Thank Goodness for Garanimals

Thank goodness for Garanimals, because I suck at laundry.
Observe:

Sorry, low photo quality—iPhone photo!

I might've forgotten to check for stains before bulk shoving kids clothing into the washer. In fact, I might've forgotten that every single load of laundry I've every done.
Body fluids, food, Kleenex, you name it, I've washed and dried it then discovered I'd created yet another item of clothing that I refuse to let my kid wear in public. That's my own little quirk, but still... I could conceivably save us some money if I'd just pay a little more attention.
This particular shirt was the victim of chocolate milk, and the little doll wearing the shirt was victim of her little brother's attempt to take the milk from her. She pulled back, and all of a sudden, she was milky from head to toe and really distraught about it.

Another iPhone photo, but it was the closest thing I had!

This kid was seriously upset (she had chocolate milk eyelashes, I guess I can't blame her!) and I did my best to console through copious laughter and wiping up milk. That little shirt made its way into her laundry basket and was promptly forgotten about. I know I'm not the only momma out there guilty of forgetting to stain soak, right?
That little shirt has officially made the "play-in-the-mud-at-home-only" list, but the silver lining for me is that her daddy tends to not care what she wears while wearing playing, so he has plenty of options to choose for playwear!
Thank God for Garanimals!

Off topic: Why I surrendered my dog.

I surrendered a pet today. It was painful. Not in a pushing-a-child-out way, but in a hole-in-my-heart way.
About a year ago, we took home a puppy I (of course) fell in love with at the farm and ranch store. I'm a sucker for puppies, and I was "jones-ing" for one. I had a dog—our pug, Roxy—but what was one more dog when you've got the space?
I had plenty on my plate, with baby Tank at about 3 months and M going on 2, but I didn't care about the work. I've raised puppies before, no big deal. We named him Rowdy.
As it turns out, Rowdy was aptly named. He was full of energy (like you'd expect from any heeler-border collie mix), boisterous and excitable. Unfortunately, he was also excessively destructive.
I'm no stranger to dogs and puppies, but this puppy was particularly tenacious in that destruction. Where my previous dogs have always learned the first time, this one didn't. It didn't matter how intense the discipline, he just didn't get it. He'd return to the same bad behavior (shoes, for example) within an hour, if given the chance.
Now, I get the teething thing. But teething ends, and Rowdy's desire to chew didn't. That's fine, if it's limited to the (hundreds?!) of appropriate chew toys given. But Rowdy didn't; he would choose shoes over rawhide rolls.
It was hard to deal with. After the first couple hundred dollars of merchandise, I was at my wit's end. I sought help. Most told me he didn't have enough to do. Really?!? I live on 5 acres. There are neighbor dogs to run the fence lines with. He went jogging with me and thus had training time. He went out with me when I rode the horse, meaning more training time. He had the pug to play with.
So I held on, reluctant to "abandon" a dog that I had taken in with every intention of keeping him until he died of old age. We thought, he just needs to get a little older, he just needs more attention.
It was when he destroyed my Oakley sunglasses that I first thought, This dog cannot stay. His tally of destroyed items was well over $800 by then. Replacing the items he was destroying was breaking our budget.
As my thoughts and the advice started trending toward getting rid of him, Rowdy threw in a new twist: He started displaying aggressive behavior toward baby Tank.
This was especially troubling, because as Tank grew, it was clear that Tank loved Rowdy. This child would crawl, then run to the puppy to wrap his arms around his neck and head and bury his head into his fur.
First it was just in Rowdy's comfort zones, like his bed and in my room, where he sleeps at night. The dog would growl but he'd also move away, obviously uncomfortable with Tank getting too close. Of course I did what responsible people do—I limited their interaction, never left them unsupervised together. But here's a fact of life for any childless individuals who might ever read this: You CANNOT constantly keep your eyes on your babies. They become independent and quick little buggers. And if you allow your dogs inside, there will be times when you won't be there.
That worried me. I never wanted to put Rowdy in the position where he felt so uncomfortable or threatened that he bit anyone, least of all my son. But I couldn't kick the dog outside indefinitely, either. His destruction increased threefold if left outside alone while we were in the house. Any doggy bed we provided was shredded within minutes.
Yes, he needed attention. But it was becoming obvious that I couldn't give him the right kind. But I still held on, because I had guilt. I have friends who would post things on Facebook that made me feel more guilty, like, "A dog is like a child. You have them for life." Well, that's not realistic, it's idealistic.
The breaking point was when he snapped at M and almost got her, in a neutral area without provocation. I stewed for several weeks... But it was over. I made the decision to surrender Rowdy to the Denver Dumb Friends League, and I did it today. It sucked.
My baby boy loves that dog. He won't be able to ask me what happened to him, but M can. I was honest with her: Rowdy is going to be adopted by a new family.
I could go on with all my rationalizations for surrendering Rowdy. But it would make a small book.
In the end, the cold, hard truth is dogs are not people. I wasn't able to give Rowdy what he needed, and if he had bitten one of my kids, there would be hell to pay. I believe completely that it was best for him and for our family: the shelter has many more resources available to re-home animals than I do.
But it did suck. And I truly do have a new hole in my heart, because the past year has been full of animal loss: my cat, Zephyr; my pug, Roxy; my MIL's dog we had to put down, Lucy; my old man, Rascal, who is counting his days; and now, the loss of Rowdy.

I'm praying that someone new, without kids, will be able to give him that forever home that I had wholeheartedly intended to give him. And if you're reading this, stop and give him a little prayer for me.

And if you're one of those PETA-minded folks, know this: Not everyone gives up their pets because they just don't care and haven't tried. Please stop assuming that those who surrender are jerks. Thanks!

Learning to be humble

I admitted something a little embarrassing at an Easter egg hunt last a few weeks ago. I confessed that, prior to my second child, I had, well... I thought that moms with clingy kids were doing it wrong.
There was a small part of me that felt a little smug that my daughter was perfectly fine with me leaving her for any amount of time. When I took her to MOPS and left her with the teachers, she gave kisses and went to play; that was it. There was no temper tantrum, no screaming bloody murder that she was being abandoned. I had never had a teacher retrieve me to care for her.
Enter second child.
My son has a completely different personality. So much so, that he was the one screaming bloody murder that I was abandoning him at that egg hunt when I walked as little as two yards away. I was trying to photograph the event and didn't need to be that far from him, but any distance was unacceptable to him. (Unless, of course, he was the one to walk away, but that's a different post.)
So, shame on me for believing I had some level of superior parenting skills. It was really my daughter's outgoing, fearless personality exhibiting itself as early as 3 months old.
These lessons are both easy and difficult to digest. Easy because it's just another one of the near-daily lessons I get in parenting that prior to kids, I didn't understand. Difficult because it's no fun realizing you were that mom.
I guess that's why most families have more than one child. Something—or someone—has to teach us that sometimes, it's the kid, not the parent.

This wasn't the Easter Egg hunt but a good impersonation of it.

 I love my little momma's boy. Occasionally, or in the middle of his meltdowns, it is a little hard to appreciate the differences in personality between my two kids. As in, You can still see me! Why are you so upset? Go follow your sister around! But I do appreciate the differences. It's just taken me a while to understand them.

Swimming without diapers

     I learned a lesson in penny pinching and practicality this past summer. After the hundredth diaper went swimming in our little plastic pool because Meira told mommy she didn’t want to swim (but then really did), I decided it was far more efficient to let her swim in the buff.
     I had a big box of Dora the Explorer swim diapers and an adorable swimsuit just waiting for those picture perfect moments of joy in the water. And it was cute, that first day.
     Then, mommy didn’t always have time to change an anxious toddler from normal to swim diaper, or said toddler didn’t have time to wait for mommy to go get it. Or the toddler wasn’t really going to go swimming at all, until mommy’s back was turned and that water looked far too inviting.
     Either way, I gave up swim diapers some time in June. They’re going to have to wait for public pools, where birthday suits are frowned upon. This works well if you live 20 miles from nowhere, as I do. I don’t recommend it to suburbanites or anyone who has neighbors close enough to see that {gasp} you are letting your kid run around naked.
     I also learned it’s far more efficient to spray down a wiggling toddler with sunscreen when she’s naked than asking her to stay still while I get each individual limb. (I absolutely recommend this!)
     This lesson was apparently more obvious to my husband. When he kept coming home to a naked child frolicking in the pool (or on the play set, or in the sandbox...) he did ask, once.
     I might’ve launched into a righteous explanation of how “normal” diapers are .35 cents a diaper, and the swim diapers are more than that, and why should we watch our money expand into 10 pounds of diaper fill or be wasted on that third wet, dirty diaper when she was perfectly happy without it?
     He casually observed, “It’s just easier that way.” (I was hoping the mathematical explanation would make it seem like I was being economical and not just lazy, but he was right.)
      And for a moment, I questioned if perhaps not putting our toddler in diapers and clothes would teach her that clothes are unnecessary. Lucky for me, there hasn’t been any change—she already hated getting dressed!

Baby T is here!

We think all it took for Baby T to want to come was a trip to the hospital. My niece broke her arm and we went to the hospital to see her, and less than 24 hours later, my water broke.
I guess he just needed to see that hospitals weren't bad places to go.

He arrived at 12:37 p.m. and surprisingly, his delivery took longer than his big sister's. M came in 3 hours, 56 minutes. Baby T came in 5 hours, 47 minutes, although I think he might've come sooner if the nurse had checked dilation a little sooner. I'm not complaining though—I know many moms labor a lot longer.
There was no waiting for an epidural this time. With M I was 7 cm along before the epidural; I was about 5 cm dilated when I got to the hospital (I dilate fast, what can I say? Besides Thank God!) and there was no waiting. Anesthesiologist was there making jokes about my back artwork and my husband was being entertained watching the huge needle enter my back. Funniest thing for me was the doctor telling Matt he could watch but he had to watch while seated. I bet he's deflated a lot of male egos...
So what an easy labor! And I pushed for less than 40 minutes, also another blessing. Our little bundle of boy was 8 pounds 1 ounce, 19.5 inches. And now, he's already 16 days old!!

I'm hoping other mothers experience the same thing, but I have a big case of I-forgot-what-a-newborn-is-like-and-does-itis. It's funny looking at your 25 pound toddler and then almost falling because the 8-pounder is so much lighter that you used too much momentum on the pick up.
I had to ask the doctor how much spit up is too much spit up. Wouldn't a mom already know this? Not really!! For all I can remember, M never spit up!
And all that talk about boys being better/worse/different than girls? TRUTH.
Baby T is not falling for the schedule thing. He's a hungry little man, and he's been defying medical convention that a newborn can only hold about 2 ounces—he's done 4 at the most (and kept the majority of it down!). He's lanky and long compared to M, who almost immediately became my little chubbsters. He was impossible to keep dry for the first week and a half because I was scared to manipulate his private part too much and thus, pee went all out the back and sides instead of into the diaper (I have never done as much laundry as the past two weeks!).
But he is a phenomenally sweet and happy baby, with very little to fuss about unless Mom is sleeping too well and he's hungry. I am so thankful for that!

As for big sister, she loves Titus. She just doesn't love that things have changed, and there's some attitude happening. Who can blame her, it's a big adjustment!

Back to blogging, expecting No. 2

Being pregnant with Baby No. 2, I had thought that chronicling my experience would come easily. And then the toll of keeping up with Baby No. 1 ("M") and growing another little being made sleep my main priority.
Ahh, if only my teenage self had appreciated the copious amounts of sleep she received! {She didn't—I know she whined about 5 a.m. swim practices more than was necessary.}
I am now pushing 38 weeks and waiting impatiently for Baby No. 2, hereafter named Baby Tank, to make his exit. Let's face facts—I'm excited to meet my little man but I am desperate to have him out of my body!!
In the two months since my pitiful last post, I've:

• gained more weight
• finally figured out our cat box situation
• nearly shot my dog
• survived a 25 pound toddler bouncing on me and insisting on being picked up
• used Pinterest to great success with my toddler
• miraculously managed to not kill my husband

That last point deserves clarification—I don't really want to kill him. I think. A monstrous hormone I'll call She-Devil-tropin is responsible for ridiculous rage and completely unjustified anger at the father of my children. Another good reason to have Baby Tank evicted, so my husband doesn't consider divorce on anger management failure grounds. (The dog has also faced my wrath, but she was given reprieve by my very loving parents. My husband has no such luck.)
A similar hormone, that any pregnant woman is familiar with, is Foggy-Memory-terone. If you're blonde like me, people blame your hair color but I know the truth. Standing in front of my locker at work and spinning the lock dial for two minutes, trying to remember the exact order of my combination, is not blonde. That's pregnant!

Meanwhile, there's a growing and developing little toddler who can say her brother's name but still doesn't really get what we mean when we tell her she's going to have a little brother. She'll figure it out soon enough. In the meantime, I've started building the toddler resource/activity drawers, thanks to great suggestions from the mom at Growing A Jeweled Rose.
M and I have made our first "smoosh bag", or sensory bag, we've bathtub painted with shaving cream, and we've made Valentine cards. It's been a blast, as long as I can get up from the floor and get M into the tub for cleanup without leaving a messy trail.
If you're interested, you can follow me on Pinterest by searching @tafradonberger .
Adieu for today!

(Too) Warm weather where we live made for a great play time at the park yesterday!

Sprinkles! Everywhere!

It happened yesterday—the blonde moment I started this blog for. Baby M saw the big container of sprinkles (you know the ones you get from Walmart/Target with multiple types of sprinkles all in one with individual spouts) on the table.
Well, she had been a little fussy (up up up!) and I was trying to get laundry from the washer to the dryer. So it was easy to give her the container. Less than two minutes later, sprinkles decorated my living room.

Silence really means a lot when you have a toddler. I can't even be mad—I gave it to her, didn't I? C'mon, blonde, you should've seen that coming. On the other hand, I've learned that having a content toddler sometimes makes for serious messes, and now she's old enough to enjoy the cleaning up part!
{Lucky for me, only one section of sprinkles was dumped on the floor, meaning I still have plenty of sprinkles for the Christmas cookie baking}
There have been other moments lately... Trying to wrap a Christmas present while M was awake and in the "helping" mood; teaching her to feed the dog (the dog is always hungry now, or whenever M sees the closet door, but this one gets put on Daddy); leaving the fish food on a level she can now reach on tippy-toes and thinking she can't quite unscrew lids, WRONG! In fact I have a similar iPhone pic of her with all the fish food spread out in that same location while the dog happily licks away.
At least the sprinkles are edible for her...