I'm convinced we have mutant children. All 3 of them. The baby is the last one in a line of children who just don't sleep well. He's like a little hungry caterpillar. He "munches" all night long. I would love to attribute it to a growth spurt but in an effort to be honest with myself I have to admit he is just as bad a sleeper as his older brother and his brother before him. I thought we were getting somewhere with the whole sleeping through the night thing. Turns out he's not in such a hurry to give up those quiet, middle of the night feedings. It's funny how that's the first thing you ask someone when they have a baby. "So, how's he sleeping for you?" or "Is he sleeping through the night, yet?" or my personal favorite, "Are you getting any sleep?". If it weren't for my dear, sweet husband getting up before the sun with the other boys when they wake up, I'd be up the proverbial creek without a paddle. I've never been much of a "night" person. I've always gone to bed fairly early and woken up with the chickens but being up all night AND waking up with the chickens is for the birds. Har har.
But, although being awake off and on all night makes me grumpy and weary, I might just be as reluctant to give up those times as he is. This is my last baby. That thought whispers at the back of my mind each night as I stumble into his room for a feeding. As I sit in the rocker and breathe in his sweet scent I can't help but be thankful for that time with him. It's just us. No brothers distracting him by kissing his head. No noise or lights. It's just us in the cool, dark quiet of his room. When he snuggles into me and sighs I know that no matter how tired I am I should enjoy these moments. Soon he won't need me in that way. He will be sleeping peacefully all night long and when daylight comes he'll be a whirling tornado of energy, much like his brothers before him. So, I vow I will enjoy those quiet times with my little mutant. There will be plenty of time to sleep when my children are grown and being awakened by children of their own!
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Mom Jeans
I used to dress with pizazz. With verve and imagination. I was trendy and had style. Even my undies made a statement. They shouted that I was young, fit, sexy, and in debt up to my eyeballs to Miss Victoria and her compelling little secret. That was my former life. Now, I peer into my closet each day looking for a pair of streeeeetchy shorts and a top that will not show the spit up stains that are sure to be a part of my day. My feet get shoved into the most comfy pair of flip flops I have and my hair thrown into a pony tail. I have become what I always swore I wouldn't...boring! Now my undergarments groan that my way is Hanes Her Way. The words marching across the stretchy waistband attached to yards of functional cotton. Ok, maybe not "yards" but it feels like it. The bras that hold up my not so perky anymore "girls" are functional and boring, too. Black, white, tan...Bueller, Bueller, Bueller.
I used to browse sale catalogs and websites looking for the latest fashion trend. Now I cringe when I see what all the young and hip are wearing. Little did I know then that the stuff I was wearing wasn't made for a mom of 3 boys. Or should I say, the BODY of a mom of 3 boys. Actually, I should say the BODY of a mom of 3 boys who DOESN'T work out. I know women who have 2 or 3 children that could model for Miss Victoria. They could declare her secret to the world with their children clinging to their legs and make it look GOOD! But, I digress. Some days I long to get up, put on something pretty, grab a pair of heels, and trip trap around all day pretending I'm dolled up for something interesting. Here's where my day dream turns to nightmarish reality. I realize carrying around a 16 pound bucket of drool in heels is just designed for torture, not glamour. He'd pull out my perfectly coiffed hair, spit up on my shoes, and break my beaded necklace. My 4 year old would run up to give me a sticky hug with peanut butter on his fingers and ruin my beautiful, perfectly fitted pants. *Sigh* For now, I'll take the stretchy pants and milk stained tee shirts. Give me the sticky hugs and pony tails. There will be plenty of time for secrets when my children are grown. Plenty of time for perfectly fitted pants on a backside that has seen the gym for more than sitting to watch my 8 year old practice karate. For now, I'll enjoy my mom jeans.
I used to browse sale catalogs and websites looking for the latest fashion trend. Now I cringe when I see what all the young and hip are wearing. Little did I know then that the stuff I was wearing wasn't made for a mom of 3 boys. Or should I say, the BODY of a mom of 3 boys. Actually, I should say the BODY of a mom of 3 boys who DOESN'T work out. I know women who have 2 or 3 children that could model for Miss Victoria. They could declare her secret to the world with their children clinging to their legs and make it look GOOD! But, I digress. Some days I long to get up, put on something pretty, grab a pair of heels, and trip trap around all day pretending I'm dolled up for something interesting. Here's where my day dream turns to nightmarish reality. I realize carrying around a 16 pound bucket of drool in heels is just designed for torture, not glamour. He'd pull out my perfectly coiffed hair, spit up on my shoes, and break my beaded necklace. My 4 year old would run up to give me a sticky hug with peanut butter on his fingers and ruin my beautiful, perfectly fitted pants. *Sigh* For now, I'll take the stretchy pants and milk stained tee shirts. Give me the sticky hugs and pony tails. There will be plenty of time for secrets when my children are grown. Plenty of time for perfectly fitted pants on a backside that has seen the gym for more than sitting to watch my 8 year old practice karate. For now, I'll enjoy my mom jeans.
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