<![CDATA[caved and bought a minivan.

<![CDATA[caved and bought a minivan. - Blog]]>Tue, 02 Nov 2021 12:37:18 -0700Weebly<![CDATA[Get him out of my bed. He's cute, but this isn't working for me.]]>Tue, 02 Nov 2021 16:17:42 GMThttp://cavedandboughtaminivan.com/blog/get-him-out-of-my-bed-hes-cute-but-this-isnt-working-for-meMy bed has been invaded.

Dogs? Nope.

Bedbugs? Worse.

A three-year-old.

I really value my sleep. You wouldn’t know it due to the fact that I am a night owl and thus don’t usually go to bed before midnight even though my older son wakes up by 6am, and then I wonder why I’m always tired. Whatever, that’s what coffee’s for. But I really, really like my sleep.

So when I had my babies, I evicted each of them from both my womb and my room.

With my first, the hospital nurses left the newborn in his little tupperware in the room with us, probably just to get us used to his existence and remind us that we weren’t there just for the free french toast. I think otherwise we might possibly have left him in the nursery, gone home, and felt like we’d forgotten something. Becoming a parent, despite 9 months of “preparation” (as IF anything can prepare you for becoming a parent - and no, getting a dog is absolutely not the same level of life-will-never-ever-be-the-same even if your dog also follows you into the bathroom and begs for snacks while you’re trying to poop).

With my second, the nurses recognized the defeated acceptance deep in the portals of my eyes that signaled to them that yes, I was a parent. They saw my older son visit and knew I had managed to keep a human alive for several years already. They wheeled that baby-cart right to the nursery without even my asking. It was the best sleep I’d had since I first became a mom. It made the french toast taste even more sweet. It was the ever-so-brief, luxurious taste of rest and silence.

The main reason that I didn’t have my first baby in our bedroom with us when he was born was logistical. We have a queen-sized sleigh bed that I love in theory and naively purchased for our actually quite small bedroom. I also picked nightstands that we had to turn sideways (rendering the drawer on the stand between the bed and the wall unusable) and a very large (for our tiny bedroom) dresser. We didn’t return them because “one day” they’d look beautiful in the next house we’d eventually buy. Well, flash forward ten years and we’re in that next house, and our bedroom is just as small. Good foresight, Deb. Shop for the body you have, not the body you’re dieting for. Same applies to bedrooms, as it turns out.

So literally between the too-large bed, the too-large nightstands, and the too-large dresser, there was no room for a crib. We could have co-slept, but I tend to do aerobics in my sleep and was absolutely terrified I’d crush the tiny new human, so that was out. The baby’s room was extremely close to our bedroom, we had a video baby monitor, and we kept the doors open. Even without the monitor, I could hear the baby breathing. Thank you Mom Ears. (I once heard the baby wake up from a nap while we were at my parents’ house; he was two floors up and I was watching tv. I think there was at least one closed door as well.)

That one stayed in that crib until he was replaced by the new baby. Just as before, it was a moment of “crap, the room isn’t ready yet,” and then rather than finishing assembling the crib before the baby came (as it was the first time around), it became a race to finish the big boy room so the baby could have the baby room. I had been wanting to transition the elder child to the big boy room at least four months before the baby came knowing full well that elder would be experiencing quite a lot of change. But we’re the kind of people that take down their Halloween decorations because it’s time to put up the Christmas decorations, and unlike at Target, the swap happens the day before Christmas, not two weeks before Halloween. (Luckily, this year I ate half of the candy for the trick-or-treaters early enough that I could go out and get more Halloween candy or the kids would have been getting chocolate snowmen and candy canes in their plastic jack-o-lanterns.)

All that is to say that kids have not been in our bed with us. Not as little babies. Not as toddlers. Not as bigger boys who can’t fall asleep.

Until now.

Several weeks ago (an eternity, it seems), the “baby” got a cold. It didn’t bother him much except that at night his nose was so blocked up that he really couldn’t breathe. He had an impossible time sleeping and would cry.

“Mommy?” “Mommy, are you there?” “Mommy, I can’t sleep.” “Mommy, I’m scared.” “Mommy?” “Mommy, I’m dying.” “Is anyone out there?” “Is anyone there?” “Mommy?!?!?” “Anyone?!?”

Then the exasperated wailing.

After going in, reassuring him that it’s ok, that he’ll be ok, and reading to him and singing to him and cuddling him, and getting back into my own bed….

“Mommy?”

And my husband and I took turns going in and being with him and then coming back to bed and then the crying. Repeatedly.

And we’d give him five, and then ten, and then fifteen minutes to cry and then hopefully fall asleep. And then the older boy comes in and says,

“Ummm, are you guys gonna help him? Do you hear him? I can’t sleep. Make it stop.”

Oh gee, thanks. I hadn’t noticed.

So he came into our bed. Just this one time. And he slept. And we cuddled. And he was a little nugget. And we woke up to a sweet, darling little boy. They’re only this little once.

And the next night, IT ALL HAPPENED AGAIN.

After he cried the fourth time, I said, “just bring him in bed. He still can’t breathe. He’s scared. I need to sleep. I don’t care.”

And we cuddled. He was my little spoon. He fit perfectly in my little spoon space. And it was so sweet.

This wasn’t so bad.

And the next night. After he cried the second time, I brought him into bed with me. And he kicked me in the face. And he flip-flopped like a fish out of water. And he kicked the blankets to the end of the bed. All. Night. Long.

And now, every night, sometime between 2 and 4am, he wakes up. “Mommy?” And I go in and I get him and I bring him in bed. And he squirms. And he kicks the covers off. And he elbows me in the ribs. And he somehow gets sideways and pushes me way harder than his tiny body should have the strength to push until I’m afraid I’m going to fall off the bed. Honestly, I just started shoving him back. He’s pretty sturdy, it turns out.

Last night, before I fell asleep but while he was snoring away, he somehow managed to slide his hand into the back of my flannel pajama shorts. I don’t know how that’s even possible. And there are only so many times a person should have to wake up with a tiny human foot entangled in her hair. That number of times is zero. Maybe one, in college.

I could sleep train him, now that he can breathe again. I could let him cry and make him stay in his own bed. But we’re now transitioning that room to be the boys’ room with bunk beds so that we can have the other bedroom for use as a playroom/guest room, so we’re doing some work in there, spackling, painting, and at this point we might as well wait until that’s finished.

Then we’re kicking that manipulative, sneaky little preschool bed-hog out. Eviction once more. Coffee until then.

Seriously. That's where I was supposed to be.

]]><![CDATA[Live the life you've always dreamed of. Literally.]]>Thu, 23 Sep 2021 20:18:31 GMThttp://cavedandboughtaminivan.com/blog/live-the-life-youve-always-dreamed-of-literallyThe kids are both in school. Let me repeat that.

The kids are BOTH in school.

I have been looking forward to this moment with the longing and anticipation of a child anxiously awaiting his crazy, zany, obnoxiously loud Chuck E. Cheese birthday party, but the EXACT OPPOSITE of that.

Mind you, one school is free and lasts for nearly eight glorious hours, bus ride time included (because we’re blessed to be one of the first stops on, last stops off), and the other costs about four million dollars and lasts just long enough for me to pretend I’m going to accomplish things but mess around on Facebook instead and then realize I have to go back and pick the kid up, but next week, things will be even better. Next week I get one kid on the bus, drive the other to preschool, and then have FIVE glorious, kid-free hours.

My choosing of a preschool was given exactly zero thought. The school that my older son attended closed not just for the pandemic but for good. I did love that school, and when I chose it initially, I did so after careful consideration, a tour, a meeting with the director, and a whole bunch of other “first kid” nonsense.

The past eighteen months have been long, if long means AN ETERNITY. So last winter, when my next-door neighbor, also in search of a new preschool for her younger child, told me that she was sending her daughter to this new-to-us school, I said, I’m sure it’s great, sign us up. I called the school and said,

“Hi, our neighbor just enrolled her daughter. Can we sign up, too?”

The director said, “Of course! Would you like a tour first?”

“Sure, why not?” (I didn’t need a tour first.)

She suggested, “Why don’t I turn on my camera and I can give you a little virtual tour right now?”

“Perfect! Looks great. Take my money.”

And I signed him up for Tuesday/Thursday. Also Monday/Wednesday/Friday, because did I mention it’s been a long eighteen months?

Months and months passed by, and as the summer drew to an end, I thought that maybe I should add on afternoons.

Did I mention it’s been a long eighteen months?

I called and asked,

“Hi! Is it possible to add on afternoons?”

“Sure; we still have space! Would you like to know the pricing details?”

“Sure, why not?” (I didn’t need to know the pricing details.)

So I added on afternoons.

Though public schools started a few weeks ago, preschool only just started on Monday.

I had been making a mental list of all the glorious things that I would accomplish as soon as I got the house to myself. Here is a rough idea of some of these items:

Clean the house
Clean the car
Clean the microwave
Go for a run
Write in my blog
Paint the living room
Start a business
End world hunger
Cure cancer

A mom can do anything when she’s got a minute to herself.

So the kids are both in school.

What did I actually do? The first thing I did when I had the power and the potential and the possibility to take over the world because I’m a Mom and I had my house and my thoughts and my BEING to myself?

I took a nap.

It was a really, really good nap.

I regret nothing. I’ll end world hunger tomorrow. Momma’s tired, and Momma has EARNED this nap.

Go easy on yourself. Did I mention it’s been a long eighteen months?]]><![CDATA[My kids are getting along and I’m afraid the world is ending.]]>Tue, 26 Jan 2021 23:32:26 GMThttp://cavedandboughtaminivan.com/blog/my-kids-are-getting-along-and-im-afraid-the-world-is-endingSeriously. This has never happened before. Not like this. It’s been over two hours. I’m afraid to move. I’m pretending I’m not here. I DON’T WANT TO MESS IT UP.

I didn’t even realize how much time had passed. When they first started playing, I figured I’d hear screaming, crying, or whining within a few minutes, so I started Facebooking. (By Facebooking, I mean scrolling mindlessly while reading posts from people I don’t talk to anymore and then commenting on their posts as if they care to hear from me any more than they care to hear from the other kid they met in day camp arts and crafts in the summer immediately following third grade.)

Mom-ears perked (you know, those ears that can hear your baby sneeze through seven closed doors and up two flights of stairs), I glean that they’re still playing nicely. Figuring it’s a weird fluke, I plummet further into the depths of Facebook and am now searching for guys I “dated” in the summer before I met my husband to see if the girls they ended up marrying are prettier than I am (probably), their kids are cuter than mine (definitely not), and they got a cute dog (kudos to any who did – dogs are the best).

Now I hear the first-grader ask the preschooler if they want to play “Paw Patrol Screechers Wild,” and I don’t know what that is, but as long as it doesn’t involve taking apart the couch and throwing themselves face first into the cushions they’ve strewn all over the floor as per their usual witching hour routine, I’m cool with it. In fact, I am shocked. Elder child has decided that he “hates” Paw Patrol and it’s for babies, though he refuses to let his stuffed Marshall pup leave the room… Upon request, I help them carry all the Paw Patrol vehicles AND the My Size Lookout Tower, the 3-foot-tall centerpiece to our toddler-chic living room decor, into the kitchen, where they continue to play.

We should have eaten over an hour ago. Bedtime is in a half hour.

But my kids are playing together nicely and I have no idea when or for how long this will happen again.

So then I do the unthinkable: I grab my laptop to start to write, thinking this would IMMEDIATELY put an end to the playing, and THEY ARE STILL PLAYING as I write this. They can stay up until midnight for all I care. This is the longest I have been able to keep up a single train of thought in about… the youngest is three… so three years.

Oh, wait… I hear something… Is this it? Is this the end of my respite? What are they saying?

“I love you. Best friends forever.”

“I love you too!”

ARE YOU KIDDING ME???? I just melted. I am a puddle on the chair.

My husband just tiptoed over to me and asked, "Uh, are these our children?"

"Right??? I have no idea what is happening."

Now please excuse me while I go buy a Mega-Millions lotto ticket on my way to finding the Fountain of Youth. I’ll high-five the unicorns I see on the way.]]><![CDATA[I forgot I have a blog but at least I remembered pants.]]>Tue, 19 Jan 2021 20:39:41 GMThttp://cavedandboughtaminivan.com/blog/i-forgot-i-have-a-blog-but-at-least-i-remembered-pants
Ironically, my last blog post, dated April 15, 2020, was written about why, despite – nay because of – its challenges, remote learning was actually a blessing. I learned so much about my kid. We shared a sense of accomplishment as we reached our goals. Blah, blah, blah.

That was before I knew schools would be closed for basically forever. I take it all back.

Remember when we thought we’d be stuck at home for TWO WHOLE WEEKS and that would be SO HARD?

Remember when we cried into our coffee, our wine, our vodka tonic (make it a double) as we came to the realization that the kids wouldn’t be going back to school until NEXT FALL?

Remember when the fall became the NEXT SCHOOL YEAR - IF WE’RE LUCKY?

I don’t know about you, but my mental health has been much like that crappy dragon roller coaster ride in the kiddie section of the amusement park. Yes, there are some ups and downs, but the whole thing only comes up about 8 feet off the ground, so the ups are only so up, the ride itself is a bit scary because the thing has been neglected for ages, and it’s run by carnies. I’m not a carnie, per se, but I do have very small hands.

Being able to carve out some oh-so-important “me time” has always been a tricky task. But pre-pandemic, we could justify heading to the gym for a Zumba class because maintaining physical and mental health allows us to be better parents, better spouses, better people.

Whelp, my gym just called me to remind me that they’re open and ask if I’m ready to unfreeze my membership. I laughed out loud. They asked when I thought I might be ready to come back. I think I replied, “ummmmm, yeah…..” and hung up.

Now I occasionally manage to find a half hour during the day when I’m not teaching my first-grader how to log into his third Zoom meeting of the day, wrestling the permanent marker from the three-year-old’s hand, and remembering to feed the dog while my husband isn’t in a meeting and can keep an eye on the kids. I close and latch the swinging dog gate into the kitchen, roll the kitchen island to the side of the room, set up my laptop, and clear as much space as I can before finding one of my go-to dance workouts on youtube.

As I salsa between the oven and the shoe bench while trying not to kick the poor dog in the head (he’s not always the brightest, but maybe that’s because he’s been kicked in the head… and thus, the cycle continues), my would-be preschooler yells for me with his face pressed up to the gate, little fists clutching the vertical white bars. I ignore the tiny prisoner and wonder where his dad is as sweat drips into my eyes and desperate “mamas” weave their way into my aching heart.

Why is it that I so frequently have to ask the question, “Where is your father?”?

Why is it that I can be pooping on the potty and a child will GET UP FROM SITTING NEXT TO HIS FATHER on the couch to come into the bathroom to ask a very otherwise engaged ME to get him a snack?

Why is this essay so disjointed? Why can’t I finish one thought before going on to the next?

Oh yeah, because the corona virus has eaten my brain. Not literally – thankfully! – we have managed to stay covid-free in this house due to being extremely careful and also quite lucky. But this pandemic and the chaos it has caused has directly resulted in my brain not really knowing what it’s supposed to be doing anymore, like a shopper who went into Target for a bathmat and finds herself standing in the middle of the cat food aisle, just standing there, confused, because she does not, in fact, have a cat.

So what was I saying? Where was I going with this?

Oh yes… Remember when we thought this would be a hard two weeks, and what would we do? Perhaps learn to crochet? Maybe learn to play the bassoon?

Writing, along with most of the other things that are important to me, that bring me joy, that foster my sense of self, has been forgotten, just like real bras and pants with zippers.

As two weeks has become a season and a season has become a year, I don’t think I can wait until this whole corona thing blows over to get back to my writing. It’s too important to me. Just as it’s important to YOU that I wear a bra, it’s important to ME that I lift, support, and separate my thoughts.

Just please excuse any typos, omitted words, and other general f*ck-uperies. My brain isn’t what it was a year ago. But at least I’m wearing real jeans.]]><![CDATA[Why I'm Thankful for Homeschooling, As It Turns Out...]]>Wed, 15 Apr 2020 17:58:32 GMThttp://cavedandboughtaminivan.com/blog/why-im-thankful-for-homeschool-as-it-turns-outWhen I told the universe, back in March, that I wanted more alone time with my husband, I should have been a little more clear.

And with two small children, we are SO far from alone. I am never alone. Not alone in the bathroom. Not alone in the… well, what’s worse than not being alone in the bathroom, really?

And I thought I knew my kids. Hell, I’m a Stay At Home Mom who works part-time only on evenings and weekends. I thought I spent a lot of time with them.

Ha.

But this past month (month? eon? lifetime? What the hell month is it now?) has taught me a lot about my kids. It’s also taught me a lot about… me. And I’m thankful for that.

Homeschooling my just-about-six-year-old son is a bit like trying to teach a border collie puppy to samba. You know they’re really smart and they’ll get it eventually, when they finally decide put their mind to it, but it takes a LOT of effort, positive encouragement, and patience. Oh, and don’t forget the the two-year-old, represented by the little chick who keeps cheeping at the puppy and also pecking at the puppy’s favorite Lego set. My son could probably spend the entirety of this unending quarantine playing Minecraft, eating only “Sardine Crackers” (Saltine crackers) and getting up to pee (“IN the potty, please!!!!!”) every few hours, but ask him to do his writing assignment and suddenly he is like a kid on an episode of Intervention. He can’t sit still, everything hurts, he’s hungry, and he’s tired all at the same time. He does still have all his teeth, but only because he hasn’t lost any yet. Also, he’s not on Meth.

He says he just can’t do it. We take it slow. I guide him and prompt him. I wait. I practice my yoga breathing. (Shout out to my prenatal yoga teacher! That life-skill got me through an unmedicated VBAC and now it’s getting me through kindergarten in my living room. I won’t say which is more painful.)

And then he gets it. Everything changes. He’s proud, and I’m elated. We did this together. He did this. I helped him.

I get to see my “challenging” kid work through a challenge. School was easy for me. Not so for my son. I am teaching him phonics. He is teaching me perspective. I am teaching him addition. He is teaching me patience. I am teaching him perseverance. He is teaching me that we have to parent the kids we have, not the kids we expected we’d have.

He is teaching me to be a mom. He’s my first-born. He’s also teaching me to be HIS mom, and right now I’m taking the intensive course. I didn’t sign up for it, but it’s required, so I may as well pay attention. And you know what? I’m finding parts of the course really rough, but overall, I’m actually pretty glad I’m taking it.]]><![CDATA[My Milkshake Doesn't Bring All the Boys to the Yard, and my landscapers quit years ago anyway.]]>Mon, 02 Mar 2020 20:02:45 GMThttp://cavedandboughtaminivan.com/blog/my-milkshake-doesnt-bring-all-the-boys-to-the-yard-and-my-landscapers-quit-years-ago-anywayI’m going on a bachelorette weekend on Friday and I think I might die.

I’m going with a group of girls that may as well be family, plus one actual family member (because identical twin is about as family as it gets). There will be seven of us including the bride-to-be, and I’m the only one with two kids.

The bachelorette herself is in her twenties, and though the rest of us are in our thirties, two are single, one is married but has no children, and two are married but have only one kid.

I’ve always defended moms of “only one” child because one child is plenty of child, and I was once a mom of “just the one,” and I was tired, overwhelmed, exhausted, unshowered, and did I mention tired? No one is as tired as a momma of one child. Except a momma of two children. And I’m good with the two, thank you. Mommas of three, I see you, I commend you, I do not envy you, and I will never have sex again if it guarantees I won’t be adding another tiny energy-sucker into my life. Remember, the only truly safe sex is abstinence.

So I’m fully expecting to be exhausted this weekend as I stay up until well after 8:30pm, but I am really looking forward to having a fantastic time with my girls as I pretend I’m still 25 and don’t need a knee brace for patella support while I dance the night away to Nelly and Usher. Wait, they’re probably not cool anymore. Is it even cool to say “cool”? I just totally blew any chance I had of being cool. Just now. And definitely not because I drive a minivan.

Actually, I’m hoping music is different now, because I just can’t dance to “My Milkshake Brings All the Boys to the Yard” after breastfeeding two babies. It just seems wrong on so many levels. Also, my yard is no longer landscaped; its glory days have passed and now its home to some rusty old lawn chairs, a busted snow-blower, and a toddler slide that just lives on its side like its had a really rough week and it just doesn’t care anymore.

So I realized I have NOTHING to wear. I obviously can’t go out in my regular uniform of leggings and a hoodie or jeans if I’m being fancy. We’re going to a burlesque show. We’re going out dancing. I’m going with girls who have boobs that still support their own weight. I have to go shopping.

I don’t want to spend a lot of money on clothes I’ll wear one weekend and never again. Where can I buy trashy, “clubby,” cheap clothes? Where do all the teenage girls go?

I have passed by this one store at the mall so many times while gasping at the things the mannequins had on, wondering who would wear this stuff and being really glad I didn’t have a teenage girl. So obviously that’s where I decided to go.

After trying on 27 items of “clothing” and basically anything I could find in a large or extra-large because I’m still perpetually on the new fad diet called “Eat Really Well All Day Long and Then Have Two Glasses of Wine and an Entire Bag of Pirate Booty Because I Am Tired/Stressed/Happy/Sad/Anxious/Wide Awake/I Deserve It Dammit - Why Am I Still Fat?” I did grab a few mediums and then the mirror just flat out laughed at me.

I actually ended up with a twenty dollar super cute white and black sequined snakeskin skirt and the best purchase ever: shapewear undies for only 22 bucks. I don’t remember the teeny-bopper stores carrying shapewear when I was in high school, but this 37-year-old definitely not target audience shopper really appreciated the tummy smoothing spandex to wear under the snakeskin skirt. I’ll have to keep this store in mind next time I need strawberry lip gloss, a crop-top, or a nice girdle.

Then I came back home and remembered that I have Amazon Prime, popped a bag of Pirate Booty, and found 15 different sequin tops for under 15 bucks. I ordered two, and they’ll be here tomorrow by 8pm.

I’ve got some funky jewelry I can wear (because I can just bump my rings down a finger, just like you put those adorable Osh Kosh overalls on the next cutest kid once the first one has gotten too big to wear them and thank god, my pierced ear-holes are still the same size), and though I finally bit the stiletto bullet and donated most of my sky-high heels, some things are sacred. I still have my Michael Kors black platform silver stiletto sandals.

Children change you, but you’re always still you. Hold on to what makes you you, even if it lives in a tupperware bin in the basement indefinitely. You never know when those favorite heels will get to come out an play one more time.

And if I’m going to die this weekend, I’m doing it in killer shoes.
]]><![CDATA[They put my baby in a bucket.]]>Wed, 12 Feb 2020 21:39:54 GMThttp://cavedandboughtaminivan.com/blog/they-put-my-baby-in-a-bucketThey put my baby in a bucket.

After months of mommy and me baby swim class, the time had finally come. I could sit on my butt and watch, dry, with a coffee, from the other side of the glass. I would not have to rush to the changing room with a diaper bag and a swim bag, hope for an empty stall, and change both myself and my toddler into our bathing suits. I would not have to then, after swim class, try to change out of my wet straight jacket of a bathing suit while my toddler repeatedly tried to open the stall door. There is no terror like that of being indisposed in a public place with nothing but a sliding locking mechanism and a curious toddler separating you from the world.

So when M, at just 2 adorable years old, graduated to the Big Kids Class, I breathed a huge sigh of relief. I joined the other parents and caregivers as we watched the kids enjoy (or not enjoy) their lessons. Because this was his first class in the water without me, I was instructed to wear my bathing suit underneath my clothes just in case he had a particularly tough time and needed me to join him in the water for emotional support. But all went well, and he had a great time bouncing on the underwater dock, splashing with his adorable little friends, and floating on his back with the help of the instructor though he protested and flailed when I tried to help him do the same just a week prior. Did he think this brand new person, this stranger, would help him to float but Mommy had suddenly had a change of heart and was trying to drown him? In any case, he floated, he giggled, he splashed, and I beamed.

Then the shit hit the… pool.

I turned to chat with another mom for but a minute, and when I turned back, I saw M’s instructor and the deck supervisor looking at the water with questioning expressions on their faces. Then I saw the supervisor hold M while his instructor looked down the back of his diaper - actually, his TWO diapers, as anyone under 4 is required to wear a disposable swim diaper as well as a washable swim diaper bathing suit thing. She made a face, and the next thing I knew, M was in a giant red bucket, and the supervisor was pointing to me. I stood up and he waved me over.

All I could think was, “Why is my baby in a bucket?”

I opened the glass door and crossed into the sauna of the indoor pool, and then I did that awkward walk/run thing where you are wanting to run but you’re afraid to slip and fall, and you end up looking like a fearless but awkward 3 year-old on hockey skates on for the first time.

I saw it. There were gross little flecks of poop in the water. Then I saw my baby, in the bucket, in a trash bag. The trash bag was in the bucket as a liner so that I could dump the dirty diaper and the 400 baby wipes I then used to clean off my child directly into the bag and they could easily dispose of the whole mess. I cleaned up M as best as I could, which was not nearly as easy as I would have thought, given that he was soggy after 25 minutes in the pool, and the wipes just sort of skidded on his skin.

I apologized profusely to the pool staff, but they were phenomenal and told me not to worry as they skimmed bits of poo out of the water. They said that luckily it was lunch time, so they could treat the pool appropriately and later resume classes as normal.

I carried my baby to changing area and proceeded to wipe him down further and then get him dressed. Classes had been nearly over anyway, so at least no one was mad about missing just the final 5 minutes.

All I could say to the other parents was that in hindsight, next week I would not be giving M prunes less than 24 hours before swim class and that I hoped everyone’s days were less shitty.

I just wish I had gotten a picture of my baby in the bucket. But here’s hoping there’s no next time.]]><![CDATA[What crazy thing do you need to do to get a few hours away from your kids?]]>Wed, 18 Dec 2019 01:21:05 GMThttp://cavedandboughtaminivan.com/blog/what-crazy-thing-do-you-need-to-do-to-get-a-few-hours-away-from-your-kids

I had eye surgery, and it was GLORIOUS.

AND they gave me these SUPER trendy sunglasses FOR FREE. What mom could ask for more?

]]><![CDATA[Zip those jeans right up to your boobs.]]>Fri, 13 Dec 2019 01:59:36 GMThttp://cavedandboughtaminivan.com/blog/zip-those-jeans-right-up-to-your-boobsI could work out 12 hours a day and eat nothing but kale and I will still look like I’ve had two children. I would never, ever do that to myself because, while I will lie to myself about my 7 ear piercings making me look cool and not at all like an aging hipster, I will never lie to myself about liking kale. It tastes like bunny farts.

But my body is a war zone. It has been through the trenches. It has its own trenches. I will forever be grateful to it for all it has done for me, and I will wear my stretch marks like silvery ribbons of honor that I grew two human babies. That shit was hard work. But it shows.

One of the biggest challenges I have is dressing all of my lady lumps. When I was pregnant, I struggled to look cute in maternity clothes because I, at only 5 feet tall, was also about 5 feet wide, and found dressing my “bump” about as challenging as trying to make a watermelon look cute in a burlap sack. I wore the universal symbols of pregnancy, side-ruching and above-the-belly drawstrings, to alert the world to the fact that I was pregnant and not just fat. But now I’m just fat, and I still look about 4 to 6 months pregnant, depending on the day and the pregnant lady.

I carry most of my weight in my tummy, and I also still have diastasis recti (ab separation). High-wasted jeans are a must: the higher, the better. Cover that up with denim. When I was in my twenties, it was all about the low-rise. Even when I was in really great shape, I never had a totally flat stomach. I would feel bad because all my fat went in my little pooch. Now I want to go back in time and slap the shit out of that size 4 college chick who thought she was fat. That entire girl could now live in my mommy pooch. And I think of those short little zippers now and think, “Awwww, that’s just adorable.” I need a full-grown zipper. I need a zipper that waited tables at a Denny’s after prom and has been to therapy. A zipper that has seen things, man. My zipper better be anywhere from 6 to 8 inches long and reinforced with stainless steel.

This new “Athleisure” trend has been a blessing and a curse, but mostly a blessing. I have always thought that leggings are not real pants. But then, I also used to shower daily and refuse to leave the house without mascara. Things change. So when leggings started almost counting as pants as long as they had a mesh panel or a cutout, moms everywhere rejoiced. I finally bought my first pair once Old Navy started selling them, on sale, for under two million dollars. They are “compression” leggings. Guys, I am so compressed. My maternal bulge is squished inward, once again rearranging my organs (though they’re used to it after two pregnancies), but there’s the problem of where the compression ends. I’d do better if the compression came up to, well, my eyeballs. Even they would be popping out, but I’d look less like giant hamster trying to squeeze into an empty toilet paper roll butt first.

And I am trying to lose the baby weight. (Yes, it’s still baby weight as long as you’ve got a kid wearing diapers!) With my first, getting back to the gym as soon as possible was so important to me, and it was so crucial that I attempt to get my pre-baby body back. Ha. I laugh at my former self. Now I’m giving me until the kids are both in school before I expect to get really serious. But even when I’m down to 1.5% body fat and planking for hours at a time, my stomach will still look like a very depressed raisin, hanging out, chillin’, deflated, saggy, melancholy. My toddler really loves playing with it, though, and it’s a cleaner alternative to play dough, so there’s that.

Then there are my sad, sad boobs. But that’s a post for another day.
]]><![CDATA[When your kid's "private area" is a cardboard box.]]>Thu, 21 Nov 2019 01:07:49 GMThttp://cavedandboughtaminivan.com/blog/when-your-kids-private-area-is-a-cardboard-boxMy kids watch way too much tv. I know it, and I feel bad about it. But I've been sick and trying desperately to rest so that I can be unsick because there are only so many times that I can ask my husband to please pick up his jeans from the dining room floor before I start to explode. I am no Martha Stewart, but my house looks like a bomb hit it worse than usual this past week. I've been putting away toys, washing dishes that have been left on the counter, walking the dogs, making the kids lunches and snacks, and occasionally remembering to take my own medicine so I don't cough myself into oblivion. I have had a fever for 5 days, but I tested negative for the flu. I'm dying, but it's ok, because apparently I don't have the flu.

You don't really realize how much little stuff you do until you have to ask your husband to do something EVERY THREE SECONDS. "Can you walk the dogs real quick?" "Can you grab O a snack?" "Can you get M his water?" "M spilled his water - can you grab a paper towel?" "Did you walk the dogs yet?" ... "You still haven't walked the dogs?" And you get tired of asking, so finally you do it yourself. And then you're not resting, and you wonder why you're not getting any better. Of course, you should have just done it in the first place, but your husband said he'd do it, so you actually thought he'd, you know, do it.

And then after rescheduling the swim classes, dentist appointments, playgroups, and music classes for the week that you can't go to because you're sick, you finally get to lay down and rest, and your husband decides it's time to build a shelving unit for his desk. Right now. (He still hasn't walked the dogs.)

And you lay on the couch, and your two-year-old decides to sit on your head.

But the good news is that your 5-year-old has asked if he can have a big cardboard box. The box isn't huge - it housed and delivered a 17.5 pound bag of dog food. "Sure, why not?" So he starts playing in the box. Dad comes in and says something about how this could be his private little area. After he's been playing in the box for a while, I suggest that he decorate it. He gets excited and grabs markers, scissors, tape, and other craft goodies. After a while, from the other room, I hear, "Mom! I'm drawing on my private area!"

The kid has now spent several days before and after school hanging out in and decorating his box, and it looks pretty cool in there. He's drawn windows, made and hung pictures, and drawn a bunch of other stuff he excitedly explained to me and I pretended to be super impressed about at the time but now I have no idea what it was.

So I shouldn't have been surprised when I got an email from his teacher yesterday recounting to me the following: "O told another teacher today that he had marker on his hands because he was coloring 'in his private area' this morning. The teacher brought it to my attention, and when I asked him he said, 'I color in my private area every day!' I asked where it was and he said 'in my dining room; it's a special box I go in sometimes!' He is too funny!"

At least he's not watching tv. And my husband's shelves look great, thanks for asking.

...

Hey, how come he gets a private area and I can't even sit on the toilet without an audience? Probably the same reason that I will have this non-flu until 2032. (That's the year he graduates high school.)

]]>