An hour or so...

Since I'm at home with both kidlets on maternity leave, I've been making dinner each night, cleaning the house, washing the clothes, 'general housewifey' stuff that is pretty much foreign to my normal 'uber tired work wifey just order a friggin pizza' stuff.

I was quite proud of myself as I chopped veggies and placed chicken into a marinating baking bag for dinner yesterday morning.

Tuesday's are also trash days and I didn't want the smell of chicken fat to reek up the house so I cleaned the kitchen and ran the garbage to the container on the street before the trash truck arrived.

In my efforts to have a spotless kitchen, I accidentally threw away the directions for the chicken... the important part like how long to cook it.

I have NO idea how long to cook chicken.

Chris and Cash take a swim class in the evenings and before they left I asked, "Hey hon, how long do you cook chicken at like, 350ish?"

"Uhh.  An hour or so?" Chris said while running out the door.

Hey.  So.  You DON'T cook a chicken breast and three small thighs for an 'hour or so'.

But, I got to use that new Domino's app on my phone...

Pass the Nestle Crunch Bar...

While pregnant with Cash, I worked out the entire pregnancy.  I ran, I did yoga, I did sit ups.  Even while on work trips, I brought workout videos.  I gained 30 pounds.

After he was born, I jumped right into working out.  A full week hadn't gone by and I was logging in the miles on my jogging stroller.  After several weeks, I had dropped all but 10 pounds and was happy.

Baby number 2?  Didn't work out.  Not even once.

Total weight gain? 23 pounds.

Post delivery, I dined almost entirely on Hershey Nuggets and cherry Coke.  Exercise?  Sure.  If you count going to the grocery store to buy more nuggets and Coke as a workout.

I've got 4 pounds before I hit my pre-pregnancy weight.

There is a God.

My Own Guantanamo?

Sorry for the lack of updates.

I'm...

tired.

No one tells you that kids (plural) are awesome...

and you'll seemingly never sleep again.

For your first, every moment is special.  Sure you don't sleep at night, but you nap together during the day.  You spend your waking moments treasuring those tiny fingers and toes. You stare endlessly into those beautiful new eyes.

With number two?  Dear Lord.  All you want is sleep.

Detainees at Guantanamo underwent sleep depravation for up to 72 hours...

I'm thinking of moving there.  Sounds like a spa day.

I called my sister (mother of 4) and asked, "Please tell me it gets easier"

Pause.

"No" she responded seriously.

Do you know what you should never tell a mother to a 2 year old and a newborn?!?!!?  That it will never get easier than right at this moment. The moment both kids are screaming at the top of their lungs and the house looks like an alien baby has puked everywhere.  The moment when you put on shoes INSIDE your house, not to protect your floors... but to protect your feet from cheerios, dog food, and yesterday's dinner that your toddler threw because he didn't like it.  The moment you haven't showered since, since, since...hmm, when did I shower last??  The moment when you are listening to the 249th viewing of Calliou and can't recall the last adult show you got to watch.  The moment when you just got back from Costco after buying $150 in diapers and 15 frozen pizzas because that's the best you can do for dinner these days (hence the dinner throwing incident). The moment when your husband walks in the door and asks "What did you do all day!?!?" when staring at the messy house and your fingers twitch reaching for the cleaver.  The moment when euriheurnqeiughjvniuomneuheuithn zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.............

On His Own...

Chris went out on his own.  'Accidentally' quit his job, and decided to become his own boss.

I was 'supportive' of course.  Supportive as in...

"We're going to die!  We'll never make it!  We have no stability!"... followed by a six week crying fit.

What?!?  I'm a girl.  I was pregnant.  That's called a normal Tuesday night.

Just as I expected, Chris has not made as much money as he normally makes.

He's made more.

Imagine my disappointment.

What!?!?  I hate being wrong more than I love success.

Turns out, hard work and honesty are valued commodities in construction and word travels fast... really fast.  He's booked for 4 months.  He can't even sign new work unless they are willing to wait...and they are.

And the most annoying part?  He's happy.  And he enjoys what he's doing.

Don't worry.  I'm looking for ways to sabotage him.  In the meantime, I wish he'd wipe that grin off is face.  It's so darn annoying.

Child Bearing Hips...

I know I'm a 'curvaceous' lady.  That's a nice way of saying... I've got hips.

Sure, I'm no Kim Kardashian - I'm only 130 pounds, but most of those pounds reside sound of my navel.

I've always been bothered by my body shape.  I can't wear 'boyfriend' jeans or pencil skirts.  My body was made for 1950's style and I was born 50 years too late.

I just gave birth to our second son two weeks ago.  Two weeks before that, my doctor did a regular OB exam and said, 'You will have a very easy birth.  Your body was made to have babies.'

'Are you trying to say I have 'child bearing hips'?' I asked.

Pause.

'Yes'.

Baby Declan was out in 2 pushes.

Two.

He was born in less than 60 seconds.

My doctor patted my leg and said, "What did I tell you!?  You were created to have babies!!"

I have hated my body my whole life.  Hated everything about it.  But when, for the second time, you are able to have a worry free pregnancy and storybook delivery... I find myself grateful that God didn't create this body for the runway.

He made the two most important days of my life, the most wonderful moments.  These tractor trailer hips, for once, were good for something, the very, very best thing.  Bringing life into the world.


Cheers to the tractor trailers. Cheers to the pear shapes.  Somehow you made up for 33 years of hating you in two very special moments.

Welcome to the world Declan James.

So very glad to meet you...

in 60 seconds.

SNIFFFF

Chris started his own business last week.  He quit his 9-5 and decided to go on his own.

Naturally I'm supportive...

when I'm not crying and screaming, "I've got no security!!"

Come on now.  Before you judge, remember I am 8 months pregnant.  Sure, we saved a cushion but... there is no cushion big enough to make a woman who is 8 months pregnant sleep well at night.

I wake up in the middle of the night screaming marketing ideas, "Ice cream trucks with your name on the side!!!"

What?  I didn't say they were good ideas.  And it's not my fault my 2 AM marketing ideas  tie into cravings.

Chris didn't think the chocolate covered signs were a good idea either.

The man simply has no taste.

I've been more frugal than normal - which is difficult since I already feel Top Ramen is over budget.

He's a hard worker.  He's a bright man.  He's honest.  All things people value in a contractor.  I'm sure it will work out...

if I can convince him to buy those carmel business cards...

I'd like a side of butter for my side of butter...

I have some beautiful friends.  Stunning women.  Women who haven't purchased their own drinks... ever.

Their beauty comes at a price.  Their tiny 110 pound bodies a result of their ability to turn down french fries and pick up vegetables.  Naturally when we all gathered for a bachelorette party, a special dinner out was no exception.

"Can I have the grilled Halibut?  Substitute the potatoes for asparagus and hold the cream sauce. No butter on the asparagus."

"Grilled chicken.  Just the chicken.  No sides.  No sauce."

"Baked Mahi Mahi.  No cream sauce. And a vodka tonic.  Those don't have any calories right?"

And around the table it went. The waiter slowly losing patience as no one ordered according to the chef's careful selections.

I sat at the end of the table.  145 pounds. 7 months pregnant.  Absolutely zero desire to waste my girls night out on grilled anything.

"And what can I get for you?" the waiter asked.

"I'll take the braised short ribs.  Keep the mashed potatoes, add an extra scoop of the garlic butter." I said as I slapped the menu onto the table.

There was a pause, then he started laughing.  Not a polite snicker.  Nooooo.  Full bellied laughter.

Someone did not get a tip from me that night.


How fabulous were those potatoes?  I wouldn't know.  When eight 110 pound women want 'just a bite or two', not much is left for the pregnant lady.