Boys, Socks, and Why I Need a Baby Girl

So I just discovered I gave birth to a boy.

I realize that just now discovering the baby I had roughly a year and a week ago, is a boy is a bit inconvenient, but I have my reasons.

When you have your first baby you are just excited to finally hold your child.  Yes, you make the distinction of if the little one is a boy or a girl by the choice of his or her name.

But honestly, it’s a baby.

Point in case; think back to when you talked about your baby after he or she was first born. I am pretty sure it went kind of like this.

“You won’t believe what my baby did today!”

“My baby is cutting teeth!”

“The little one kept me up all night.”

I could go on forever. But you get the gist. Your baby is just that “a baby.” You never consider significance of your child being a boy or a girl…

Until their personalities start peaking through their all their pudgy babiness. 

And you discover that not only are you living with two males, but two that have the same sense of humor despite the twenty-four year age gap.

Point in case. 

Two weeks ago, we were packing for a trip to Milwaukee. The hubby was folding socks (something that never happens often in our house) and Darren is in his playpen to keep him from getting into everything. I am in standard packing panic mode, speed-racing around the house trying to fill two suitcases with more stuff that we need for a four day-trip.

Peals of baby laughter and man giggles are coming from the living room.

“Baby! Baby! Come here,” hubby gasps between giggles. “Watch!”

I walk into the room as he launches a pair of rolled socks in his son’s direction. Darren is sitting in the furthest corner of the playpen gurgling with laughter.

Cute, it does make me smile; but why they find is so hilarious is really beyond me.

This is when if felt the first inkling of being out numbered.

Then this past Saturday rolled around. I had a pretty relaxing morning with Darren. He was well behaved and cheerful.

Then daddy came home. 

And my cheerful well-behaved boy woke up from his nap and realized that his partner in crime had magically appeared while he was asleep.

By supper time I was ready to pull my hair out. Two and a half hours of constant yelling, grunting, protesting being told no, and etc.

And the little man wasn’t done. He was loudly stating his disgruntlement at how long his mama was taking to fix his plate. 

The hubby finally noticing my frayed ends and gives me a hug, while still hugging me he’s creates an impromptu game of peek-a-boo with Darren, swinging our bodies back and forth so that only one of us can look at Darren at a time.

Darren finds this terribly amusing.

I find in it extremely dizzying.

My frustration is about to boil over.

“Baby, just chill out,” the hubby says to try to get me to relax.

“But you two are such…….BOYS!” I sputter indignantly.

Man giggles is all I get in response. 

Boys, I can’t live with them, so I think it’s time we try to have a baby.

Hopefully it will be a girl or I am in a world of trouble.

My Baby's 1st Birthday

 I could write an epic story on how Darren's 1st Birthday went...

But the pictures make the experience priceless.

(Yes, he took the cake in the face like a champ. Though he looks surprised he still wanted more frosting. What a boy!)

Sick is not Sexy

Hey everyone. 

I am finally back from the land of sick and contagious. And while the only linger affects I have from my harrowing bout of chills, double ear infections and a sinus infection, are a scratchy throat and a semi runny nose, let me tell you.

Sick is not sexy.

I know you’re thinking to yourself ‘Yeah duh, what’s sexy about puffy watery eyes, a hackers cough, unlimited amounts of mucus, no make-up and feeling like your head is so full of cotton that is gives a whole new meaning to cotton mouth.’

Let me tell you.

When your hubby promised to love you through thick and thin, sickness and through health…

He wasn’t kiddin’ darlin’.

Perfect example is my hubby dearest when I was sick. His trophy line was:

“Babe, I know I won’t get none when you’re sick.”

YA THINK?!?

I love my hubby. He’s amazing. While I was fighting my way back to health he did the unthinkable.

He washed eighty-five percent of the dirty clothes in our house.

Yeah.

But that’s not all.

He kept the whole kitchen/dining rooms spotless for days at a time. That means cleaning dishes putting up food, etc.

All while accepting there would be no booty calls until I was feeling up to the task.

Did I mention I was sick for two weeks?

Now, you’re thinking: ‘Ok, miss-story-teller-thang. You just want to throw it in our faces that your man perfect. That he can go without and do household chores at the same time.’

Well ladies, that didn’t me he wasn’t adverse to making out with me.

Yeah. I protested. I pointed out that at any moment green mucus could come rocketing out of my nose, or that I my lips were all dry and crusty from having to breathe through my mouth 24/7.

Nope.

Didn’t phase him.

His second trophy line was: “Babe I love you any way you are.  I just miss my baby.” (If you want to include soulful pleading eyes to add dramatic effect, feel free to do so.)

Now ladies, sick is not sexy. 

WE KNOW THAT.

But how can you argue or have any woman logic when he says something like that? Even when you’re sick.

So I will admit; I was charmed into giving him a few contaminated smooches for being such a good sport. I mean the man was convincing.

Please don’t hold it against me.

Reconstructing the Truth

Lately I have been missing in action in the world bloggerdom. For good reason though; after three months of typing under the blogger name of HipHop Mommy and three additional months of living this thing we call life, I have to make a confession.

I am not as hip hop as I thought was.

For this I am truly sorry. 

No I am not. I just realized that my former title really didn’t fit in line with what I was writing about. Dirty Laundry Diving, Working Mommy Woes, She Beats Me, Mischievous Crawler, Mommy Half Days…

None of which particularly sound culture forward or hiphopish for that matter, so I have changed the name of my blog and my persona. 

I am Super Mom!

Ok, that is a bit extreme. 

I am not even close to super mom. Actually, I am trying to get a degree in that major and with the one year anniversary of me starting classes looming on the horizon, all I have to show for it is a loving husband (a bit messy though) and a adorable little boy (a screaming beast at times) who I have recently nicknamed Bubba and a whole lotta drama that comes from being a married baby momma.

I love it though.

I really do.

If I didn’t I would be here the regal you all with the hilarious and truthful moments of being a full time mother, wife, and worker. 

Yep, I am pretty crazy. 

But then I do love being crazy.

But sometimes I love being sane for more than an hour.

Or so I told myself. 

Then I went and started my own business.

Yep…

The True Stories of Motherhood and Wifedom.

I swear to tell the truth and nothing but the truth. 

Mischievous Crawler

Darren has been officially crawling for about three weeks now. I am a proud mama, exasperated at times, but definitely proud. His daddy is proud too, but I think he is too the point where he wants to pull his fro out.

It probably doesn’t help that he is feeling “under the weather.” (aka sick as a dog). And when you are “under the weather” keeping a close eye on a crawler is not the easiest task.

But I couldn’t help but chuckle at the phone call I got after work.

First, I need to explain that I do most the calling after work. The hubby never really calls me, unless it is his day off.  Which means he has spent the last ten hours in a chasing, playing, teasing, cuddling, napping, feeding, changing mind battle with Darren.

That is on a good day.

When he’s not sick (I mean under the weather).

Adding a major head cold into the mix can make the situation more desperate.

“So how are you feeling?” Me, the concerned wife.

“Uuh. Not too hot.” The under the weather hubby.

“How’s Darren been for you today.”

“Mischievous”

“What?”

“Hey! Darren! No.” (pause) “Don’t make me put you back in the play pen.”

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaghhhhhh.” Darren protesting.

“Oh, you said mischievous.” Me, trying not to laugh too hard. “I get it.”

“So I am going to stop by the store and pick up WIC.” I continue.

“NO!” Come home. I need you here.” The hubby, desperately ready for a daddy break.

While it is funny, I can understand.

Even when he wasn’t crawling Darren would find a way of getting into things he wasn’t supposed too. The mail, his own socks, the diaper bag; he made it happen. Now it’s the TV remote, the wipes, the drawer holding our DVDs, and anything else you could possibly think of.  Where before we had to be two steps ahead of his latest shenanigans, now we have to be ten yards ahead our little rug rat. The hubby to his credit can deal. His sense of humor and amusement at Darren’s latest antics keep him on weary, but cheerful alert.

His son is so much like him, he can’t really get mad.

The other day as we were out shopping and I made a comment that now Darren was crawling made me excited for when he would learn how to walk.

The look on the hubby’s told me he thought I was insane.

“No babe. I am not even use to him crawling yet.”

His parental exasperation is so apparent, I felt a tiny bit sorry for him.

Mommy Half Day

I took a mommy half day today. It was actually like a fourth of a day after working an eight hour shift and showing up at my parents place by six o’clock.

But I had had three uncontested hours to myself.

No demands.

Did I feel guilty?

No.

Should I?

Maybe.

I did take a twenty minute shower.

It was pure bliss. I even got to shave. Highly impressive.

All day at work I had been dreaming of that shower. About using my beyond believable Bath and Body Works body wash and lotion (Sweet Pea). About the hot water warming my African skin…ok, that’s too much info, but the thought of an unrushed shower really was the saving grace that got me through the day.

Being a mom I did think about maximizing this alone time to get my house cleaned and organized. But then I walked through the door and realized I would need more than a few hours to truly tackle my ransacked-looking home.

Then my shower relaxed me so much that I decided that I should wear jeans instead of my usual jogging pants.  So I compromised and folded laundry while I watched The Real Housewives of Hollywood.

Yes, I admit it. It’s one of my dirty little secrets and I am completely hooked on the Hollywood housewives.

They’re like a different species.

They make me love my life.

The ransacked-laundry filled mess it is.

That says a lot because lately that life has been showing its tarnished parts. Dissatisfaction has been rearing its head. Plus, it seems that everyone has a stake in what I do on a daily basis.

But all it took was three hours and the housewives to make it somewhat better.

And David Turtera.

He’s like the Cesar Milan of weddings.

But I realized something in those three hours. That everyone has a purpose, actually several purposes in life. The idea is not to get lost in between your purposes.

After discovering this, I decided my purpose was to enjoy my alone time and not fill it with activities that would stress me out.

Hence I relaxed and watched the Hollywood housewives.

Amazing what a decent shower will do.

Don’t Cry Over Spilled Milk

I usually don’t blog about what goes on at work. But I am making an exception because Thursday was bone crushing draining day. And I know you all will thoroughly enjoy this.

Because it involves me and totes of milk, so hold on tight.

The day started out decently, but I should have known when truck was forty minutes late that a disaster was looming in the horizon.

Then my truck partner told me there were one hundred and two totes of milk.

Yes, 102. I didn’t stutter.

Let me explain the process of how we get all this milk into the cooler. First, all the milk remaining in the cooler is pulled forward so all the new milk comes in it can be put behind the old milk. The truck driver sends the milk down off the truck and my truck partner stacks it five totes high. This is where I come in.

I am supposed to use a dolly to move the totes to the cooler.

Now, this would be fine and dandy if I was a six foot man who weighted at least a hundred and fifty pounds. But I am not.

I am five foot six woman who weighs roughly a hundred and twenty five pounds, give or take some inches or pounds.

Oh yeah, each tote has four gallons of milk in it.

That’s four hundred and eight gallons of milk.

Yes, 408. I didn’t stutter. That’s twenty gallons per trip.

It is the quite a work out.

The picture I create while moving these totes is comical. Because the totes obviously weigh several times my weight, I have to rock the totes to get the dolly under them. Then I have do this awkward jumping while rocking the totes again to get the dolly to lean back on its wheels. This process usual consists of me getting my fingers pinched, but I am none the worse for wear.

Once I have the dolly leaned on its wheels I have to maneuver it into the cooler. So away I go weaving back and forth, trying to hold up under the load praying I don’t run into a customer.

Well I should have been looking out for the cooler shelving instead of customers.

As I staggered into the cooler with my third load of milk I catch the edge of a tote on bottom of the energy drink shelving.

In slow the motion I watch as twenty gallons of milk topple.

I was in even slower motion as a lake of 1% Nature’s Touch milk is made in the cooler.

There are still eighty seven totes left.

Groan. This is not what I meant when I wrote Embracing My Clumsiness.

But am I surprised this unfortunate event happened to me?

NO?

I actually expected it. I mean come on? You should have known, me trying to haul even two totes of milk could be dangerous.

That’s why I can’t cry over spilled milk.

Happy New Year’s!

Blogger’s Block

I am at a loss for words. For the first time since September, I have no clue what to blog about. Well, there are several things I could blog about, but I really like to produce writing that my followers will find funny, compelling, or just plain interesting.

I could blog about the Cowboys as the hubby insists, but between you and me, the Cowboys and I only associate with each other become my husband insists.  And because they are breaking his heart this season, I am here to pick up the pieces.

I could blog about Darren, but it is not much fun writing about him when he is gone  (Missing the Little Man). Yep, I did forget to mention that because our daycare provider is out for the holidays, my little man is staying with the hubby’s mom for the next few days. We are supposed to pick him up at the end of the week, but predictably Minnesota weather is pulling out all the stops for the ninth winter storm of the season. The forecast is twenty inches plus freezing rain.

Ugh.

 But I promised I wouldn’t complain about the weather any more. (Winter Gripes)

I could blog (make fun of) about the hubby, but at this point he is getting on my last nerve. I wish I could blame my irritation on a specific situation, but after much thinking it just because he is a guy. Ladies you know what I mean.

I could blog about my family. I really want to blog about my family, but I refuse to hash out the ridiculous drama that seems to unfold whenever we get together on my public blog.

I could blog about my new camera (I heart it!), and how I am trying to start up my new photography business: ID Photography. This is something I am excited and completely overwhelmed with. I have been brainstorming on how to bring in clients to build my portfolio. So if you live in southern Minnesota give send me email at intuitiondesignid@gmail.com. I have free sessions available to all who are interested.

I know its shameless plug, but I need to get my hustle on.  Sue me.

No really, don’t.

Just let me take your photos.

Please.

And check out my Facebook page. I.D. Photography.

Another shameless plug. Sorry.

On that note I’ve decided to blog about my blog, which also has a Facebook page. The Hip Hop Life. Like it if you like my blog.

Another shameless plug. I have no shame. Shame on me.

This is what happens when I have blogger’s block. Shaking my head at myself. Shame on me.

Reality Birth Control

I love family. 

Anyone who really knows me knows I love family time and family always comes first.

But there are other reasons they are important.

They are my reality birth control. 

Before you get all confused let me explain. 

It’s become tradition that we end up spending the Christmas holiday with the hubby’s family and my foster family. No matter how long we are with them, whether it is two days or ten, we always come away with feeling relaxed but a bit skeptical about our roles as parents.

This is because of all the rascals we come into contact with.

Yes, I call them rascals. Because they are always up to something, being bad, pulling at your heart strings, or simply driving you bonkers. Let me spread the story of holiday cheer called children.

First there is Monkey Face. My foster parents first born daughter. Always perpetually in motion, by no means is this bad thing but she is the clumsiest child I know. If you have never seen a person trip on air, you need to meet this girl; she has mastered it.  At the age of five (I think J) she is also the most insightful child I know. 

Being a child she still slurps her juice for two minutes at the dinner table not noticing the noise is comparable to chalk screeching on a black board to an adult. But what took the cake was our conversation as we settled in the pew for the Christmas Eve service.

“Brittany, why is D**** not here?” She whispers this because she knows she’s not suppose to talk a lot in church.

“He had some other things planned for tonight.”

“But he needs to be here. Church is important,” she insists sternly.

I am at a loss for words. Not to throw the hubby under the bus, the child has a point. 

“I know sweetie. I will let him know you say so.” This seems to satisfy her because she gives me a firm nod, sits back and picks up her program.

Yeah. Completely floored.

Then there’s The Boss. Mr. Self Assured. The Boss is the hubby’s nephew. This boy has an older brother, but it’s definitely him that does the bullying in their relationship. He acts hard like a gangsta when he needs to and is caring, mischievous, ruff little boy when he doesn’t. I would repeat full convos of him threatening to punch someone in the neck if they didn’t leave him alone, but that would make him seem less than the angel he is.

The Boss’s softer side emerges when his cousin Darren is around and he insists on feeding him, wiping his nose, directing you on how to change his diaper, and most of all giving his little cuzo hugs when he cries.

But beware of boys they always have something up their sleeves. 

The Boss: “Hey Brittany.”

Me: “Yeah?”

The Boss: “You see all those presents under the tree?”

Me: “Yeah, there are a lot of them.”

The Boss rests his chin on my knee and looks up at me with big eyes and a cheesy smile. “I can open them for you!”  

At that point I had suppress my urge to laugh and tell him no, he could not open his presents before Christmas.

The stories don’t end there. I could fill your ears with stories of a boy who wouldn’t keep his clothes on, and another little girl who can switch the charm on an off, but that would take too long and I still have to talk about my little monster. 

Darren finally found something that made him master the art of crawling.

(Yep, you heard me. HE’S CRAWLING!! )

That things is a red remote control sports car operated by The Boss. 

If a crawling baby isn’t momentary birth control. I don’t know what is.