There’s no denying that Rowan is the worst when it comes to tidying up the house. Ask any family member, and they’ll all agree. I mean, I have to nag all of the kids to clean up their shared spaces, but they will eventually get it done. A good clean-up spree usually involves a lot of bickering and whining and at least a few tears, not to mention many reminders to stop horsing around–as they’ll inevitably get distracted and end up wrestling or playing with the toys they’re meant to be putting away . I try to encourage the girls to turn the clean-up into a game, so Rowan is more apt to want to participate. But he never pulls his weight or does a fair share of the work.

More than that, he’s very into sneakily cutting corners and being hasty in his efforts. After inspecting several recent clean-up attempts, I have called into question such tactics.

Me: “Kids, why is there a stuffed raccoon shoved into the microwave of the play kitchen? The stuffed animal bin is just feet away. Someone, put it where it belongs please.”

Girls, in unison: “Rooowwaaaan!”

Rowan: *smiles sheepishly* then proceeds to put away the toy, begrudgingly

—————————————-

Me: “Everything in here looks good, except for that pile of socks that someone conveniently pushed under the blue chair.”

Girls, in unison: “Rooowwaaaan!”

—————————————-

Rowan (with pride):”Mom! I just cleaned up the living room toys all by myself!”

Me (shocked): “Wow! Nice job!”

And then, moments later, after readjusting the pillows on the living room couch and discovering a pile of toys underneath: “Rowan! Seriously? You thought you could get away with this? This is you cleaning up the living room?”

Rowan: “What? I picked them up off the floor!”

I had to pick up some wine a few days ago, but I had the kids with me, so I told them we’d stop next door at Petco to sweeten up the deal. What kid wants to go wine shopping? When Nora and Frances were little, I used to walk them in the stroller to That Fish Place as a sort of mini zoo experience. I was thinking this would go something like that. Instead of taking turns looking at all the animals with mild interest, the kids enthusiastically asked for various pets at every tank, cage and crate we passed.

“Mom! Can we get a turtle? Please?”

“No.”

“How about a hamster?”

“No.”

“What about this mouse? Please? It’s only six dollars. We’ll pay for everything. The cage, the food, all the stuff.”

“It’s only six dollars because nobody wants a mouse as a pet.”

“We do! Please? What about a chameleon?”

No. No. No.

The kids left the store seriously depressed. When we got home, Rowan told Liam all about the pet store. He then told us how he was planning on heading back to the pet store on his own to purchase a pet. I reminded him that he had just spent his last dollars on a Lego set, but he was unfazed.

I watched as he proceeded to pack up his red backpack with his toy binoculars, a reptile field guide, a koala notebook, and a bottle of water. He headed outside for his bike helmet and bike.

I watched from the door as he started to ride his bike up the street, wondering how far he was going to take this. Was he really going to just ride away? I didn’t really think so, but I couldn’t be sure.

Rowan got halfway up the street on his bike before he stopped and paused in front of the neighbor’s house. Then, I saw him turn around and head back down the street to our driveway. I slinked back inside the house before he could see me watching.

He returned a minute later with his backpack. “I decided I’m going to wait until nighttime to go to the pet store so it won’t be so busy to cross the road,” he said.

“OK, that seems like a smart idea,” I agreed.

The house right next door to us is inhabited by no less than twenty-seven college students. OK, maybe that’s an exaggeration. But I see them coming and going all the time, and I swear I never recognize a one of them. It always seems as though I’m seeing each young person for the first time. 

At night, Nora loves pointing out that they still have a Christmas tree up in their living room—a sight we can easily see from the window in our stairway as it looks right into the neighbors’ downstairs. 

“Isn’t that so silly, Mommy? Christmas was a long time ago, and they still have their tree!”

Yep. That’s about right. Those silly college students! 

The college neighbors had their graduation today. And, since about 1:30 this afternoon, they’ve been partying both inside and outside their home. Loudly. At first, there was some really embarrassing karaoke going on. There was an outdoor microphone set up and some girl was singing the national anthem. Let’s just say she was no Kelly Clarkson. Is Kelly Clarkson even still relevant?

Moving on. 

Then, there were these really awkward speeches made by the young grads to their parents, who were also in attendance for a spell. The speeches were not just awkward because the kids were fumbling their words and cracking up nervously every few minutes—they were also being microphoned loudly throughout the neighborhood, and likely every house on the block could hear the grads’ heartfelt attempts at sounding meaningful and grateful.

Can it really be that sixteen years have passed since I graduated from college? 16 YEARS?! The time has just flown by. On the one hand, it seems like yesterday we were standing around on a Saturday playing beer pong like our neighbors are doing quite loudly and proudly as I type these words. On the other hand, I know that if I tried to drink now like they’re doing next door, I’d not be able to get out of bed for a week or more. I had that kind of tolerance a lifetime ago.

Sixteen years is a LONG time. We have been removed from that era for awhile now, but that didn’t stop Liam and I from glancing enviously over the fence this afternoon and secretly confessing to one another that we wouldn’t mind reliving the glory days once again. College was the best of times. Truly. I mean, there were shameful and embarrassing moments, for sure, but they were just the best.

In the end, since we couldn’t leave our children to join them in their celebration, we did the next best thing. We cranked up some Dave Matthews Band, and we cracked open some beers. We had our own little living room dance party with the kids, and, after we put the little ones down to sleep, we refrained from calling the cops as the volume grew louder and louder and the evening got later and later. Even though the noise threatened to wake our babies from their slumber. Even though the noise DID wake one little baby from his slumber.

Update: I’m pretty sure someone else just did call the cops, because for the first time since mid-afternoon, it’s quiet over there. Either that, or the party has moved elsewhere.

Ah, college. ❤️

Hiya, fine folks. It’s me, Kirstin. This is kind of a cheat post, I know, but with all the mothering and caregiving going on these days, I barely have time to shower, let alone be creative. 

The blog’s been public now over six months! Hoo-rah (spoken like a marine, FYI). And, I’d love to know who’s following along.

So, if you’re feeling up to it, leave a reply. Let me know what you think of this space. And in the meantime, I’ll work on creating more content for your viewing pleasure.

Ciao!

****I accidentally hit publish today before I had proofread and completed this draft—oops! Sorry if you read the unfinished version. This one should be a tad more finished!

Let’s catch up.

First, my very good friend’s hubby won a hundred thousand dollars playing fantasy sports online. What?!?! And, although it couldn’t have come at a better time for them (they’re getting ready to move), or happen to more deserving people, I still find myself thinking:

Man, wish we’d won a hundred grand!

Or: Hmmmm…what could we spend that money on? Paying off loans? Downpayment on a new house? Me not having to work for a year? Vacation abroad?

Or, alternatively: Liam needs to get a new hobby—stat! Like, gambling online at paying fantasy sports sites! Sheesh.

During dinner, when I told Liam about our friends, he was like: Man, we need to catch a break. (Again, let’s be real, here. We are talking about first world problems. Our lives are pretty darn sweet, and we know it.) But, still…

After dinner, Liam opened up the mail. In the pile was a letter from our landlord. Usually the only mail he sends to us includes utility bills. As I was watching Liam read the handwritten note, I noticed that there were no bills included. I also saw him chuckling. I asked aloud, hopefully, thinking this might be our lucky break, “What? Is he going to give us the house for free because we’ve been such outstanding tenants?”

“Not exactly,” he replied. He passed me the letter so I could read it myself:

Kirstin and Liam,

This is a note to inform you that I will not furnish or maintain a lawn mower any more. You will have to supply your own mower. I will sell the present mower for $120.00 for your use.

Sincerely,

(Name Witheld to Protect the Old Guy)

Before I get into the heart of the letter, let me first tell you a bit about our lawn. Our house sits on a corner lot and it has a lot of grass. It takes us approximately two hours to mow the lawn on a riding mower, which came with the house. Up until now, apparently.

And now, let’s get to the mower. It is old. Rusty red. Every winter the front right tire goes flat and the battery dies. We need to start the battery with jumper cables from one of the cars each time we decide the lawn needs a trim, which, given our schedules these days is about once every two weeks. The grass gets to about mid-calf sometimes, depending on the amount of rainfall we receive. It can get embarrassing.

Also, the riding seat is a major hazard. The bolts and screws have come undone no matter how many times we have tightened them, glued them, duct-taped them, etc. So, one side of the seat is safely attached to the mower, but the other side is not. If you drive it too fast on an incline, you might get thrown. Ejected. You have to perfect your lean on this thing, much like a motorcycle rider has to when making steep turns. Suffice it to say, the mower is a piece of shit. Hardly worth $120 big ones.

Onto the letter. I can understand why the landlord, getting on in years himself—much like our dear mower—might not want to maintain the machine any longer. It’s a lot of work. But furnishing the mower no more? Come on, now. It’s not like somebody else is interested in the piece o’ crap. And selling it to us? Does he desperately need that money? I don’t know. All is know is this. I agreed with Liam when, after reading the letter, he exclaimed, “This isn’t the kind of break I was thinking about.”

I guess his response was better than mine. My idea was to draft the following:

Dear Mr. Landlord,

This is a note to inform you that we will no longer be maintaining or mowing the lawn. 

Sincerely,

Your Loving Tenants

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So, the much anticipated neighborhood garage sale was scheduled for this past Saturday. The garage sale that was going to bring in hundreds of people from all over the place. The sale that was going to bring in so much cash that it would pay for two weeks’ worth of groceries, and maybe even allow us to treat ourselves to a dinner out.

And then, it rained. Postponed until Sunday.

Flash to Sunday. We had maybe seven folks drop by our house. And that’s being generous. Our house was the only one on our street selling anything, so we weren’t bringing in the traffic flying solo. Even the egg roll lady—yes, she did show up asking if she could sell on our lawn (I said yes); and yes, she does indeed wear a t-shirt proudly identifying her as ‘The Egg Roll Lady’—drove past, honked her horn and waved, and moved on to greener pastures, somewhere else in the neighborhood. To her credit, she did come back to the house at the end of the sale and offer us egg rolls. They weren’t free, but she gave us a discount.

We probably made close to $40. For someone who is already thin on patience, I found it hugely disappointing we didn’t do better. It took a lot out of me to block out the morning—Liam’s only day off with us for awhile—set out and organize clothing by size, and wait for the gawkers and hagglers to do their gawking and haggling. Had there been more people, we would have KILLED it. I’m sure.

Around noon, I decided to walk to a neighbor’s house a street away to buy pulled pork sandwiches for lunch. Liam advised against this since doing so would blow our meager profits. Whatever. They were delicious. He agreed.

When all was said and done, we were about five pairs of shoes and twenty-five articles of clothing lighter, made enough money to pay for lunch and egg rolls, and still had some left for about half a tank of gas and an iced coffee.

I’ve been talking with some of the neighbors about either trying to have another Saturday sale, or get rid of some things online. After all, we are still hoping for a lucky break of some kind.

Maybe the next sale will be it?

Contrary to what John Mayer’s lyrics say, my body is not a wonderland. While I will proudly acknowledge that it strongly, amazingly, naturally, and very capably brought forth life and love two days ago, it is now wholly wrecked and wicked.

I’m looking forward to the coming days when a trip to the bathroom no longer looks like a crime scene afterwards, and the muscles in my back and shoulders no longer ache as though they were involved in pushing Sisyphus’s boulder up a hill over and over again, instead of just pushing out a baby (albeit a nine-pounder!).

Next up to look forward to in the new mother body era: porn star-sized boobs full with good milk and lots of lots of leakage. Can’t wait.

Good sleep is hard to find. Our boy arrived late in the afternoon on his birthday. However, I’d been up since 4:00 a.m. that morning with early contractions and general restlessness.

On his first night, I logged only three sleep episodes, one lasting an hour, another forty-minutes, and the last, almost two hours. A far cry from normal.

Since our little man was born not so little, he had to undergo heel pricks every three hours to check his blood sugar levels. This happened with our girls too, but they fared fine on breastmilk alone and their numbers checked out okay.

With the boy though, the numbers kept dropping, so they had to increase checks to an hour after feedings at times. This, combined with vital checks on me and the baby, combined with the baby’s fussiness and my not being able to feed him on demand due to the blood sugar testing protocol, created an environment full of stress, crying (just baby, thankfully), and some zombied-out parents. Which segues nicely into the next revelation.

Sometimes breast is not always best? At least not in its own, as was the case with this guy. Those of you who know me well, understand my love and attachment to breadtfeeding. So, when the pediatrician and nurses were explaining to us how the frequent blood sugar checks and falling numbers were proving that my milk, or colostrum, was not enough to sustain the high caloric needs of my giant baby, you can imagine my disappointment when, after two really low sugar numbers, they insisted I start supplementing with formula. The alternative was to have him go to the NICU with an IV. At this point, even the lactation consultant was on board with using the formula, despite earlier attempts to try and advocate for us.

So, we started a new feeding routine every two-to-three hours that looked like this (and took nearly an hour to administer, start to finish):

• Nurse the baby no more than ten minutes a side
• Hand-express as much colostrum as possible into a pumping cylinder and syringe-feed it to baby
• Use breast pump to try and express more colostrum, then syringe-feed this to baby
• Syringe-feed as much formula as baby is willing to accept
• Pray numbers go up so the heel pricking and blood squeezing and baby screaming can stop

After the first supplementation with formula, the baby’s numbers went up. After three more rounds, his numbers were finally holding steady. Hallelujah! No more stabbing and poking and squeezing blood from my baby (he probably endured about sixteen-seventeen needle sticks)!!

I was so grateful when today’s rounding pediatrician caught me getting ready to begin more formula supplementation, after seeing me syringe-feed some good quantity breastmilk, and asked shockingly, “What are you doing?”

I explained everything we’d been through up until that point, and she reassured me that the colostrum looked milky enough (a sign my milk was beginning to transition) and that hypoglycemic babies, once their levels balance out, rarely just fall back into trouble. She wanted me to quit the formula and just try to exclusively nurse and pump. Woohoo!

So that’s what we’ve been working on. And, in fact, since early this morning, we have quit the pump too. The baby is latching great and I’m hoping we will be able to round the corner soon enough. We’ve got a pediatrician appointment scheduled for tomorrow just in case.

Not quite the Club Med vacation we imagined. Yes, I know. Giving birth is hard work. But then, after the fact, there are nurses and aids who take care of you and respond to your every want and need. There is free hospital food to be eaten, TV to be watched, jacuzzi soaks to be taken, and lounging about to be done to begin the healing process.

When we woke up after our first sleepless night, we were excited about ordering enormous breakfasts and sipping on coffee (obviously we were delirious and still running on adrenaline). We talked about watching TV and reading some magazines, enjoying a break from work and parenting the two girls (my parents have had them for the past couple of days). 

And then, I don’t know where the day went or what happened to the hopeful thoughts that this hospital stay might be like some kind of mini-getaway for us. But, poof! It was gone.

We did enjoy breakfast, and some chocolate peanut butter pie, but TV turned out to be hugely unsatisyfying. And, we had a couple of family visitors, on top of round-the-clock care and feeding for the little-big man.

Around dinner time, the adrenaline had worn off. The lack of sleep had left us feeling completely wrecked, and…wait for it...we had both begun to feel as though we were getting sick with some kind of bug. 

I couldn’t eat my dinner. My tummy was gurgling and I just felt weak and exhausted. Liam, however, started with chills and aches and nausea. Basically, he became worthless from midnight until just before we were discharged this afternoon. Poor guy. Up until that point he had been an amazing partner and teammate.

Thankfully, my symptoms were less, though still aggravating. And, somebody had to care for this needy baby. So, my super-human mothering abilities kicked into high gear as I worked through the night to feed our improving son. No small feat. Thankfully, I was able to sleep better, if only slightly, than the night before. 

We are home now resting comfortably, with what I imagine is a touch of the stomach bug the girls just had. Our luck continues. Not quite how I imagined spending our last day at the hospital. Now we have to wait and see if the little guy will get it or not. Always an adventure here.

More to come another day on laboring at home with the girls and their reaction to “Baby Brother” who now, finally, has a name: Rowan James. We do love him so!

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