Butt problems.

Sixty dollars and some change in butt creams. Two soaks in Epsom salts. Ten soaks in Baking Soda. Eleven baths with Aveeno baby wash. Eleven nights of cleaning up a "sleeping" baby in the middle of the night...and today is finally my breaking point.

Recently I prided myself that we had gone 7.5 months without a diaper rash. In the next .5 of this month, my kid gets a 101 fever, the poops, and a tooth popping in. He won't eat his food and only drinks half of his bottles. In one day of this crap (everywhere), everything under his diaper looks like sun poisoning. We let him roll around for days without a diaper, swapping out they messy towels and throwing them in the wash. We have tried every butt cream in the store aisle, every home solution and have followed the doc's advice since no one is worried until he has been shitting his brains out for 14 days.

Well on this 11th day, he began puking in the middle of the night. Hopefully, they are worried today.

Originally, I intended to write a funny post about baby poops and the asinine amount of money we have spent on diaper cream options for my kid's ass. But, I don't feel very funny today. I feel sick and I feel worried. This was my happy baby Mack last week: Sad.

 

Though this week, either he is sadly used to the monkey butt and upset stomach and torturous tooth pain, or he just decided to live life and have some fun:

 

He is the sweetest.

Rapper's Lullaby Delight.

I sing to my child for my own amusement. Though, he seems to like it.

It usually goes something like:

"Twinkle twinkle little star, who that who that, that do that, do that? Shimmy shimmy co co what and dried up all the rain and the itsy bitsy spider's gonna love you, gonna love you, black widow baby! Who that, who that, that do that, do that." And repeat. With different lyrics. Except for "who that, who that, that do that, do that." 

Go ahead, lose your place in nursery rhymes -- you know that you don't know all the words anyway. Rapping and improvising are invaluable tools for that kid to learn. 

And, it works like a charm:



 

In more news, you can now find me on Fudged Facebook and Twitter, so follow me there if you are social media whore and don't want to miss my stuff! It's a work in progress people!

 

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Invasion and insight.

Last year our family room fell victim to tiny black bugs with fat hairy legs. We found out that they fed off wheat, rice and corn products.

If you know us, you know that we are little anal about keeping the home tidy. It's embarrassing, but Ryan might follow you around with a dust-buster. (It's also a bit tough to keep up now with all my other priorities, like a baby for example.)

After cleaning every single thing for two weeks and digging through anything that we could think of, we found the source -- an infested bag of birdseed in the garage. Seriously. The m f'ers found their way through the wall. So, we plugged any possible cracks and eliminated the food source. Done and done.

Imagine our dismay when the little m f'ers made an appearance earlier this week and seemed to grow exponentially as the days passed.

Everywhere we looked fell tiny black bugs, but mostly along our back patio door. The buggers look like they are dead, but as soon as you scoop them up their nasty little legs start truckin'.  So when I found one in the diaper bag, and then my work bag, I swear for Jesus that I was about to go insane.

The only thing I could think of was that Mack is eating rice cereal and oatmeal and has an abundant spit-up problem so maybe that could be a food source. Ha. Crazy, I know. But seriously, we went through everything.

In the meantime, my job was to pack up the entire freaking house for a weekend getaway to make sure Mack has everything he needs.

Ryan's job was to pack up what we need: beer and cornhole boards. Seems fair, believe me, I know that too. (Though, I made him go to the store for me twice.)

And if I find one more freaking bug I'm going to break something.

And sure as shit, I found one more bug.

But, I managed not to break anything and started up the vacuum at 10pm.  And after moving all the furniture I felt a little better, like I bought us some time.

All of a sudden Ryan yells at me to put my shoes on and come outside and think about what possible food source that we could possibly have stored in the garage.

There, locked in ziplock bags, inside a huge toolbox, are nasty-ass-infested cornhole bags. What. The. F.

Good thing we were bringing cornhole. Ironic eh?

Eliminated.

So, we found out that the m'fers are actually called "corn weevils" and not "m'fers." But they are some sort of beetle.

Some tips I found that you might want to take note of when buying/storing corn-filled bags:

1. Make sure the corn has been inspected by the bag maker for the m'f'n corn weevils.
2. Bags can become infested if they are stored in damp areas or left setting for too long and, once infested, the weevils lay eggs in the corn and will want to join the party. Gross. 
3. To prevent weevil issues, store the unused whole kernel corn in a freezer if you make cornhole bags. This will kill weevil eggs that may already be in the corn.
4. Already have bags? Store your cornhole bags in rubbermaid containers and put them in the freezer for a day or two just to be safe and then keep them in a dry place.

Seriously, can I type "weevil" one more time?

And, not to gross you out, but you should know what they look like:

I still have the heebie-jeebies so you can Google the shits yourself if you want a bigger image.

And, just to be done with bugs, you might want to spend your Friday watching a video of my super-cute kid who is just watching the trees:

He is amazing entertainment.

The Daily.

Some birthday fun with the hubs.
We still try to get out.

WARNING: This details the minutes of my day that most of you won't care about. Feel free to stop reading here.

It's comical how long it takes to try to write something new now that I have the wee one.  I have accidentally created a schedule that starts the moment I speed out of work and race towards the smiles and giggles of my Macklin. The marathon runs as follows:

• 4pm, three trips to and from the car to unload work bags, pump bag, milk bag and Macklin.
• Race to put the day's gold booty of breastmilk in the fridge and throw all the bottles and pump attachments in the sink before someone becomes too anxious to get out of the car seat.
• Hurry to entertain Mack with the ceiling fan while I change clothes, wash off the day's makeup, brush my teeth (Someone gets a little bored with this part of his day.)
• Try to get him to let me snuggle him, which instantly results in milk factory action.
• Play time is next: practice rolling over (not me, Macklin), grabbing toys, sitting up, etc.  He quickly tells you when he is done with it (there is a theme here.)
• Wash all the bottles and pump attachments and begin steaming them, which goes on through the evening.
• Start dinner prep and explain the hows and whys to cutting vegetables and thawing meat. He loves to help and really hates having to sit in his chair while I do all the work.
• Someone gets hungry. I have chips and salsa and feed Mack rice cereal.
• 5:45-6:15pm we go outside and sit on the porch or walk around the backyard to feel the breeze, touch the flowers and giggle on the hammock. Someone gets bored and cranky.
• Bedtime routine begins.
• 7pm, someone is sleeping like a baby. I wish it were me.
• Lay out frozen breastmilk for the next day's bottles and sigh at the depleting stash. 
• Finish steaming all the baby's china. 
• All that dinner prep we started, yeah, I usually put it back in the fridge and pour a bowl of cereal.

I'm sure I am missing some things, like there has to be some poopy diaper changes, but what does it really matter?

If it was a really good day, I get a load of laundry in and it's almost dry. And on amazing days I get to have dinner with my husband or go to the grocery store.  He usually pays me on those kinds of days, and you better believe that I take what I can get for my services while he is out landscaping.

(Really though, the money usually gets left on the counter and he takes it back to go and get us takeout.)

My bedtime is 9pm and I always plan on getting up twice during the night and then out the door for work by 5:30am. There is no room for running off the baby weight or reading a book anymore. 

And still, each day I am so excited to get to the sitters. Just thinking about it makes me smile. I can't wait to get to him and do it all over again.

P.S. Sorry this has turned into a mommy blog. It's my life.

P.P.S. I have no idea how multiple children fit into this schedule, but we can't even talk about that out loud yet. My husband would kill me.

P.P.P.S. I spent so much time filling you in on the comics of a breastpump in Things I've Learned so let me tell you that I now feel like a prisoner to it. More to come on that later.



He is the cutest chubbawub.

See! Totally the cutest.