Workouts and Blowouts

Alternate blog title, am I right or am I right?

It’s amazing the gross things you talk about, sing about, accept as routine as parents of little babies. When we change Henry’s diaper, Anna comes running over.

“I want to see his poop!”

Don’t we all, kid, don’t we all.

I walk around calling my poor babies whatever comes to mind. Henry is Henny, Little Henny, Boobie Bear, Big Spitter (this is to the tune of Big Pimpin’, obviously) and who knows what other Mommyese high-pitched utterances that just fall off my tongue.

He’s rightly ashamed of me.

Everyone talks about how different kids are, even siblings, but who knew my two children could be polar opposite poopers? My daughter had, I think, one blowout in her life. Henry? Can’t keep it in his pants.

He has at least one daily blowout. He gets to change outfits like Beyonce on World Tour.

He’s also three months old and being officially administered reflux meds.

Only my kid can rock double chins this cutely. Just saying.

But this time Mommy’s taking the drug-dosing into her own hands and is doctoring over the counter Prevacid to give to him to avoid the hassle and inevitable fighting with docs that goes along with the fun of a refluxing baby. I think I slipped into third-person there because I realize I sound like a lunatic.

But don’t worry, this is not as insane as it sounds. I’ll go into the whole deal in another post. But good news is, I think the medication is working already. And by working I mean he isn’t screaming every time he eats and crying all day.

I’m like an intravenous drug user, getting all my “stuff” ready.

So besides walking around with a fussy baby who pukes on every surface (cleaning spitup takes up a lot of my time, actually, I think something like 47% of my waking hours to be scientific about it) I’ve been trying to work out more.

After my triumphant first three mile run last week my calves were incredibly sore. I chalked it up to being fat and um, out of shape. But they were still sore  five days later, especially my right calf. I tried to run anyway, since I had a babysitter visiting to meet and great the Sweets, and I had to stop a half-mile into the run. Every step was pretty painful and it felt like my calf was seized up into a painful rock hard lump.

I was dressed all fancy, too.

So I replaced running with even more Spin classes, and even pretended I was in my own personal Spin class when I couldn’t make the last Sunday morning class (9 a.m. Boo, gym.)

I still got sweaty. I’m good at that.

No running since. I’m going to wait until my calf doesn’t feel sore on the stairs and then tack on a good few extra days on top of that. I don’t want any more lingering injuries, jeez. Hear that, body? Stop falling apart.

In other highly exciting yet highly uncharacteristic news, I’m getting a house cleaner for a day. I’m a cleanliness stickler who lives with the misery of not being able to have my home as spotless as I’d like (my dog is more of a problem here than two kids, by the way). My husband’s family is visiting this weekend and I freaked out at the prospect of cleaning my house top to bottom with that fussing baby I carry around all day in my arms. I priced out some “deep cleaning” offers…we shall see if the cleaning is decent, and if it’s truly “deep” and worth the cost which was surprisingly reasonable. It all feels weirdly sinful and like shamefully luxurious to hire someone to clean my house. The only other time I’ve done it was right after Anna was born and I was, again, totally overwhelmed with a non-sleeping, non-happy-to-be-a-baby baby. Two women spent the two hours vacuuming and mopping. That’s it. That’s all they got to. My house isn’t even that big. I do that shit in like three minutes (I get sweaty). So I swore never again will I be tempted to get a house cleaner.

I’ll let you know how it goes. After my butler drops me off and my stylist blows my hair out.

This is the original kid who drove me batty as a sub-six-monther:

She turned out to be the best child ever. Hear that, Henry? You better do the same.

We’re fans of the Yankees around here. And sheep.

Isn’t it funny how when it comes to dressing a preschool-aged girl, the frumpier the better? Like, the more weird patterns, tights, knits, and mumus you can cram on her thirty-pound frame, the cuter she looks? If the outfit looks like you closed your eyes and grabbed ten things form the old lady rack at the thrift store, it will be an adorable ensemble for a two, three or four-year-old girl? Or a grown female hipster, I guess. Not me, I’m ten pounds and eight gray hairs past the cuteness limit for that.

I love dressing this kid.

But she only loves dressing like this lady:

“I’m in love with Belle, Mommy!”

“Oh, I know…princess train conductor child o’ mine.”