Just a quickie because I'm about to head off to bed. It's now been over a week since I've posted and I admit to having some major blogging suckage going on. Seriously. I'm like a bad boyfriend who never calls and never says 'I love you', just 'yeah, you too.' Promises, promises, broken hearts all over blogland.
It's hard to find time to come up with interesting material (because, of course, SAHMayhem is chock full of amazing wit and writing) when I'm swamped with a child on crutches, a child who's four and doesn't listen to a damn thing I say because he's four and he's the boss of the universe, and a child who, at nine months, got his first case of thrush - and it's a doozy. White tongue, inside of his lips, all over his face and neck. And did I pick up on it right away? Of course not. That would have made life simpler for all of us. Instead I wondered why he was being such a crybaby all the time. It drove me nuts.
Then one morning I realized that he wasn't just crying because he's getting more teeth, the white stuff was not because he just consumed something white, the rash was not a heat rash, and my lady lumps were not sore simply because he was nursing/pulling off a kazillion times an hour and all through the night between wailing sessions.
Um, oops. Now we've traipsed into Acidophilus Land, where heavy doses are mixed into our morning yoghurts and my bras are washed by hand in hot water and hung outside to dry in the sun. Die, yeast, die!
Not cool, not cool at all. Plus, none of them have fallen asleep before 10pm two nights in a row. I'm sorely tempted to slip Intrepid's codeine prescription into some bedtime Ovaltine tomorrow. Sweet dreams, my little junkies.
About that depression thing I was griping about last week - let's just say I'm taking care of it Maven style, which entails looking into someone to talk to as well as a trip to Walmart almost entirely dedicated to making myself the priority I so obviously should be. Hey, look: I'm the only female in a house full of crotch-scratching, toilet-missing, anime-loving, style-blind boys. It becomes very easy to get caught up in the toxic fumes of testosterone and overlook some very important girlish must-haves. For example:
- a regular hair cut so that one does not look like one has a sparrow's nest fastened with a hair clip on the back of one's head
- non-practical undergarments that are white (not grey), black (not grey), and/or only pink if they were actually purchased as pink and not originally as red
- shirts that do not have mystery stains which will not come out no matter how many times you spray-and-wash them
- extra shirts for when those new shirts get said mystery stains that may or may not have come from a baby or from a preschooler discreetly wiping grease on you instead of using soap and a hand towel
- very light, almost neutral pink nail polish because you're going to screw up bigtime because you never apply nail polish and you're a shame to all womankind
- green toenail polish because at least nobody gets close enough to your green toes to notice the mistakes
- shampoo that does not say 'no tears' on it and is actually off-limits to all children in the house, even as pretend boats in the bathtub
Yes, there are many things a maven must do to keep her sanity. Because when disaster strikes in the form of gremlins falling from trees and/or getting thrush all over their faces, the regular maintenance does wonders for her psyche. And, as I've learned, when she lets herself go, she notices she hits those speed bumps a lot harder.
Now that I'm driving the big, honkin' SUV of sexy hotness, I'm going to sail over said speed bumps next time and not even spill my latte on my beautiful new nails.
Tomorrow's post: Meet my neighbours, the Punts (you heard me.)
It's hard to find time to come up with interesting material (because, of course, SAHMayhem is chock full of amazing wit and writing) when I'm swamped with a child on crutches, a child who's four and doesn't listen to a damn thing I say because he's four and he's the boss of the universe, and a child who, at nine months, got his first case of thrush - and it's a doozy. White tongue, inside of his lips, all over his face and neck. And did I pick up on it right away? Of course not. That would have made life simpler for all of us. Instead I wondered why he was being such a crybaby all the time. It drove me nuts.
Then one morning I realized that he wasn't just crying because he's getting more teeth, the white stuff was not because he just consumed something white, the rash was not a heat rash, and my lady lumps were not sore simply because he was nursing/pulling off a kazillion times an hour and all through the night between wailing sessions.
Um, oops. Now we've traipsed into Acidophilus Land, where heavy doses are mixed into our morning yoghurts and my bras are washed by hand in hot water and hung outside to dry in the sun. Die, yeast, die!
Not cool, not cool at all. Plus, none of them have fallen asleep before 10pm two nights in a row. I'm sorely tempted to slip Intrepid's codeine prescription into some bedtime Ovaltine tomorrow. Sweet dreams, my little junkies.
About that depression thing I was griping about last week - let's just say I'm taking care of it Maven style, which entails looking into someone to talk to as well as a trip to Walmart almost entirely dedicated to making myself the priority I so obviously should be. Hey, look: I'm the only female in a house full of crotch-scratching, toilet-missing, anime-loving, style-blind boys. It becomes very easy to get caught up in the toxic fumes of testosterone and overlook some very important girlish must-haves. For example:
- a regular hair cut so that one does not look like one has a sparrow's nest fastened with a hair clip on the back of one's head
- non-practical undergarments that are white (not grey), black (not grey), and/or only pink if they were actually purchased as pink and not originally as red
- shirts that do not have mystery stains which will not come out no matter how many times you spray-and-wash them
- extra shirts for when those new shirts get said mystery stains that may or may not have come from a baby or from a preschooler discreetly wiping grease on you instead of using soap and a hand towel
- very light, almost neutral pink nail polish because you're going to screw up bigtime because you never apply nail polish and you're a shame to all womankind
- green toenail polish because at least nobody gets close enough to your green toes to notice the mistakes
- shampoo that does not say 'no tears' on it and is actually off-limits to all children in the house, even as pretend boats in the bathtub
Yes, there are many things a maven must do to keep her sanity. Because when disaster strikes in the form of gremlins falling from trees and/or getting thrush all over their faces, the regular maintenance does wonders for her psyche. And, as I've learned, when she lets herself go, she notices she hits those speed bumps a lot harder.
Now that I'm driving the big, honkin' SUV of sexy hotness, I'm going to sail over said speed bumps next time and not even spill my latte on my beautiful new nails.
Tomorrow's post: Meet my neighbours, the Punts (you heard me.)