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 For those of you who are expecting soon, (or anyone with who has ever lived with a newborn), here are a few things I learned while on maternity leave:

  Plan on replacing your entire wardrobe.  The infant will spit up on everything you own.  Babies are exceptionally adept at detecting leather, silks, angora wool, or any hand washable item.  They will be especially urpy anytime you attempt to wear any of these items, take a shower or bath, or are in a hurry to go somewhere and don’t have time to change.   I have found you can minimize the stains considerably by wearing your clothes inside out.  Children are capable of circumnavigating burp cloths, towels, or washcloths placed on the shoulder and will proceed to urp down your back, in your hair, and on your pants legs and/or shoes. 

A newborn will sleep peacefully for long periods of time during the day as long as you stay motionless.  Any attempt at doing housework, engaging in a hobby, checking your e-mail, reading a book, or talking on the phone, will cause the child to awake instantly and cry uncontrollably.

Parents of a newborn do not need birth control.  A sleeping infant can hear the parents kissing in virtually any room in the house and will respond immediately by awakening from a dead sleep and screaming.

Any attempt at an outing to a restaurant, or shopping will result in severe bouts of colic; characterized by one or both of the parents huddled in their closet sucking on the corner of a blankie.

Changing a baby’s diaper, bathing the child or dressing him/her in any “cute” outfit will cause an immediate and severe diaper blowout resulting in the parent having to start the entire process over again.  This phenomenon will also be induced by a shortage of diapers and/or wipes in the immediate vicinity of wherever you may be at the time.

The baby blues can be described as the following:  Anywhere a mother sits down to nurse a child, it is a given fact that the television remote will automatically be 6 feet away from said chair, causing the mother to have to watch infomercials on overpriced exercise equipment which will in turn remind her how much “baby” weight she has to lose, thus  causing her to be chronically depressed.

Take a clue from George Foreman and name all your children the same first name.  It saves you having to stumble through several names to finally get to the right kid to yell at about being quiet or he’ll wake up the baby.  Secondly, when you are in a stupor induced  from lack of sleep and someone asks you what you named the baby, it will be easier to remember. 

Forget about having any warm family meals while you are on maternity leave.   Your newborn will cry loudly and insistently upon hearing the words, “ Come to the dinner table.”  Save yourself the hassle and stick with cold finger foods that can be eaten with one hand while walking around the house with a fussy child. 

Disclaimer:  Use of this blog is intended for humorous purposes only.  It is for light topical use , do not take internally.  If the contents of this blog causes discomfort, discontinue use immediately.

I pride myself on being fairly organized, but for some reason my brain has deserted me and I’m not sure when it will return.   I suspect other parents of small children share in my dilemma from time to time.  It all started the first week of school. See Diary Excerpts below:

August 22^th :  Today was the first day of Kindergarten.  Too bad Mommy took a very excited child YESTERDAY!  Not a good day, Son is still mad at me! Where, oh where has Mommy’s brain gone, oh where, oh where could it be?

September 12^th:  Scholastic book order deadline today.  Mommy forgot to turn order in, had to make a second trip to school.

October 6^th:  Picture day for kindergarten kids. Son spent all morning crying hysterically. He wanted  the Superman shirt (with cape), I wanted the button down shirt. I finally won the shirt war, but didn't include the check in the envelope for the photographer.  I tried to pay him later, but he said Son would have to do re-takes.  NO WAY!  It cost me an additional ten dollars  (look up fee) just so we could get his photo package printed in THAT shirt.  Detectives here today looking for Mommy’s lost brain. 

October 8th   : Made myself lunch, and promptly left it on the counter.  Son took some walnuts to school from Grandpa’s farm, but I forgot to tell the teacher they have to dry a week before the kids can eat them or they will be absolutely bitter.  Again, Mommy makes another trip to school.  Son’s teacher is starting to suspect I’ve lost it- she reminded me there was no school the next two days.  Good thing…

October 14^th :  Had to make a last minute trip into house, to look for a belt I misplaced.   I also cleaned out son’s backpack and overlooked putting his reading book back in.  Son goes to school with no book and can’t take his test. He is mad at me again.  The National Inquirer has my picture in it today under the headline, “Mommy found in Idaho with no brain.”

October 15^th:  Another last minute dash into house to get a new package of checks. ( Need check for another book order.) Went to change sign-up time for parent/teacher conference and spilled White Out on my shirt . (Note on bottle reads: Do not let White Out come in contact with clothing.)   Spaced putting  name back on list.  Mommy makes yet another run to school.  Put ad in local paper today, “Lost: One Mommy brain.  If found please return, I desperately need it!”

October20th: Doing  pretty well today, I only forgot my coffee this morning…

Disclaimer:  Use of this blog is intended for humorous purposes only.  It is for light topical use , do not take internally.  If the contents of this blog causes discomfort, discontinue use immediately.

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Recently I was standing in the office listening to the gals talk about Twilight. “What book is this?  By whom?” I asked.  They all looked at me like I had just turned orange with green polka dots.  “What other book is there - Twilight, by Stephanie Meyers, of course.  You haven’t read the BOOK?!?” “No,” I said lamely.  There was an audible gasp in the room.  “OMG!  It’s about a love affair between a teenaged girl and a handsome vampire. You’ve GOT to read it!” Then someone handed me the BOOK and everything started to go black…   

Fast forward two weeks and the fog had started to lift.  I realized my children hadn’t had a bath in a while, and they were tired of peanut butter sandwiches for dinner.  My husband was out of clean clothes and starting to grumble.  But what a BOOK!  I had read the whole Twilight series and was looking for more, craving more.  I was going through withdrawals.  I’d read the whole series compulsively, one of the few times in my life I couldn’t stop reading.    Every one else in the office was reading the series as well, so it had been necessary to beg, borrow and practically steal all the books, as it simply would not do to finish one and not have the next.  At one point I had three copies of the same book squirreled away just in case. 

Yesterday, I was walking down the hallway when I saw a co-worker stumble towards me.  Her hair was rumpled, and her eyes were glazed over.  As she passed me I saw her clutching a tattered copy and heard her mumble something about needing the next book.   I smiled knowingly and patted her gently on the back. “Don’t worry, the movie comes out November 21st .”

 I love that our kitchen table is the heart of our home.  Ours is a warm honey oak, with a bit of color from the permanent markers and a scratch or two from a flying sidekick.  There is a lovely milk ring, and something sticky that cannot be removed.  It’s where we gather for a precious few minutes each day as a family to have dinner.

When it comes to our evening meals I do have to admit, my skills as a cook have really diminished since we started our family.  There is a very good reason for that- we have three children.  I have sadly lost my ability to flavor anything, and there is no longer such a thing as food presentation, (well, I guess there is, if you count the rule that nothing on the plate must touch.)  I count dinner wildly successful if 80 percent of my family likes what I make.  I am no longer allowed to cook with such items as spinach, parsley, or mushrooms.  There is no hot sauce, or soy sauce with our meals, and we no longer remember what a casserole or stew is.

Our meals times are best described as eclectic. You never know what’s going to happen. 

Our older two boys are routinely asked not to do Tae Kwon Do forms during dinner, and they have occasionally been known to sing off hand jingles containing subject matter on farts, poop and belching, followed by much giggling.  My five year old routinely makes a bathroom run in the middle of dinner as well as spill his milk and drop his fork at least once.  Our conversations are often punctuated with our baby’s babbling, as he shares input on his day, and someone usually asks him what a hippo looks like (he immediately forces his mouth as wide open as possible, with or without food in it).  Last week, during a dinnertime session of “What does a cow say? What does a doggie say?  I asked him, “What does Daddy say?”  My middle son immediately flopped over in his chair and started a loud snoring imitation.  Our oldest son, sagely answered, “No, Daddy says, ‘You guys quit messing around and eat your dinner!’ ”.  The phrases, “Son, get your finger out of your brother’s nose!” and “Don’t put potatoes and gravy in your socks!” have actually been used at my table.

While I usually enjoy family dinners, sometimes they become too much to bear.  I usually end up in Mommy’s “Happy Place”.  This consists of mentally going through my own Tae Kwon Do forms in my head in order to preserve my remaining sanity. When my husband catches me staring vacantly at the ceiling he asks me where I am, I sigh and reply “Right here, Dear, with you and the children.”  After all, there is no place like the heart of our home.

For reasons unknown even to me, all of my kid’s names end in “n”.  Because they all sound the same, I usually end up yelling a combination of their names before resigning myself and just add, “…I  mean, Whatever-Your-Name-Is, stop sprinkling your brother with that watering can full of kool-aid!” 

Since this name issue continues to befuddle me, I have resorted to nicknaming all my children to help keep their identities apart.  My oldest son, I call Number One or Bug.  My middle child I call Dilly Doodles, Boohoo, Dee, Deedles, and Middles.  My youngest child I usually just call Littles, Itty Bitty or Dan Gun (the tae kwon do form I was doing while preggers with him.)  Other times, I just call them all Mr. Brown. 

When I was pregnant with our oldest, whenever anyone would ask what we were going to name the baby, I would announce with the straightest face I could muster, and my proudest voice, “We’ve decided to call him, Lambert!”  I was fairly certain my Mother-In-Law was about to pass out when we told her, however after nearly eight years I think she has finally forgiven me.  Secretly, I was starting to worry.  What if he comes out and we really do call him Lambert his whole life? 

Recently my Number Two son came home from pre-school and announced with childhood glee, he had decided to change his name.  I was intrigued.  What would a four year old like to be called?  “Is it Fred?” I asked him playfully.  “Noooooo!”  “Is it George?” I persisted.  “No, Mom!” “Well, then is it Arnold? Ralph? What? Tell me, I give up!” A broad grin permeated his little face.  “It’s… Stick-A-Pencil-In-Your-Belly-Button!”  (AAAKKK!) “Why that name?” I asked cautiously.  “I dunno, Mom, I just like it.”  That was all the explanation I ever got.  He insisted we call him by that name for about a month before he finally moved on to his next name, Purple Fire Dragon.  I give up, what’s in a name anyway?

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I spent Sunday lazing around most of the day.  We all did. My normally raucous children were quietly watching (here, I shudder) Spongebob or playing the Wii by barely flicking  their remotes vaguely toward the T.V.  while lounging on the couch.  My husband had succumbed to a rare afternoon snooze, complete with snoring in the rocker, and the baby, was (gasp) playing in his room with his toys. This was definitely not my family’s normal weekend pace which is often punctuated with bouts of insanity while racing from one event to the next in a desperate attempt to enjoy the last vestiges of summer.  Then it dawned on me… ZOOFARI… we were all suffering from an ice cream hangover.   

When I think about the day before, I remember arriving at the zoo with a box of wet wipes (for the children’s faces) and all my appropriate faculties in place, and sometime after the umpteenth ice cream cone, things started fuzzing out.

 Ahh, the wonderful event we anticipate with relish each year…There was the perfect August afternoon, the animals, of course, and all my long lost friends I haven’t seen since Zoofari last year, the great band, and the myriads of children, all sporting their favorite flavor of ice cream from ear to ear.  What’s not to love!  And then there was the ice cream itself.  Gallons and gallons of cold, creamy ice cream.  This is the one day of the year, where my family abandons all sensibility and we eat as much ice cream as we can all possibly hold.  How much did I actually eat?  I think back, again, my head swims, umm let me think… there was the raspberry sorbet, the peanut butter with minature peanut butter cups, the rocky road, the sundae, the blueberry cheesecake, the maple nut, the almond something… I groan as I plop into the nearest chair. 

Slowly through the long Sunday afternoon my family regains their senses and by dinnertime, the children were once again their rowdy selves.  I love Zoofari, but thank goodness it only comes once a year.