Did you hear that self?  Just get ready for bed, NOT take a quick peek at email on the way to the bathroom and wind up with your eyes crossed an hour later after an exhausting and tense search for a double jogging stroller that costs less than our monthly mortgage.

I have no idea why these things are so dang expensive, but holy cripes who spends $700 on a stroller? 

It should be noted that right now I’m saying $700, but a few hours ago I was saying, “Holy cripes!  Who spends $400 on a stroller?”

This has been kind of like wedding dress shopping for me.  Once you get over the initial sticker shock, you realize that anything LESS than EXACTLY WHAT YOU WANT just will not do, causing your price tolerance to creep up and up.  Even though yesterday I had no idea what I wanted, just a vague notion that a double jogging stroller would solve all my problems.

So as you shop around and read reviews, while looking at all the pretty colors your brain starts to think, “Well, maybe $400 isn’t that bad, after all how long will we use this?  Years probably!  Right?  Right!  Oooh but look, for just $449 it comes in black and silver!  It will totally be important to have a color that I love if I’m going to spend that much anyway.”

Then comes the question of features.  Swivel wheel?  Locked wheel?  Hand brake?  Reclining seat?  Snack cup?  Sun shade?

I think a reality check may be in order.  My current single jogger was bought off eBay for $50 before Alex was even born.  The woman I bought it from was pregnant with twins and was seriously the LARGEST PREGNANT PERSON I HAD EVER SEEN.  Looking at her scared the bejeezus out of me, and I was kind of afraid to ask her to demonstrate the features for fear that her water might just break all over the stroller and my shoe.  So we loaded it into the car without collapsing it because we couldn’t figure out how and didn’t want to look like idiots sitting in her driveway messing with it.  (The irony is not lost on me, I promise.)

Knowing what I know now, that stroller is kind of a piece of shit, albeit one that only cost $50.  I finally figured out how to collapse it about a year later, and now while researching double joggers I’m finding that the wheels on most of these pop off so you can actually put the freaking thing in the back of your car and still manage to close the tailgate.  Brilliant! 

Ahem. 

I cannot stress how floored I am at the fact that the wheels probably pop off my other stroller but I wouldn’t have the faintest idea of how to make that happen.

As I read reviews of these things, it seems that only the strollers that cost more than $400 have 4 or 5 stars across the board.  I am convinced that this is because if you spend that much damn money on a jogging stroller, you will swear up, down, and under duress that it is the best purchase you ever made no matter what, because to do otherwise is to admit you rolled up a few hundred dollar bills and smoked them.

If the wheels fall off while you’re jogging, that is a FEATURE.

If you have to spend an additional hundred bucks to get a stupid cupholder for your handle bar, you will convince yourself that is because the manufacturer poured money into fine, fine ENGINEERING and didn’t waste time or brain cells on trivialities.

And of course you need a 5-year warranty because surely your 7-year-old will still want to ride in a stroller next to your 5-year-old and if something breaks when he slams his teenage sized foot against the footrest, well by golly YOU ARE COVERED.

Intellectually, I understand this and would really like to stop the flow of insanity that is currently coursing through my brain.

Emotionally, I heart the bad ass black-on-black Baby Jogger City Elite for a perfectly reasonable $529.    I have no shame.

Excitement!  Drama!  Snacks!

From 2009_02_01

Touchdown!  Or not…

We are displeased.

Halftime! (Did anyone else cringe watching the Boss dance? All I could think was, “I bet his knees really hurt.”  And also, these glasses give me a headache.)

From 2009_02_01

 Second half.  We laughed.  We cried.

We pulled our hair out!

From 2009_02_01

Oh NOOO!  We’re losing!

From 2009_02_01

A knuckle biter until the very end.

From 2009_01_11

But our man got it done…

From 2009_02_01

 Next year, we’ll use the towel to wave instead of wipe up drool.

From 2009_02_01

Go Steelers!

This weekend I had planned to take the kids to visit Mall Santa.  I was going to do it by myself, and Alex is sick so I was fully prepared for some sort of meltdown that would make an awesome blog story.

At the last minute, Brett decided to join us so I don’t get to write about wrangling two kidlets alone through the holiday shopping mayhem of glitter and glee. 

We got to the mall early enough that our parking space was twenty feet from the door.  So no bemoaning the trek across frozen tundra.  And it was 60 degrees.  And sunny.

The kind family walking in front of us, instead of letting the door slam shut behind them and whack into the stroller which then would have wedged in the door, forcing me to herd Alex in with one leg while standing on the other trying to wrestle the wheels free…well, they held it for us.

I was prepared to wait in line, only for some stupid elf to tell me it was time for Santa’s smoke break to feed the reindeer right when it was our turn, like happened last year.

There was no line.  Santa and all the elves were waiting expectantly for a wee tot – any wee tot - to come and whisper wishes in their ears.

Surely, Alex would freak when he was plopped onto the lap of a big scary chubby guy with a beard, because after all – I hate beards so he would totally come by it naturally. 

Or maybe, instead of letting EK make up her own mind about whether Santa could hold her, he would showcase his protective big brother instincts like he did at daycare last week when one of the “hitters” came near her and he yelled, “NOOOOOO” as he slow-motion launched himself at the kid.

Apparently, feeling a little under the weather has taken all the fight out of the poor boy because I got this instead:

And this:

From 2008_12_12

Really, I have nothing to write about this trip, except how remarkably unremarkable it was.  How will I ever keep blogging if I have no drama, no tears, no intrigue?

It was less than two years since we ended things the first time
Day and night pulling and tugging
I was so glad the day you went away
And then too soon you were back
I couldn’t go anywhere without you
I needed you but oh, how I hated you
Pain and relief all at once
Breaking up is hard:  except when its not

This is it.

The end.

I do appreciate you.

But I won’t miss you.

PS: what did you think i was talking about?

PPS: any ideas for what to do with a newly retired milking machine?

How is this possible?  Does the addition of each kid speed up time?

I write a lot about Alex, because he’s DOING things – not eating, getting sick, acquiring assorted bruises, generally being fun and adorable. It’s like he’s this whole little person or something.

EK was sleeping, drinking milk, spitting, repeating. Poor second child – less pictures, less blog-fame, wearing hand-me-down boy clothes, passed off to perfect strangers to hold because you know…second child and all.

Second babies have to find a way to hold thier own. And there we have the reason that said second child with the right combination of genes and circumstance has come to be known as “The Tiny Diva”.

Alex was a chillin’ baby. He adhered to the prescribed Babywise guidelines as if he’d read the book himself. When we had him evaluated for Early Intervention because of his lack of verbiage, they told us he was just so laid back that he would start talking when he really needed something but for now he was fine, thanks.

EK was the opposite from the start, certainly not difficult but not exactly laid back. And dang she was HUNGRY. Once we started packing a little rice cereal into the evening bottle (thanks Honeybell, Steph, and Miss) she settled down at night, but during the day we’ve discovered that she’s a bit of a ham.

She is happiest at parties where a rotating succession of people line up to coo and make googly baby talk with her. God help you if you think she’ll quietly observe from the bouncer seat while you do dishes. Ferocious screams ensue if she gets the teensiest bit bored but pick her up and she’s all smiles, making eyes and channeling Mae West. When she is ready for her power nap, she all but waves you away as she pulls a sleep mask over her eyes.

She is absolutely delicious in her chubby thighs and sweet smiles, alert and fascinated with her world. She is unequivocally demanding in her quest for attention, charming when she gets it, and exceedingly upset when she doesn’t – the baby equivalent of “I want what I want and I want it NOW”.

There is no question where she gets this penchant for drama and attention – her daddy will howl like he’s lost a leg if he stubs his toe, and well, I write a blog which is frankly tells you everything you need to know about me. Literally.

I’m a little afraid that even I, the original drama queen, may be somewhat out of my league as she gets older.

And I thought being a diva was exhausting.

From Meet the Herd

Moo.

At the end of last week, I was wound so tight that I thought my head might fly off.  I made it to the gym on Saturday morning to try and burn off some anxiety and succeeded by the end of a cycle class in which I found myself simultaneously having a panic attack and crying to what I think was a Gwar song.

To put it mildly, I am having somewhat of a “transition period”.

Each day I try to get out of the house balancing a baby, a breast pump, a purse the size of the mothership, shoes that fit (for later when I can no longer handle the pointy stilettos for one more second), snacks, workout clothes (why? I have no idea because the odds of working out are low, low, low), a two-year old, and a coffee.

Each day I get up a little earlier in hopes of making it in by 8:30. 

Each day I fail.

Funny enough, I am not that concerned.  Part of me feels like I’m floating, like this is a temporary detour until I can get back to doing whatever I’ve been doing for the last three months.  There is a detached me observing my very stressed self making choices – like choosing to play with the kids in the morning versus rushing to get to work or choosing to skip the workout and rush home instead.

It’s as if once I’m successful at getting to work on time, then my leave is REALLY over (like really REALLY for real over) and only then will it be time to get serious.

Hmm.

It is my stressed self that breaks down to the strains of death metal.

It is my detached self that forgets to put gas in the car.

Stressed self heaves sighs of annoyance at the quality of tasks completed that have been done by someone else.

Detached self is thankful when she can lay on the sofa while someone else does things.

Stressed self freaks when she isn’t in bed by 9:30.

Detached self sits there blogging without a second thought for how tired stressed self will be the next morning when the alarm goes off at 5:45 5:30 5:15.

I think we can be pretty certain that if I were to stay home full time I would not have the immaculate house and nutritious meals I was always conviced I could pull off.  In fact, the house is cleaner now that we’re not there to mess it up all day which makes stressed self very happy.

So where does that leave things?  Perhaps, as I’ve been preaching and preached to for years now, we are just taking it day by day.

Approaching a point break maybe, but doing it day by day.  It’s really not so bad.

I have been up since 2am trying to either get the baby to sleep or go back to sleep myself.

I have a love/hate relationship with the Babywise book – love it because it worked with Alex who slept through the night at 7 weeks, and HATE HATE HATE IT now for giving me what are obviously unrealistic expectations in it’s stupid sanctimonious tone.

I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.

EK has slept through the night twice so I know she’s capable of it.

Most nights though, she is up at 3:15 or 4 or 2:17 or 5:10.  Or 2 and 4 and 6 and on those days I am ready to pass out, fall over, cry, or take up smoking.  It is the unpredictability that drives me insane.

If I try to let her cry it out it feels like layer after layer of skin being scraped away by tweezers and usually I give in after an hour anyway.  At 4:45 this morning I took a walk outside with my iPod to get the hell away from it. 

If you would be so kind, please leave a comment and tell me when your baby(ies) slept through the night and if you did anything to make it happen.  I should mention that our days are relatively calm and scheduled – she eats at pretty much the same times every day but is a much fussier baby than Alex was.

Then I was going to write about how last night, EK slept from 11:30pm until after 5am, which is basically sleeping through the night ON THE ONE NIGHT THAT I WASN’T THE POOR BASTARD GETTING UP WITH HER.

And then I was going to metaphorically stomp my feet and bitch about how THAT IS SO UNFAIR, WHY WHY WHY?  This always happens to me!  And I always get in line at the grocery store behind the asshole who NEEDS a price check or is writing a check and can’t find a pen!  Woe is me!

But then I thought, smiling a beautific smile, that this blog is about finding ATMAN -soul searching and inner peace, if you will, and maybe I could be a bigger person than that and not begrudge Brett his full 8 hours of sleep or act like a spoiled child just because I never get to sleep that many hours in a row and probably never will EVER AGAIN. 

Because really, I have to get up and pump anyway or my boobs would explode like a melted milkshake.  I am lucky to have a supportive husband who is helpful and accomodating.  Yes.

Smiles wider…cheeks hurting…

I don’t need to write that entry.