately, he had gotten a head start. I take his shoes and pants back off, find clean underwear, and redress him. Then Genevieve spits up all down herself. I do my best battle scream, which Payne finds hilarious, and go dress Genevieve again. Eventually, we actually get to the gym, after I kick a very undeserving Tiny the Pterodactyl doll across the hallway. Wrong place, wrong time, Honey.

High: My kids are cuter than all of the other kids at the gym daycare. Yer damn skippy.

Low: Getting battered with wee fists when it's time to leave the daycare. Staunch refusal by a certain child to eat his breakfast, despite being in hunger induced hysterics.

High: Payne wanting to stay and watch some maintenance men work on a leaky ceiling in a store, and really and truly not touching anything in said store. (cue choir of angels)

Low: Genevieve screaming so loud in a shoe store that she actually alarmed bystanders as I hobbled over to her in two different pumps begging for just one more minute.

High: Genevieve napped.

Low: Payne did not.

Yes, simultaneous highs and lows are possible.

High: Payne blowing into the end of an already inflated balloon from the back seat of the car, and announcing "My boon get bigger!". As I'm giggling about this I startle, as what can only be Chewbacca announces itself from by back seat. Nope, it's the baby.

Low: Trying to clean up Payne in a public restroom after Genevieve dumps a cup of soda on him. The boy has flat clammy feet that he constantly flexes and I was trying to put corduroy pants on him. I might as well have been trying to slip a fleece tracksuit onto a cactus.

High: Listening to Genevieve's insane giggles as she watches her brother entertain her during their bath, and watching Payne be sure to hold an arm suspended behind her, to catch her if she starts to fall backwards.



I both shake with rage and get happiness induced tears in my eyes every single day. This has to qualify me for some sort of psychological diagnosis. But hey, if I'm certifiable so are all of the other women I see closing their eyes in very public places and taking deep cleansing breaths. Heh heh.

A list of awesome things that happened today.

- When I finished getting Payne dressed this morning I said "Ok, now it's Genevieve's turn." and left her sitting on the rug next to Payne as I retrieved her clothes and diaper. I returned to see that Payne had carefully unsnapped the neck of her sleeper, unzipped it, had pulled one of her arms out of her pajamas and was gently working on the other one.

- Genevieve sneezed violently right as I touched a spoon full of baby food to her lips. You can guess the consequences.

- Payne asked to see my Dad's teeth and then announced "Gweat teeth Pappy!". He then asked to see my sister's teeth and responded by leaning over the table while brandishing a baby wipe, and trying to rub it on her teeth while saying "Here ooh go!". Ooooh. Diss!

- I had birthday cake backup:

A few new lows.

-Last night, I went out in public like this:



The irony here is that I made sure to tidy up my hair before I got out of the car at the store. I didn't want to look scruffy, you know. I noticed the cashier was eyeing me a bit strangely, but I placed the blame on the baby on my hip with a good bit of her dinner still on her shirt. Come to find out, even more of her dinner was on mine.

For the inquisitive among you, the paste smeared all over my shoulder is a mixture of pureed bananas and green beans. It's a dead ringer for phlegm. Soooo I look like I hocked a loogie (How do you spell this? Spellcheck doesn't know how to spell words referring to balls of mucous. Go figure) into my shoulder and then rubbed it around. Awesome.

-This morning I awoke in total darkness with a start shortly after six a.m., watching my bedroom door slowly swing closed by an unseen force. As I lay there attempting to slow my heart rate I tell myself it was the a.c. vent blowing on the door. Yes, the a/c vent blowing on the door from two different directions, first out from the wall, then back towards the door frame. There are oscillating a/c vents, right? RIGHT?. In short order, to my great horror, the door very slowly opens again.

I internally panic, then my sleep muddled brain clings to the least terrifying possible explanation:

I yell "Payne?" and a little head pops out from behind the door and chirps "Hi Mommy! I have to go potty!" .

"Payne, were you watching Mommy sleep?" is brightly answered with "Yes!".

I will never sleep again.

- And finally, I think I must be close to hitting my infant wear dependency rock bottom:

First socks, then tights, then hair accessories, and now...

Bonnets.

Oh my gosh, is there anything cuter than a baby in a bonnet? I asked Dan if we can put her in them until she's twenty, and he informed me that a twenty year old in a bonnet would probably resemble a woman who wears prairie skirts and lives in a compound.

Damn.