FML at LOL

So there was this Groupon {Eric loves it when I talk dirty to him} for a full-set of eyelash extensions plus one "fill"...and seeing as how I'm allowed to buy anything as long as there's a Groupon for it, I jumped at the chance to try these bad boys out.

I must admit, I hate the idea of anything that needs to be "filled." It's the reason I gave up my 3-inch acrylic nails years ago. The upkeep is stressful. I have a hard enough time getting into the hair salon every 6 10 weeks as it is...sadly my new grey hairs are making it harder and harder to slack.

But I love the idea of spending the hot summer make-up free and, with lash extensions, you don't really need to wear any make-up...especially mascara. I also loved the idea of the lashes for when I am teaching spin for the same reason. While most of my clients are used to seeing me in a somewhat haggard state at some ungodly hour, the lashes give you that "I've already showered and had my second cup of coffee today" look.

So without doing any research on the downside to lash extensions, I set off for my appointment. I really didn't want to know if they were bad for your own lashes {kinda the same way I refuse to read any articles that talk shit on McDonald's chicken nuggets.} What's the worst that could happen?

I arrived at the super cute salon and proceeded to fill out SEVEN pages of warning notes...hmm. I started to get sweaty and anxious. Especially after I read the warning about how I had to lay there completely still with my eyes closed otherwise risk screwing up the lash process - oh and my eyes. No biggie. I don't know why this came as a surprise to me. How else were they going to put them on? But suddenly the thought of laying there and being unable to open my eyes for fear of instant blindness was too much to handle. But my Groupon was final sale so I hopped up on the table.

You don't actually realize how hard it is to NOT open your eyes until you're told you can't. All I wanted to do was open them. My jaw was clenched. My toes were curled. I was having a full blow panic attack. And just when the soft music started to put me to sleep, this song came on.

OMG. Someone was obviously fucking with me. And then, because I was trying so hard not to open my eyes, my right eye slightly cracked open and in seeped what I'm sure was lime juice. "Oh fuck", I thought as I started to pick out names for my new seeing-eye dog. I managed to pull it together so that the eyelash tech was none the wiser. After an eternity hour, I was done.

"Ok, you can open them!," she said. Except now I couldn't. I was unable to open my eyes and I just laid there. "OMG, my eyes are glued shut." Once I pulled my head out of my ass and the girl assured me that I was ok, I opened my eyes...

...Ok, so not as bad as Jenny from the block... I was actually pretty happy with how natural they looked. And I couldn't feel them at all! Just a slight after-burn from the lime juice, but that went away within the hour.

I was totally relieved to be done until she told me she'd see me in two weeks for my fill. Because of how "quickly my lash cycle is," I'd never make it more than two weeks without a fill she said. Awesome.

After I walked out of the salon and before I took a minute to be thankful for the gift of sight - I took a selfie. Duh.

The next morning, I woke up and there were lashes on my pillow. And my face. "Shit! My eyes are balding." But I guess this was just part of my "rapid eyelash cycle" hard at work.

And contrary to what you might think after reading this post, I've actually really enjoyed my new lashes. Minus the hour spent in hell  complete stillness {which, btw, would be amazing if I could enjoy it}, they actually make life quite easy! I've barely worn make up for a month!

At times, I do miss a bit of mascara {self-proclaimed mascara whore here} but the lash girl assured me that mascara and lash extensions don't mix so I obeyed.

I've had them "filled" now twice and have only had to emergency text one of my closest confidants about them once, er, maybe twice.

And on the heels of that text decided it's probably best to sit this next fill out. Too much of good thing can sometimes leave your eyes bald be too much. 

Laissez Les Bon Temps Rouler!

I'm off to Scottsdale this weekend for my friend Sarah's bachelorette party...and while that in itself is enough for my arm hairs to stand up with excitement and literally yell "freedom," I'm even more giddy because it will be, for a few of us, a reunion of sorts.

My sophomore year in college my dad informed me that I would be studying abroad for a semester. He could do that - seeing as how he was footing the bill for me to attend pricey Chapman University here in the OC.

Somewhere between greek week and keg stand practice I just couldn't fathom living in the same city as the Mona Lisa and Champs-Elysees and potentially missing the next big date dash. Silly as it was, I negotiated with dad a summer abroad, as opposed to an entire semester away. I was good at this, he knew, by now. He was still recovering from the summer I negotiated to spend living in Tokyo, Japan at age 15. He's still not sure how I talked him into that. Neither am I.

So in the summer of 2001, I said Au Revoir  to the City of Orange and Bonjour to the City of Lights for a 6-week program studying drinking at the Sorbonne. It would wind up being that one summer that I would never forget.

Upon arrival, I checked in to my dorm in the 14th arrondissement...the building, which I believe we called the "asylum" because of it's drab, grey, prison-like architecture, wasn't quite what I'd envisioned for my summer in gay Paris but it would make do. I met my roommate Karolina and another girl, Sarah, and by 5pm, we were out for dinner and vin blanc with a group of girls. This was going to be good, I thought.

By the end of the week, we'd gotten our bearings {and by that I mean - found the nearest cigarette shop and crepe stand and rationed out our Euros to know just how much we could spend on clothes at Comptoir des Cotonniers and still have enough left to eat drink for the week.}

The next week classes began. Juggling an intensive {think 5 hour days in the classroom} French language program and seeing the sites bars/cafes of Paris was no easy task...but I quickly found my stride {aka, I could totally hang going out all night and making it to class the next day.} It was not that much different from being at home at Chapman in that way. Plus, the drinking age was 18. Sa-weetness.

At some point {day 2 of classes}, it was clear that Sarah and Karolina were going to take a more "laid back" approach to the "Study" abroad part of the summer...aka, they were going to drop me at school, head off to sight-see/shop and then come back and meet me for lunch. As much as I wanted to jump on that train, I actually was required to pass this class in order to graduate on time. Damn. Hate it when that happens.

Along the way, I met Romi. She, too, was required to do well in her French class so we became fast friends while the other two girls were exploring the city during the day. In no time, the four of us became quite the clique and, when Romi and I weren't in class, we were all taking in the city together.

We discovered Moosehead - the Canadian Hockey bar where we didn't have to speak French to order a beer {God-forbid.} Pizza Milano - the restaurant that sat along the Seine on the Left Bank that had, literally, the best salad, bread and pizza we thought we'd ever had. The best shops - anything that said "Soldes" on the window was a good thing because that meant the shop was having a sale. And we took in all the major tourist attractions in between...though, if you ask Sarah and me, chances are we could still give you directions to Moosehead before we were able to tell you how to get to the Louvre. Sorry, dad.

Before we knew it, the summer was coming to a close and we were sharing cabs to the airport and crying as we said goodbye. We promised to keep in touch.

And we did. Especially when just after 4 weeks of being home, we were all awakened on separate coasts to the news of the tragedy that was September 11, 2001. Romi, Sarah and I quickly scrambled to get in touch with Karolina who lived in Manhattan. After a day of worrying, we got through to her. She was fine. Scared but fine.

As the years went on, we lost touch with Karolina. Facebook wasn't around to link everyone together. Sarah and I remained in contact the most. She lived in Northern California and the distance didn't seem so far.

One day Sarah called me and told me she was moving to LA. I couldn't believe we were going to be so close.

Soon after, I graduated from college, went back to Europe for the summer and, upon return, had a mid-life crisis about not having a job in the new, real-world.

I decided that moving to Australia would be a good way to run from my real-world problems. "Great! Are you going to work in advertising?" dad said. No. I was going to work in bartending. Duh. "Um, no" dad said. And he could still do that. He'd just signed the final tuition check and the ink hadn't even dried on the diploma.

He informed me that Arnold Schwarzenegger was running for governor in the recall election and he knew someone who could maybe get me a gig on the campaign. I'd be working for free, he said. But the experience would be worth it. I still thought Australia was a way better deal. At least bartenders get paid.

I drove up to LA the next day and interviewed. "When can you start?" Sean Walsh asked me. "Tomorrow?" Great. You're hired, to be a volunteer in the press office, he said. {Not to be confused with a job that actually pays real american dollars.}

Shit, I thought. I can't commute to LA from OC working those hours. Who do I know that lives in LA? Immediately I thought of my old friend Sarah. I picked up the phone and within an hour I was on the 405 with 6 weeks of clothes and an air mattress. She was going to let me crash on her living room floor.

That first night at her cute 1 bedroom in Westwood was so much fun. It was as if no time had past. We picked up right where we'd left off. Laughing. Telling stories and drinking vin blanc.

As you can imagine, I worked slaved insane hours on the campaign. I'd literally leave for work at 6:30 am and would get back after Sarah was already asleep. We barely saw each other. The six weeks flew by and at the end, I was offered a job to work in the Schwarzenegger administration in Sacramento.

I'd also picked up a pretty cute boyfriend along the way. Campaigns are incestuous that way. Luckily, Sarah approved of him. A good thing, because Eric proposed just 6 weeks later.

When it came time to pick my bridesmaids, Sarah just had to be one of them. She was, after all, my first friend to meet Eric. I couldn't imagine her not being there when I said "I do."

In 2004 when Facebook started, Sarah and I were obvious "friends" and, soon after, one of us found our old friend Romi. We never could find Karolina though. Through the years, we've all stayed in touch through the various social media channels.

When Sarah got engaged about six months ago I was so excited for her. I was even more excited when I got the email about her bachelorette party in Scottsdale and saw that Romi was going to fly out from Boston to be there as well. The countdown was on to the reunion we'd always discussed but never planned.

It's been almost 13 years since we've seen each other. And what better way to celebrate then Sarah tying the knot?

I often think back to the dinner I had with dad all those years ago. The dinner where he told me I'd be studying abroad whether I wanted to or not. I'm so glad I talked him in to that summer. I can't imagine not having made those memories or those friends.

Cheers! to you and yours this weekend, friends! I'd say it in French but don't remember how. They didn't teach us that at the Sorbonne. I'd ask Sarah but I know she has no idea. Romi?

Romi, Sarah and me circa 2001

Sarah and me

At Moosehead. A late night I'm sure.

Karolina, me and Sarah at Pizza Milano. A bottle of wine for each of us.

This pic pretty much sums up my friendship with Sarah.

Coming clean: I'm a dirty eater.

First off, can I get an "amen" for two blog posts in less than a week? I must be a mom with three kids in school {haaaaay}.

Second, I have a confession to make. It's something that I've been wanting to get off my chest for a while now, but I was worried that I'd be judged for it.

Here goes...

I don't buy {or eat} organic. {Gasp}. I know. {Cringe. Are you still there?} But, really, this should not come as such a shock to some of my longtime readers. AS IF CMCP {cheapy mc cheaper pants} would pay MORE money for fruits and veggies that our kids aren't going to eat anyway. And I have to tell you, I kind of agree with him here {but don't tell him I said that.}

I know, I know. I'm damaging the tiny humans with pesticides and what not but no one is growing a tail or sprouting a chest hair yet so we must be ok, right?

Here's the deal, some {most} days I'm lucky to even get a meal into Saxon, let alone a well-balanced one. Truly, if it's not of the nugget variety, chances are he's not eating it. So before I give him a $2 bite of broccoli that he's going to give me the middle finger over anyway, I'd just as soon get the middle finger and save a few bucks in the process. Why add insult to injury?

It's actually kind of hard to admit seeing as how I live and work in the land of fitness and health. But, if I'm being honest, the reason that I live and work in that place is really so that I can enjoy the finer things in life like In N Out and pizza. Can I get another amen? Anyone? Bueller?

Don't get me wrong, my friends who live vegan and gluten-free lifestyles and nosh on quinoa for snack time are rock stars and I envy their will power. I just don't have it. And I bust my ass almost daily on a spin bike or a yoga mat so that I don't have to have it...And because quinoa tastes like poo. Just ask Sax. He's had both. And both times, I got the finger.

The closest that I'll ever get to a juice cleanse is a Nektar acai bowl - which I'm pretty sure is the equivalent of eating a king-sized candy bar for lunch just based on the sugar count alone. But I actually don't even really want to know about it because the acai bowls and the burgers and the french fries and wine {oh, wine} make me really, really happy. And you know what? I deserve it dammit.

I did a 24-day challenge over the summer and I literally would have cut a bitch for a sip of booze and a tortilla chip - if Eric hadn't removed all the sharp objects from the house ahead of time knowing that I would cut a bitch for a sip of wine and a tortilla chip. Such a love that guy. He knows me too well. I cleansed for 10 days {cleanse, btw, is just a code word for poop your brains out} - meaning no booze, coffee, dairy and limited {oh, gee, thanks for that} complex carbs.

"Yay! a brown rice cake. What a treat! Has anyone seen a knife so I can cut a bitch?"

That was kind of the sentiment on days 1-10. Then, at the end of the 10 days {in hell}, you get to have dairy. Hallelujah. It was at this time that I considered buying my own cow and creaming my own cheese. See, I'm just not very good at moderation. Ugh.

In total I lost 7 lbs, 4 inches off my hips and 2.5 inches off my waist. And after I recovered from my colossal hangover from literally diving off the wagon head first on day 25 {moderation, is that you? hello?}, I realized that I'm ok with those extra 7 lbs. I look pretty damn good with those extra 7 pounds and I am the happiest version of myself with those 7 pounds. Hear that? Angels singing.

If I want a burger, I'm going to have a burger. Pizza? I've got the number saved in my favorites. And in the morning when I wake up feeling guilty, I'm going to hop on a spin bike and pedal my little ass off until I don't feel guilty any more. {And hopefully I don't grow a tail from all the non-organic food...because having a tail on a spin bike could be problematic and, well, ouch.}

That's kind of the way our world works around here. And I'm good with that. And I hope you are too.

Ah, I feel 7 lbs lighter from coming "clean".

I went ahead and linked my spin class schedule so that we could work off the burgers together. Would love to have you in one of my classes. I'm teaching at YAS in Costa Mesa on Tuesdays and Thursdays at 6am and Equinox in Newport Beach on Sundays at 8am.

Oh, and in light of this new found "honesty" I'm going to start a new tradition called "Confession Fridays" on the Three Before 30 Facebook page. If you haven't "liked" me. Please do. It's good for my ego. And then you can join in too. Every Friday I'll "confess" a "sin" from the week. It's the closest I'm going to get to "cleansing" again.



The Potty Diaries. Chapter 2.

I've said it before. Parenting is poo. And what I mean is parenting involves poo. Lots of it. If I had known how much poo I'd be dealing with, I'd have asked for a raise. And then I would have hired a nanny with said raise to deal with all the poo. It's everywhere. And it never stops. Just when you think you've graduated to a non-poo related stage, the kids come home telling poo jokes. Shit.

And when it comes to po{o}tty training, I get an F. For reals. I hate it. I wrote about it here a few years ago when we were beating training Sawyer. So now I can't believe that we are knocking on the potty training door for Saxon. Well, we aren't actually. It's less of a knock on the door and more of a lock ourselves in the panic room type of sitch.

He's not ready. At all. He's 2.5 and if there was a kid who cared less than Sawyer about taking care of business on the potty, it's Saxon. Double shit. So for now, I'm enjoying my final months year as a mom with a kid in diapers.

Or so I thought...

...because it happened. I had heard of it happening before. I had felt sorry for friends who it had happened to {and secretly thanked God that it had never happened to me}.

And then it happened to me.

With the end of my diapering career in sight and nearing the finish line I kind of thought I was going to escape my early parenting years without having to deal with this, er, mess.

I walked into Saxon's room yesterday mid-nap time - and I saw what I thought only happened to my friends.

That's right. Saxon was PLAYING WITH HIS POO. And was ok with it. He was not upset. He was not grossed out. Actually, he was smiling now that I think about it.

MY SON TOOK OFF HIS DIAPER AND PLAYED WITH HIS POO!!

I don't really know what else to say about it because I'm still so disgusted.

Here were my initial thoughts:

OMG.

WTF!?

Who do I call?

Dammit. Where's the nanny?

Shit. We don't have one.

I really need a raise.

Is there a hotline for this?

There should be a hotline for this.

Call the pediatrician?

Too early for boarding school?

He's grounded.

Does he need a tetanus shot?

I really should have cut his fingernails last week.

OMG.

{Gagging}

And so on...

Really!? Three kids and it was bound to happen with one of them...what started as copying Daddy with one hand down his pants had turned into Columbus discovering new log land.

It was EVERYWHERE. So I did what any other mom would do.

Me: Eric! Get in here!

Eric {out of breath from sprinting to Saxon's room thinking that there was a real problem}: What! What is it?

Me: It's fucking shit. It's everywhere Eric!

Eric: Why are you yelling!?

Me: Because it's disgusting and {gagging} I'm upset that our kid plays with his poo. It's obviously your fault.

And then we {and by we I mean Eric} cleaned him up and {I} poured a glass of wine. And duck taped his diaper shut and pulled out the baby mittens. And went online looking for support groups.

Just when you think you've got this parenting shit down...



A time out...

I've been a bad mommy. Somewhere in between Facebook status updates, Instagram photo posts, online shopping and shaping my three young kiddos into awesome human beings through responsible parenting {more on that in a minute}, I've managed to neglect my one true love {ok, next to wine and Eric} - blogging about how awesome we are.

Seems slightly ironic that the title of my first blog post in over a year is "A Time Out"...seeing as how today was the day that my kids were placed on the biggest time out of their lives to date and gave me a reason to step back into my 3b430 blogosphere...basically they got into so much trouble and it would have been too long of a facebook status update. You can thank my two older children for my comeback. They're still in their rooms if you're looking for them.

Allow me to set the stage...

This morning, after I slept in until 8 {thanks for that, hubs}, I awoke to the chaos that is Sunday morning in our house. Kids screaming...wrestling...asking for their fourth snack of the morning...watching their ninth Bubble Guppies episode of the morning...you know, "the ushe." As I proceeded to assess the damage from the weekend {sand everywhere, wet beach towels, empty coolers, lunchboxes and Toy-Palooza}, I persuaded the kids to get on board for a little Sunday morning clean-up sesh. I mean, they're completely old enough to start carrying their own weight around here, right? {Ry, almost 7, Sawyer, 5.5 and Sax, 2.5- I know. It's been a long hiatus}.

I started breaking down some boxes from various shipments that we'd received during the week, including packing material from some new outdoor lighting that I'd ordered and installed by myself because I'm rad like that. Lamps Plus packs their lighting fixtures in these archaic boxes that include foam packaging that I'm pretty sure equals the opposite of eco-friendly...and I still use plastic grocery bags {sorry, I'm not sorry} just to put it all into perspective for you. It's no bueno. Moving on.

Rylan asks me if she can play with the foam packing material. Here is how the conversation went:

Rylan: "Mommy, this looks like fun. Can we play with this foam?"

Me: "No, honey, that stuff is sooo messy. Be a love and go throw it in the outdoor trash cans for me. Do you know how to do that?"

Rylan: "Yes, mommy. I can do that."

Me {In my own head}: Aww, isn't she just the sweetest? So helpful. And such an angel. Every mom would be lucky to have a sweet Ry.

Or something like that.

Our Sunday morning was going flawlessly. House was getting picked up. Kids were helping. Life was beautiful. Time to sit down to check Facebook and make sure I didn't go rogue last night and post any pics after indulging in too much wine. Yeah, right, like that ever happens. Oh, wait. Dammit!

And then I paid bills.

And then I looked at the clock and realized that almost an hour had gone by and the kids were not fighting. Or screaming. But that they were still outside. Laughing gleefully. Red flag. And then it hit me. Something's not right.

So I went outside to check. And that's when I saw why they had been so content.

They had spent an hour breaking down the foam packing materials and making it "snow." My "sweet Ry" who I'd just had a conversation with about the effects of the non-eco-friendly foam had completely ignored my advice.

And here's the thing. It was a lot of fucking {this is really the best adjective I could use here} "snow." It was everywhere. In. Tiny. Little. Pieces. Sweet Jesus please save my children from the wrath that is their mother. "Snow" everywhere. All over the kids. In their hair and eyes. Covering Saxon, who, btw, loved it. Everywhere. It was like a white out. In Costa Mesa.

I lost my shit. Like seriously. Lost it.

I started spelling and attempting to edit my swear words {albeit, unsuccessfully. whatevs. A for effort?}. Mother effer. Darnit {which turns into Dammit real quick because Darnit just doesn't do my anger justice}. In hindsight I may have over-reacted. But, I'm serious here, folks. It was everywhere.

And then Eric came out when he began to worry about the safety of his children because he could hear my failed attempts to use only semi-bad language while I yelled at them. And he was pissed. Which meant I knew it was bad. And the kids knew we were pissed. And just sat there and stared at us like scared puppies.

So, I did what any normal parent would do. I handed them the broom and dust pan. And an hour later. It still looked like this.

The pictures don't even do it justice. Like I said. This was an hour after Snowfest 2013 had happened.

 

 

"Mommy, why are you taking pictures of us?"

"Because Mommy needs new material for the blog. Duh. Keep sweeping."

 

The aftermath.

Once they started picking up the disintegrated pieces that were now the size of grains of sand, I stepped in to help because I was pretty sure at that point I was violating some type of child labor law. And because I figured the neighbors had already called CPS and I wanted to cover my ass.

 

Here's the thing that I remembered. If you lose focus in this game for one minute, you're screwed. This was my big rookie mistake. I rarely have an uninterrupted hour. An hour to check Facebook. Pay bills. Online shop for things I don't need. And that's because usually I'm reading the kids books and tutoring them on their summer math studies. Ok, that last part was totally a lie. Just wanted to check and see if you were still reading.

I guess I just got too comfortable. And this was the kids attempt to put me in check.

On another note. My New Year's {yes, I know it's August. I'm a work in progress} resolution was to get back to blogging. I'm hoping that my next post won't involve me popping a vein in my neck as a result of my kids behavior. But, if it does, hopefully I'll have the wherewithal to stop and take pics so that someone can get a good laugh.

Well played little devils. Well played.

I'm {not} loving it

Some days I wish I had a ripcord. Or an option to take a blue or red pill. Or the ability to safe-surrender my four year old without getting arrested. If during the tensest of standoffs with Sawyer I was able to just remove myself from the situation, I'd probably be able to save myself a ton of anxiety and stress...and him a lot of money on adult therapy.

Case in point. Today, I thought I'd be an even more awesome mom than I already am and take the kids to McDonald's for lunch. But not just any McDonald's. No, I wasn't just going to force their tiny bodies to ingest pink slime after hitting up the drive-thru. I was going to take them to a McDonald's, dine there and it was a McDonald's with a Playplace. Yes. I said it. A Playplace. The worst invention ever and, in my opinion, the reason that there is flesh-eating bacteria on this planet. If I NEVER go back, it will be too soon.

Sawyer has been begging me to go to a McDonald's with a Playplace and I finally caved and decided today would be the day. Big mistake. Huge. Catastrophic.

Why!? Oh, because once we finished our pink slime-infused chicken nuggets, and the kids got to play at the Playplace and it was time to go, Sawyer decided he'd found his new happy place at the TOP of the Playplace tower and basically gave me the middle finger. Yes, that's right. Sawyer climbed to the top of the tower, sat down and told me to eff off. In so many words. He basically called BS on me and knew that there was no way in hell I was going to climb into the tiny tunnel ladder and crawl my ass up to the top of that tower and drag his ass down.

Let me just go on record here and say that if you could have seen the look on my face and if my face could talk without saying a word, here's what it would have said:

"Sawyer Colt, you climb your little ass down that tower now or, so help me God, you are going to spend the rest of your life in a full-body cast."

And here's where I really needed the ripcord/blue pill/whooo-za/deep breathing option...HE WOULDN'T EFFING COME DOWN. Swear.

So there I am. Gritting my teeth. Armpits sweating. Saxon Crying. Cursing. And the ENTIRE McDonald's Playplace area watching me.

In case I haven't set the scene well enough. Here's a glimpse into the conversation I was having with myself in my head.

Don't panic. He'll come down. Right!? He's not coming down. Panic. Fuck. Shit. I'm claustrophobic. Can I even fit in that tunnel ladder? I certainly can't fit in that tunnel ladder while I'm holding the baby. Who in the Playplace area is not a recently released convict that I can trust to hold the baby while I go fish Sawyer out of the tower. {looks around}. No one. Fuck. Shit. McDonald's with Playplaces should really serve wine just like California Adventure does at Disneyland. Shit. He's still up there.

"Sawyer, get DOWN here."

He's still not coming down. Fuck it. I'm leaving him here.

"Sawyer, I'm leaving."

{Screams}

"Rylan, go get your brother."

Rylan won't go. She's scared of the tunnel and flesh-eating bacteria too. Fuck.

And so it went. For about 20 minutes. I've now spent approximately19 minutes more than I've ever wanted to spend at a McDonald's Playplace. And now I'm certain that the B.O. I'm smelling is mine. It's a full-on stand off. Sawyer knows that if he comes down, his ass is such grass that it actually behooves him to stay up there.

He's going to boarding school. No. Worse. Military school. Actually, I wonder if they'd take him at Juvenile Hall. This is a crime, right!? Having a stand-off with your mother in the McDonald's Playplace tower has to be a crime, right!?

Sweaty. On the verge of tears and down one less child because I'd lost him to the grips of the McDonald's Playplace tower, I gave up. I had no fight left.

Much to my surprise, a sweet and wonderful 7-year old girl {whom I later volunteered to swap for Sawyer} said, "I'll go get him for you." Omg. I think she was actually wearing a halo. That girl crawled up to the top, showed Sawyer how fun it was to go down the slide and down he came. Right into the arms of an abusive mother. I could have killed him right then and there. Of course, I composed myself and we walked out like nothing had ever happened.

Whatever McDonald's Playplace. I own this shit. Same time next week? Done. Ok, maybe not that confident. But it went something like that.

Oh Sawyer. Bless your heart.

Snip Snip. Sniff Sniff?

Remember when you were dating your significant other and people would always ask, "when are you going to get engaged?" And then you got engaged and everyone said, "when are you going to get married?" And then after you got hitched, no sooner then sipping your first pina colada on the beach in Hawaii on your honeymoon, some random couple would ask, "when are you gonna start trying?" And then you ripped your hair out because you just wanted everyone to stfu and leave you alone? No? Just me? Oh...

Well, newsflash folks, the questions never end. And it never gets any less awkward. Because it's usually people who you don't know very well who think that they should be privy to your ovulation cycle. Ew. Weird.

So after we popped out #3, I thought maybe these strange encounters would start to slow. Guess what? They didn't and now random people are asking me if we're considering getting a vasectomy. "Um, no, well, ah. I, uh, haven't. but..." is usually all I can utter as I'm deciding what bunch of bananas looks the best in the produce section. Really!?

But now that we're rocking and rolling in the Beach house and we're officially out of the baby stage, I've actually started thinking about sending Eric in for the big snip snip. I know, sad. We both agree that three is enough but aren't sure if we need to "make it official." And because we've both teetered back and forth about making the big decision, I thought I'd share with you my list of positives and negatives:. Here she goes.

Positives {pro-snipping} because a "surprise" would...:
- Another baby would put me over the edge. No, seriously, I swear. Like Thelma-and-Louise-style. Off the cliff.
-We've run out of bedrooms. Another baby would have to sleep in our room. And you know my feelings on co-sleeping.
- 4 kids is like two steps away from joining the ranks of the Duggars. We'd have to have a reality show.
- I would have to trade my Denali in for a school bus. Or one of those Mercedes van/bus things. Oh, wait. Mercedes? Maybe this one switches to the negatives column.
- No more pill-popping pour moi. I recently read that one of my facebook friends got preggers on birth control. She said that this happens to about 1% of women. OMG. I started to sweat.
-Grandma Sue Sue won't babysit 4 kids. Remember, I'm an only child. 2 was challenging. She watches 3 because, well, she can't say no. 4 is deal-breaker which means we definitely can't have another baby...until Rylan is old enough to babysit for long weekends. So, what's that, like 2 years?
-College. Putting 4 kids through college is craaa-zy. And since Eric is buying me that Birkin bag for our 10th wedding anniversary, Rylan already has to graduate in 3 years {I chose Ry's college fund because I figured, as a girl, she'd understand the need to sacrifice education for fashion.}

Negatives {leave the goods alone and pray}:
- Our kids are rad. Seriously. I don't even really like kids. But ours are awesome. 1 more would just be contributing to the awesome-ness we've already created. Yeah, I said it.
- I could maybe talk Eric in to getting the Bugaboo Donkey if we got knocked up with #4
- I would have to listen to Eric complain about having surgery on his manhood. Oh geezus.
- I would keep taking the pill and live in fear of the 1%
-What if I died and Eric got remarried and that chick decided that she wanted to have a litter of Beaches too? Ha. Good luck chick.
     *While, I'm at it. Here's my letter to Eric's new wife in the event that I die. Can one of you please direct her here? K, Thanks. Here goes.
     Dear Mrs. Beach: I just wanted to let you know that in the event you think you'd like to go for one kid of your own, I wanted to let you know in advance that the child will not look like you. The Beach DNA is no-joke. Seriously, look at my kids. They didn't even get my eyelashes. You will, in fact, just be contributing to Eric's ego and adding one more mini-Eric to the universe. I hope they get your brains and handyman capabilities. Think about it. xo, L

I hope this clears things up. For now, here's to really good birth control.

I blog {finally}, therefore I am no longer a crappy blogger

Seriously, If Amanda Bynes can retire on Twitter at 26 only to un-retire a few months later, I figure, so can I. And I'm way more interesting than Amanda Bynes. I mean, the chick hasn't been in a movie since she was like 12. Nobody cares.  OK, moving on.

Don't judge me. I was depressed, remember?

Here's what you've missed. Hold on tight. It's real exciting.

Mama -
I'm off the Prozac. This was huge. The side effects of the anti-depressants were, well, depressing. I had night sweats so serious that I'd wake up in the middle of the night thinking I'd wet the bed (don't act like this has never happened to you) and need to change my pajamas. Sexy, right?

Or how about how the anti-d's made me a borderline narcoleptic? The kind where I'd sit down for two seconds, pass out and wake up thinking it was the next day. This makes for super responsible parent as I'm sure you can imagine. "Mommy, can we juggle knives?" "{Snore}".

The truth is, I was just feeling a lot better. My anxiety was gone and I was able to NOT sweat the small stuff. Pun intended. It feels good to have my shit together. I mean, sure, come 5pm, we're all a little crazy. But it's nothing two glasses of wine can't fix. Keep calm and drink on.

Daddy-
Eric has been super busy on the campaign trail and also working on his new Solar company. He traveled to Hong Kong a couple of months ago. In true CMCP {Cheapy McCheaper Pants} style, he spent more time trying to book his ticket for a decent price than he actually spent on the ground in Hong Kong. God, I love that guy. He leaves again in a few weeks for China.

When he's here, we split almost all of the work evenly. It's one of the perks of having a work-from-home husband. It's also the result of having a super-competitive husband. When he's gone and I have to get all three kiddos up, dressed, fed and to school before 8 am, I seriously get home at 8:05 and fist pump my ass off. It sucks when he's gone. But I also like to feel like I'm stepping up my game.

Rylan-
Ry could not be doing better than she is in Kindergarten. She's reading. And spelling. A lot. The other day I caught her sounding out F-U-C-K. Eeek. No more spelling out our curse words. Seriously, the time has come. What's a mom to do now!? She's doing after school cheer and spring soccer. Loves to draw and play with her baby brother. She's also getting super sassy...a trait I'm certain she didn't pick up from me and most likely borrowed from one of the other girls in her class. Because I am perfect. Duh.

Best Buds

Learned to ride a bike...huge.

Sawyer-
In March, Sawyer turned 4. With a few {a lot} of behavioral issues, we seem to be getting back on track. Wow. Boys really are so different than girls. And whoever dubbed the two's as "terrible" hadn't met Sawyer at age 3. We got him signed up for soccer. This, after he'd spent weeks "playing" on Rylan's team with the girls - gotta love a boy with an older sister. Once it was his time to shine he, well, kinda choked. It was one of those {cringe} moments.

Me:"Sawyer, get out there and play with your team!"
Sawyer {in tears}: "Mom, they're not letting me score."

Apparently, he doesn't come from a family of soccer players.
Me: "Sawyer, they're not just going to give you the ball and LET you score. You have to work for it honey."

Sawyer: "No thanks mom. I'm just gonna sit on the sidelines and eat oranges and wait to run through the tunnel at the end of the game. Do you know what the snack is gonna be?"

FML

Coach Beach could have died.

Shit. Our little athlete gamer. For Christmas, we got the kids a Nintendo Wii. We always said we'd never raise gamers. Within one night, Sawyer had memorized all the dances to Just Dance 3. Double shit.

I actually think we've turned a corner. We're working with him on lots of positive reinforcement and encouragement. Oh, and we put his ass in preschool for two FULL days a week in addition to the two half days he was already going. Yeah, made him someone else's problem. Oh, whatever, you totally would have done the same thing.

See. Totally under control.

Proof that he's not destined to play video games for the rest of his life.

 Super Hero Birthday Party

 Saxon-

Saxon Cash turned one a few weeks ago. Our little slow poke is still not crawling or walking. We started physical therapy in January. We go 90 minutes a week. We're working on strengthening his core and so far have seen really positive results. After 1 week of therapy, he was sitting up on his own. He's this close to crawling now. But he's still just my lazy little guy that is happiest when he's being held. A lot of my friends have asked if there was any diagnosis or why he had this gross motor skills delay. No one really knows how it happened, although, I'm guessing it has something to do with the fact that if he cries for something, his odds are pretty good that 1 out of the 4 other people in the house will jump up and get it for him. There was never a whole lot of motivation to do it on his own. But he's progressing in all other areas right on track. The doctor had given us a referral to a neurologist to rule anything else out but even when he handed it over, he said "I don't think you need to go." So we haven't.

I have to tell you that I seriously cannot imagine not having Sax. He might be the sweetest baby that I've ever met.

Susie Cakes excitement. It happens at any age.

The first of three kids to eat the cupcake on their birthday.

We survived our first year with three. Barely.

Ok so that was a seriously freaking long hiatus. Who knew having 3 under 6 you'd have zero time to sit down and blog?...let alone just sit. Not to mention the fact that one of us has been sick since the beginning of sick season. I actually think we may have whooping cough...although not enough to take us to the doctor and pay the co-pay {who's the cheap one now?}. Yesterday, Saxon threw up on me at the park. It went down my shirt and in my pants. I had to go home and change everything. Bra. Underwear. I know, you're jealous. I haven't dealt with this much barf and spot treatments since college.

Anywhoo, now that you've been updated. I promise to do a better job at keeping up. Blogging once every 8 months is about as lame as you can get. I'm a work in progress. Bare with me.

Hope and Change. No, seriously. I swear.

As Summer comes to an end and we face some big changes ahead in the Fall, I thought it appropriate that I update y'all on the happenings of the Beach fam. So, here it goes...

#1 {Rylan}
Sweet Ry turned 5 last week and heads into Kindergarten after Labor Day. Eeek! So excited for her and this humongous new journey. At first, it made me feel old...but then a good friend reminded me that since I basically got knocked up right out of college, I'm actually quite young to have a 5yr old. In fact, I'm so young, I could even be mistaken for an elementary school-er. Ok, maybe not THAT young. But you get the gist.

She's swimming like a fish. Loves Rapunzel and Mary Poppins. Starts soccer in the fall. And is fascinated by hair feathers, nose rings and temporary tattoos. Sound familiar?{FML}.

#2 {Sawyer}
I'm thrilled to report that Sawyer Colt has finally figured out that poop goes in the potty and not his pants. I potty-trained the un-potty-trainable. It only took a year. And a shit-load of m&ms. Pun intended. I am super-mom. Hear me roar. Next step: peeing standing up and learning to "aim."

He is also swimming. Another huge step. The confidence Mike O'Brien gave Sawyer in just one day of lessons was amazing. In 10 days, he turned Sawyer into a mini Phelps. In fact, I'm pretty sure Swim-to-Mike had something to do with potty training him too.  I think I'll keep Mike's number close for when it's time to teach him how to ride a bike with no training wheels . The guy's a freaking genius. {And in case you're keeping track, this absolutely means that I won the swimming lesson argument and Eric lost. Neener. Neener. Neener}.

Sawyer will start preschool 4 days a week come Fall. He's moved to room 2 {The "big boy room" as he's dubbed it} and each day he becomes more of a little man and less of a little boy.

#3 {Saxon}
Sax is busy being a baby. You know, sleeping {through the night}. Crying {usually between the hours of 5:30-6:30pm}. Pooping {Duh}. He giggles and laughs. And talks and sings. He's got no teeth yet but if it were possible to chew your finger off with just your gums, this kid could do it. So I'd say he's close. And most of the time he just sits there and watches the crazy happening right in front of him. He has these great big eyes and if he could talk I think he'd be saying "WTF did I get myself in to here? These people are nutso."

Mommy {The crazy one}
Speaking of nutso, {and this is where I try to make you laugh while writing about a serious issue because I've learned to deal with uncomfortable topics with humor. I'm a work in progress} I realized recently that my post-partum depression returned {like a freaking tornado}. Boom. It hit me like a ton of bricks. And it was a few weeks ago when I was at the park and could barely pull myself off the park bench to push the kiddos on the swings that I realized something was wrong.

I was treated for PPD after I had Rylan when she was about 8 months old and I'd just stopped breastfeeding. With Sawyer, I was very ready for it to return and thank God it didn't because, as a baby, that kid was enough to make you need a sedative on his own. No depression required.

With Saxon, I thought I was out of the woods. I stopped breastfeeding when he was 8 weeks and didn't notice it then. People often asked me, "how is it with three kids?" and I would give them my standard answer: that I struggled more with two kids, 18 months apart, then I have with 3.

But somewhere along the line I started to have high highs and really low lows. And then the high highs were fewer and far between. And I was just low. And even though I was sleeping. Laughing. and loving being a mom. I just didn't feel like myself. I felt like I was just going through my day, waiting to get to my next sleep.

I went and saw my doc and she confirmed what I already knew. I'm a headcase. No, she actually told me that I am susceptible to PPD because of my previous history. She wrote me an RX for Prozac and the rest is history. I felt better almost instantly. I struggled with the thought of being a "pill popper" the rest of my life but then got over it real quick when I was actually able to pull my head off my pillow and blog again. One day at a time, I guess.

I'm still teaching spin 4 days a week. It's been challenging and {at times} hard, given my schedule and the nature of my state-of-mind. But it's also been hugely rewarding and a way for me to clear my head and make some money again. You know, so I can spend it on really expensive swim lessons and huge cars that I don't need.

Oh, I also decided to be uber-practical {considering my full-time "job"} and get hair extensions. I'm very lucky that my hair stylist is also a very good friend and she offered to give me extensions as part of a training she went through. I've always wanted extensions but didn't want to come out looking like Britney after she'd had a rough night {think barefoot, sipping a frappucino and walking out of a public restroom. Eww.} I'm happy to report that I look NOTHING like that. In fact, they're awesome and look super natural. And considering that since I stopped breast-feeding my hair is basically falling out in clumps and balding {think Britney the night she shaved her head} I actually think the extensions were a necessity. At least that's what I told Eric.

The Big 5 Yr Old. A "Tangled Swim Party". Obv.

The Fish

Gorg

Kamikaze Sawyer

These people are crazy

But at least they can make me laugh

If Rapunzel had the stomach flu,

she barfed all of her accessories in our house

See. Told ya.

Because every Prozac-taking SAHM should have hair like this. Duh.

And, yes, Sawyer thinks he's Zoolander.

 

www.teachmykidstoswimforfree.com??

About three years ago, Eric and I had the brilliant decision {must have been after a night of heavy drinking} to dump the majority of our savings into our house and build a swimming pool. Seemed like a good idea at the time. An investment. Fast-forward to today and we often find ourselves saying, "well if we lose it all, at least we can still work on our tan poolside." Or "you think the kids would want pool water for dinner?" Or "Instead of college, can we just send the kids to the backyard?" Honestly, it wasn't our smartest move. But we did it and we love it. No looking back. We spend most weeknights and weekends hanging by the pool with our closest friends. We love having people over. And Eric has spent the last 2 summers saying that HE was going to teach the kids to swim. Riiiight.

That's right. Our kids can't swim. Not sure how that happened. It's been on the ever-growing list of things to do but somehow just keeps falling to the bottom. Pun intended. I decided this is the year they HAVE to learn. Rylan is almost 5 and the majority of her friends can swim. We just had some friends in from out of town last weekend and my kids sat on the step in the shallow end and watched in envy as these two kids completely showed them up in their own pool and swam circles around them. It sucked.

Here's the problem. I'm married to a man who has a "just throw them in the deep end and see what happens" mentality. That's his idea of teaching them how to swim. Let's let them drown and maybe that will teach them a lesson or two. It's about as good an idea as building the pool itself. As a result, Eric's not really into paying a butt-load of money to get them swimming. Plus, we spent all the money on the gorgeous pool so we can't afford to get them lessons anyway, remember?

Just last weekend he forced Sawyer in to the pool kicking and screaming and proceeded to use the infant swim technique on our 3-yr old. You know the one where you count 1-2-3 and then blow in their face and the baby's natural reaction is to hold their breath and then you dunk? Yeah, it worked when Rylan was 7 months. Well, Eric apparently missed the memo that this is an infant swim technique and decided to try it on Sawyer. Eric blew in his face. Sawyer looked at him like "WTF was that?" and before he knew it he was dunked under water, mouth open and coming up choking, gasping for his life. "No, daddy, pweease" he screamed in between dunks while myself and our friends in from out of town drank beers on the side of the pool. "Does Eric know that only works on infants?" Shanna said. Apparently not.

Seeing as how Eric's infant swim techniques aren't working on our 3 and 5 yr old, here are some other options I came up with:

1. Swim2Mike/Pete/Julie/The bank
This is my type of approach. 2 weeks all-intensive-balls-to-the-wall learn how to swim or your money back. They spend 10 days {m-f for two weeks} with your kid at your own pool for 20 minutes a day. At the end of 2 weeks your kid is a regular freaking flounder. Only problem? It's $360/kid {Total for Ry and Sawyer: $720} Now, for me, this is something I would put in the "worth it" category. Eric's response? "You must be out of your fucking mind. Where's Rylan? I'm throwing her in the deep end." Seriously, he thinks it's ridiculous. Me? I love the idea that it's guaranteed and that they're actually learning to swim, not float on their backs if they fall in. Real swimming. Eric reminded me {like he does so frequently when I talk about spending obscene amounts of money} that I'm spoiled and from La Jolla. Seriously, what does that have to do with anything? We're talking about the safety of our children. Ok, now he says I'm just being dramatic.

2. Waterworks/Blue Buoy
Another option that he found slightly less repulsive. Buy a package of classes {in our case 12 for $259}. Take the kids to the pool facility. Give them a 20-minute semi-private lesson together with a female instructor who's "firm." They'd take 2 lessons each week for 3 weeks and we'd re-evaluate at the end of the sessions and see if we needed more. My guess is that we would. Eric says if they're not still swimming at that point, he'd throw them in the deep end and they'd be better able to work on the whole not-drowning thing. Why is he trying to kill our kids? Problem with option #2 is that I wasn't able to find an opening for a T/TH or W/FRI class that starts after 4pm and is with a woman who is "firm." Why does she need to be "firm"and why does it need to be a woman? Well, I don't think Ry would be very comfortable with a male instructor. Remember, Daddy has already tried to drown her on numerous occasions. The trust level has dwindled. And if it's a woman who's not "firm" then it's basically like taking lessons from me...and we've seen that I'm no better at teaching them then Eric.

Me: "Rylan, want to learn how to swim today?"

Ry: "Not today mommy"

Me: "Ok, time to go inside. Mommy wants a glass of wine."

See? A "firm" female instructor is just the ticket. Except both facilities are booked through summer. So they'll learn next year Eric says. FML.

3. A friend
We've had a few people say "I can teach your kids to swim for free." Of course{no surprise here} Cheapy Mc-Cheaper pants loves this idea but I honestly don't think that the kids will be receptive to learning from someone that they know. We need someone that's gonna lay the smack down on them. No bullshit. Swim or you're grounded until high school approach. Our friends are just too nice. And if they tried to be mean, our kids would see right through it.

This brings us back to square 1. We're up shit creek and don't know how to swim. Which brings up another important point. Sawyer is still crapping his pants. Maybe if Swim2Mike/Julie or Pete could potty train him too, then I'd really be willing to fork out the big bucks. Alas, think they'd work for semi-good wine??

The backyard before...

The backyard after...

The non-swimmers...



Halle{freaking}lujah

I know. You don't have to say anything. I know. I've been neglecting the blog. I'm sorry. I've had writer's block {aka: Saxon}. But I'm back. And I'm coming back in a big way. Why, you ask? Because Saxon slept through the night last night.

For those of you wondering what this means, I'll spell it out for you. It means I can drink again. No, seriously. I know I talk a lot about drinking. And you probably think I drink more than I do. But drinking when you have a newborn is seriously about as fun as squirting lime juice in your eyes. Let me be clear. When you are waking up every 3 hours to feed a newborn, you're already waking up feeling hungover - no booze needed. For the past 11 weeks, I stagger out of bed in the morning looking like a scene from Hangover 2. I do not joke.

I've had zero desire to indulge because why add insult to injury? It's ironic because if there is ever a time to hit the bottle, it's when you have a newborn. But it's really a bad idea. I even decided to push back my 30th birthday party {yup, turned the big 3-0 last week} because getting home from a huge birthday bash only to be woken up by a screaming tiny human sounded like an awful way to ring in this huge milestone. "So, yeah, we'll celebrate when Saxon is sleeping through the night" is what I told everyone.

Now, if you know me, you know that I have serious control issues. As a result, I've sleep-trained all three kids. Yes, that's right. I'm a 'Babywise' mom. I realize that Babywise is like Sarah Palin. Moms either swear by it and think its tactics will be life-changing. Or Babywise foes will tell you that following its methods could give your kids brain damage. Look, at the end of the day, Rylan and Sawyer sleep 12 hours a day and still take a 2 hour nap at ages 4.5 and 3 {respectively}...the jury is still out on Sawyer's mental health - but I'll save that for a different blog post. Middle child. First boy. There are a lot of things working against him besides Babywise.

So how did I do it? Well, we start at 2 weeks old. Before that it's feed on demand. The first two weeks are awful for a Type-A mom. No control. No schedule. Just balls-to-the-wall-I'm-a-slave-for-you-type parenting. So after 2 weeks you start baby on a feed-play-sleep every 3 hour routine. It sounds crazy. But if you're like me, it's great because you're establishing a fool-proof routine. Here's what our day looks like:

8am: Wake and feed {keep awake}
930am: Nap
11am: Wake and feed {keep awake}
1230pm: Nap
2pm: Wake and feed {keep awake}
330pm: Nap
5pm: Wake and feed {keep awake}
8pm: Feed and straight to bed
11pm: Dream feed {feed baby while he/she's asleep and then say your prayers that baby sleeps all the way through until 8am}

In the beginning the baby will naturally wake at 2am and 5am to eat. But as time goes on and the baby learns to sleep longer periods of time, the goal is that he/she will sleep through the 2am and 5am feedings. Do you hear that? {angels are singing}.

Now sometimes babies need a little "help" so-to-speak to drop one or both feedings. This is when the critics will tell you that you're on the fast-track to years of therapy for your kid. Both my boys needed the "help." I think Sawyer would still be eating at 2am if I hadn't forced him to drop that feeding years ago. Saxon was the same way. So 2 weeks ago {and right about the time I made the decision to go back to teaching spin at 6am 3 days a week- I know, brilliant, right?} I decided it was time.

Saxon woke up at 2am like clockwork but instead of feeding him I gave him a pacifier and he went back to sleep. It wasn't actually as easy as that. There were tears involved. From both of us. But the next night, he went right through until 4:30. Yahooo!! The night after that he made it until 5am. So, if you're still with me here, we were now feeding him at 11pm and 5am. Ahh, I can taste that 3rd glass of wine on my lips. 6 hours in a row is magical.

Our next goal was getting him to drop the 5am feeding. And I didn't want to force this one. I really hoped I had one of those kids that would do it on his own. Rylan was like that. She slept through the night at 6 weeks. Overachiever. She may look like Eric, but she's all me folks. So last night when Saxon slept through his 5am feeding Eric and I didn't know what to do with ourselves. Of course we were awake. That first night when they sleep through a feeding, you never do too. We just sat there at 5am watching the monitor waiting for him to wake. He didn't. We're morons.

The last feeding to drop is the "dream feed." And this one is the scariest one, in my opinion. You've just got your kid to sleep from 11pm - 8am without waking up. Why mess with a good thing? What if you don't feed at 11 and he wakes at 5? Truth is, after a week of ensuring the baby can go from 11-8, dropping the dream feed is magical. You know why? Because then your baby is sleeping 12 hours from 8pm to 8am and you're off the wagon telling the Babywise critics to suck it.

That brings us to today. Saxon is 11 weeks old and sleeping straight through from 8pm-8am {with 11pm dream feed}. Next week we'll tackle dropping the dream feed. One week at a time. Tonight Eric and I are off to see Hangover 2 and will throw back a couple to celebrate.

Cheers!

The Potty Diary

I've never claimed to be really good at anything related to parenting...but one area where I'd surely be considered "slow" is in the potty training department. I suck. No really. I'm awful. I have no idea what I'm doing and I usually resort to doing all of the things that they tell you never, under any circumstances, to do.

So, with all that we have going on, I should have been thrilled when Sawyer went pee pee on the potty for the first time at school last week. Actually, I was thrilled. Was I really going to get away with not having anything to do with {screwing up} potty training? Was this why I was paying Sawyer's preschool enough money to put him through one year at private university? I've always said that I would pay big bucks to have someone come to our house and potty train my kids. I even googled it. This person doesn't exist.

So here we are, one week later, Sawyer only wants to wear underwear...he's peed on the potty numerous times. So I should be celebrating, right? I'm not. You know why? Because I'm on 24-hour poop watch.

See, with Rylan, she knew not to poop in her pants. I don't blame her. It's truly disgusting if you think about it {though I suppose going in a diaper is only slightly less repulsive}. Ry would just hold out long enough until we put her diaper on before nap or bed time. Genius! As a result, I never had to stalk her and play poo poo police...aka, give her a massive complex about pooping on the potty or in her pants.

And then there's Sawyer. Sweet #2 has a problem with, well, going #2. Actually, the problem is that he'll go anywhere but the potty. I don't get it. If you can sit and pee, what's so scary about sitting and pooping? And it's precisely the reason I {and by I, I mean, his teachers at school} didn't train him to pee standing up. I thought that would just further confuse the situation. If he pees standing up, will he poop standing up too? I've clearly given this a ton of thought.

We've known his "signs" now for a while. When he has to "go"...he hides. He's so certain of the "feeling" that now he just says "mommy, I'm hiding." So, this should be an easy transition, right? Wrong.

So we set out on mission. 1. Buy new underwear {the ones that I'd bought him a year ago for Christmas were so tight around his legs, they were cutting off the circulation. Wishful thinking that he'd be potty trained last Christmas I guess.} 2. Buy a "poo poo present." 3. And then come home, poop on the potty and sing kumbaya. Yeah, not so much.

Here's what actually happened. We picked out the underwear {Spiderman and Lightning McQueen, in case you're wondering.} Picked out the "poo poo present" {Buzz Lightyear gun}. Came home. Put the present on the shelf and waited. About 20 minutes later {and once I was in the middle of breast feeding Saxon and completely tied down} I heard, "Mommy, I'm gonna hide." {Fuuuuuuck!} I immediately de-latch #3, jump over the couch and make a bee-line for Sawyer. He immediately screamed in fear of mommy running full-force towards him and proceeded to run away from me, crying and literally shitting his pants in fear. Meanwhile, the baby is screaming and about to roll off the couch. Sawyer is crying and hiding on the other side of the dining room table and I'm yelling, "No, Sawyer, don't poop!" I'm pretty sure I did everything they tell you NOT to do in the "Everybody Poops" parent handbook.

After I settled him down, I was shocked that he actually had managed to hold it. So we sat back down. I started feeding the baby again and watched as Sawyer sat there in agony. Now I was concerned because, not only was he going to poop his pants, he was going to poop his pants on my couch. As I begged and pleaded for him to "just try and sit on the potty," he insisted that he no longer had to go. Yeah, ok. Sure buddy.

About five minutes later, he made a run for it. But not to the potty. He ran to the closet. I ran after him. Both of us screaming, I scooped him up and ran into the bathroom. It was too late. The Spiderman underwear were ruined after only 30 minutes of wear. Sawyer was crying. Saxon was crying. Mommy was crying. He sat on the potty devastated. I sat there with the tub of wipes and antibacterial hand soap and explained that accidents happen and that it was ok.

Sawyer called Eric on the phone and told him what happened and how he wasn't going to get the "poo poo present." Just as we were hanging up, I heard the slightest "plop." Sawyer's face lit up. "Mommy! poo poo came out." We looked. He was right. The smallest poop you'd ever seen had gone in the toilet.

"Dammit," I thought. Now I have to give him the damn present for a fluke poop. He was thrilled.

Fast forward to now and he's actually gone a few times, though, not every time. I'm still living in a constant state of poop anxiety. I need to let it go. It's freaking everyone out. And between hoping that Sawyer DOESN'T poop and making sure that Saxon DOES, it's all I'm freaking doing these days.

He did go at school and now school has deemed him "potty trained" so we save $50 a month on tuition. I guess I really was paying a potty training guru and just didn't know it. Now who can I pay to come clean it up when he has an accident?

Baby, 1. Mommy, 0.

It would be fair to say that I've been on the front lines of newborn baby war these last three weeks. Don't get me wrong, I knew what I was getting into since I've done it before...but holy baby Batman! It's just taking me a while to find my newborn mojo, I suppose.

I've literally sat down to blog about the current state of our house {insanity} dozens of times but have found that I only have about two minutes between breastfeeding, crying {me, included} and someone asking for "more juice" {Eric, included} that all my thoughts are cut short.

So, in honor of these two free minutes, I thought a "you know you have a newborn" Top 10 list would be appropriate:

You know you have a newborn when:

10. You pour the breast milk into the bottle without the drop-in and are totally unfazed by the puddle of milk at your feet {thanks Dede}

9. In a contest between you and Pamela Anderson on who has the most ridiculous boobs, you win in a landslide.

8. You don't leave your bedroom {let alone your house} without sunglasses on.

7. You'd welcome a trip to the dentist or OBGYN for just 30 minutes of "alone" time

6. You'd risk a cell phone ticket for talking while driving because the car is now the only place where the baby will sleep and you can chat for longer than 2 minutes

5. You want to marry your Keurig

4. You unload baby and stroller from the car, lock the doors, head into the market, finish shopping and leave the store to find that you left the passenger door wide open.

3. You wake up at 3 am mid-walk to the nursery and wonder if you're coming or going

2. You just remembered that you had to pee this morning...but it's now 5pm

1. You blog one-handed

PS. To all my friends who have checked in on me to make sure I haven't drowned myself in the bathtub, thank you. This too shall pass. Big hugs.

The Saxon{ater}

We did it! He's here. Well, actually, he arrived on March 25, 2011. So he's been here for 12 days. And that's how long it took me to get my shit together to sit down and write about it. Phew. Switching to zone defense, NOW!

So here's how it went down. On Thursday afternoon we went to El Torito to watch the SDSU NCAA Tourney game {aka, witness my bracket go down the toilet.} I ordered what I thought would be the most "mild" thing on the menu. Taquitos. To my surprise, these bad boys came smothered in hot sauce. Oh well. Down the hatch. At this point, I was eating everything in sight. I figured maybe my effort to order something less-spicy would pay off. It didn't. In fact, I'm pretty sure it had something to do with putting me in to labor.

At about 3:30 am on March 25, I woke up with strong-enough-to-make-your-eyes-bleed heartburn. Standard, at this point. I expected it. What I didn't expect were the contractions I started having about 5 minutes later. And then they didn't stop. So I started timing them and, sure enough, they were regular. Every 5-7 minutes. So we got the bag packed. Got the kids dressed. Called the doc. She said to head to L&D since it was my 3rd baby and she was going to induce me the next day anyway {see Ricki, it all worked out.}

Then we hopped in the car and Eric did what any super-cool-under-pressure husband would do...he drove like a complete jackass. Taking speed bumps at 20 miles an hour. Weaving in and out of traffic. The kids thought they were at Disneyland. "Weeee!" Mind you, both of their schools are literally about 2 blocks away. I think Eric envisioned delivering the baby in the Yukon and since we have a very strict never-look-below-the-knees-while-wife-is-in-labor policy he was determined to get me to the hospital asap.

We got to Hoag. Got hooked up to the monitors. Nurse checked me. I'm still 2 cm. {FML} For those of you with no idea how this whole watermelon vs lemon thing works, you have to be 10 cm dilated to push the baby out. 2 cm is nothing. In fact, my guess is that most women with multiple children walk around for the rest of their lives 2 cm dilated. Really. Sneeze and be 2 cm dilated. Shit.

So Eric and I did what we do best. We started making the nurse laugh. There was no way we were getting sent home. We turned on the charm and Megan the nurse ate it up. An hour later when I was 2.5 cm dilated {FML, again} she came in to tell me that my doc said "go ahead and break her water." Yes! Amazing. Love my doc. So they did. And about an hour after that I was 4 cm. Ok, getting somewhere.

Then they hooked up the pitocin. And the contractions started coming on strong. For about 3 hours I laid there until I had to tell Eric to stop playing inappropriate You Tube clips because laughing with gnarly contractions wasn't working for me. I begged for my epidural. And then lost my spot in line because the woman next door was 6 cm and I was, just guess...still a 4. Bitch. {FML, cubed.}

45 minutes later. Epidural in. And I'm ready to rock and roll. They upped my pitocin dosage to a-freaking-lot and at 4pm I was ready to push. But I didn't. My doctor was stuck in traffic. So I sat there. My nurse actually told me not to move for fear the baby would come out. {Lovely visual, I know.} Finally, at 4:30 the doc arrived and after 5 pushes, he was out. All 8lbs, 4oz of him...and a week early too. Biggest baby yet. Rylan was 6.13 and Sawyer was 6.7.

Saxon Cash Beach. He's just been an awesome kid thus far {but since I put it in writing, I'm sure he'll make me take it back at some point.} In the hospital we actually had to ask the nurse if he was ok because he was sleeping so much. I know, right? Crazy. He spends his days eating, sleeping and, well, pooping. Typical.

Here he is. Someday, I'll invest in a camera that doesn't take blurry pictures.

Saxon Cash Beach. 3.25.11

And, in case you're wondering, I 100% brushed my hair and put on make-up after I delivered and before I took pics. I was tired of having hospital pics of myself where I looked like I was just beaten over the head with a baby. So, yeah, bring on the smoke and mirrors.

"Beach Party of 5, please don't come to our restaurant for a couple of years"

I mean, come on with the cuteness!

Heading home. Me: "Do we have to?"

Let the real fun begin!