I’m free. Finally. Can I get a whoop whoop? I know. You have no clue what I am whoop whooping about, but by the time you have finished reading this, I think you will be joyfully whooping with.

I now have a few strong beliefs regarding parenthood. The first: that when it comes to babies, everyone should receive one difficult one. It just seems fair that way. There’s something horribly wrong with the idea of someone having ten children and all of them being easy breezy colic free in infanthood. It’s all so moms can earn that extra sufferage badge (Me!) And make everyone think they had the WORST baby EVER in the history of all WORST babies EVER. Then, any time someone says they had a difficult baby, I morph into THAT person and I get competitive with the horrible stories. {“Oh really? Have you met Satan’s daughter? Did your child sleep with you for ELEVEN months? Wake up every two hours for the first nine months of her LIFE? SPIT UP BLOOD? NO? I didn’t think so. I win.” And if they say yes, I then pull out the trump card and say DO YOU HAVE THREE? And then I usually win again.} (and any mom with three or more is now rolling her eyes because, well, let’s face it,  the obvious reasons that this is extremely annoying and there are lots of people out there that could easily put the smack down on me with their horror stories-yet I like to wallow my misery and write about it on the dot com…)

Regardless, the bad baby subject matter goes right up there on the shelf with natural childbirth, categorized in the GOOD-FOR-YOU-BUT-NO-ONE-ELSE-CARES MAYBE-YOU’LL-GET-DOUBLE-DIAMONDS-IN-YOUR-MOMMY-CROWN WHEN-YOU-GO-TO-HEAVEN section of life. I know. You’re all, “OMGAH get over it already. If I hear her whine about how hard Emerson was one more time I’m going to throw my laptop around the room and send her some cheese and wine and a tiny violin and anything else generically indicating she’s a totally pathetic attention whore via the internet, in the mail. Packaged delicately in some homemade ANTHRAX. SHUT UP ALREADY...” 

So to summarize my blog subject matter run amuck: My first point was that there is just something wrong with the delicate balance of the universe and all things equally shared if:

1. Some mom out there somewhere never experiences a truly difficult baby. SUFFER already. (Sheesh.) And…

2. Everyone should experience a strong willed child and the execution of the impossible experience that is POTTY TRAINING.

I am not incompetent and neither is Aiden. He’s absolutely brilliant. I think that is the problem. But I won’t lie. I was beginning to think SOMETHING was wrong with me as a parent. Side note: apart from my open soapbox of gripeage let me just say, our children, as a result, are NOTHING short of fabulous personality. The personality practically oozes from their ears, and they have enough to share with ten other kids greatly lacking. I’m slightly worried Malone is going to be BORING compared to these other two, for the simple fact that he’s been so awesomely good (so far apart from the whole volcanic eruptions from both ends bit.)

Back to my original POINT: It only took me 1.5 years to train Aiden. He would tinkle just fine. But no poop. Oh the horror of the poop: the child was absolutely non coercible in the process of poopage. I got so tired of (very helpful, mind you) people being all, oh did you try the chart? We did a chart. He was trained in one day. Did you try cheerios? Toys? M and M’s? Standing on your head? Disney World? Lock him in his room for a week so he could sleep in his own feces? Make him clean it up? Threaten him? Dangle him from his toes on an overpass? LAXATIVES? -My kid is 5 mos old and potty trained. She also gave up the paci and is now reading on the first grade level.- {REALLY? Did you purchase her first TRAINING BRA last week, too? Good for you. My kid is now four, poops his pants…and this totally stresses me out.}

We tried it all. I was tired. And bitter that so far, nothing has been easy for us in the parenting department. I had given up forcing the situation. My child needs structure, and I am mastering that delicate art with his interesting temperament every day, (read: my CLONE) but Aiden will not be forced or rushed or coerced…into anything. And so here I was, with a newborn and an eighteen month old, and a nearly 4 year old…wiping butts. Stinky little butts. All. Day. Long. It would just be really stellar if we could reduce that number from three to two since Aiden just so happened to be old enough and capable. I have bigger things to worry about like blisters on my nutritionally giving woman parts and the latest whelp on Emerson’s head from booty dancing on the coffee table…

And then Thursday morning, Aiden was doing THE dance. There he was in the middle of the den, in his Mickey Mouse whitey tidies, doing the dance. Me: (I think around three times…) “Aiden, do you need to go to the potty?”
Aiden: “No.” And then ten minutes later he asked me permission to poop in his pull-ups. {If I didn’t give him permission to poop in the pull-ups, he would hold it in for six days. No lie. Strong willed. I think you get it...I can’t possibly preface everything in this story so just roll with it or ill be explaining for days. Trust me. We’d tried EVERYTHING}

But he wasn’t wearing pull-ups. So on his way to get some, he peed on the floor. And when I say he peed on the floor, I mean he left a trail the size of Niagra falls all the way from the far corner of the rug in the living room to the bathroom, as he screamed “It’s leaking!” and left a gigantic puddle in one great big grand finale…all for me to clean up.

I was livid. Completely frustrated at this entire enabling vs. forcing vs. BATTLE of wills…this neverending cycle of a conundrum. “You are not a dog. Yet you just went on the floor like one.” I stated, and then promptly pulled out the good cop bad cop split personality approach as I firmly placed him in the bathroom for a come to Jesus on the potty moment. This was no accident. It was sheer neglect and the refusal to go when he was fully capable. I was done. This was it. (I had no clue where I was going with it, but I made him sit there.) “You will poop today. You are too big for this.” A major struggle ensued, but I made Aiden sit. He begged me to get up, but he stayed for a good thirty minutes, just to make the point, for me, that sitting on the potty is not so bad. We had tried all of this before, but it was different this time.

The potty is not scary...the potty is our friend... And I DID make it enjoyable. I knew he would fight it, so I broke out one of his fave movies on the laptop, and let him watch while I intermittently made him push. I even broke out the coke and cookies, to rewarding him for each effort. I knew he had to go and he was fighting it. In the end, we had a big bathroom party (myself and Emerson dutifully playing the cheerleadering roles: Emerson was pumped since she was able to partake in the rewards system of one mini Chips A Hoy per push.) I had de ja vu of the entire labor process again…

And this time…we made a small breakthrough. I could tell he was trying. For the first time ever. But the moment had passed. And I was, once again, too late. But for some reason, I felt like I made some ground that day. 

Here comes the best part: And such is typical in life, when Aiden went for his weekly routine of spend the night at my parents house on Friday. That night, when they turned on the jets in the hot tub for his weekly luxury-filled bubble bath, he suddenly had to go. My parents, who have been just as eager as I have been, promptly placed him on the potty. They said he had no option as he’d been holding it for so long. And he went. Apparently there was a major party, and they took pics for his baby book…(YES ACTUAL PICTURES…we were so proud to have something to frame and put at his bedside-LOOK! It’s your first big boy POO!) and apparently Aiden made a comment about “what a huge turd he had produced.” (We need to discuss the correct reference to one’s waste products) We missed it, but when the phone rang later that night, and his excited little voice told me all about it…I knew the payoff had come.

And that, my dear bloggy peeps, is the eternally long story of our potty training conundrum, and how Aiden (FINALLY) pooed. {After 1.5 years of effort.} I totally missed the moment, but have photos to document said monumentally unbelievable event.

Whoop Whoop. The End. 

The usuals:

seagrass and linen

here we go

baby blues and sick babes

We're doing quite well.

Really.

As you can see, Jamin has recovered quite quickly from his traumatic birthing experience, and besides a few blisters, is doing extremely well in the nursing department. He was awesome-I'm really so glad I didn't have to experience any of that this time around.

The birthing experience is over, and the final volume to the Mills family has been installed. It's always crazy when you finally get to meet the little person you've been growing inside of you after all this time. To watch their facial expressions and think: were they really doing this in my womb? Did this little guy actually come from me? A face to put with all those movements, an actual personification of love. I guess this is the part where I get to share my birthing story. I kind of feel like I earned it, so humor me and read if you wish...

I feel like all births should be just like something out of a movie. With the rise and fall of a crescendo, and one final push, the baby is delivered, tears fall, and a golf clap can be heard mysteriously echoing in the background.

Malone's birth was nothing like that.

At 5 a.m. on Monday morning, with the beginning of an induction, we were there. Ready to go. The I.V. was started around 6, and those contractions were soon coming. It was around 7:45 when my epidural was in place. I go quickly, and the {wonderful} nurse {she delivered Aiden and Emerson as well} recommended I go ahead and get the epidural. (They freak me out, but they're always better than the alternative.)

This pregnancy, I'd heard quite a few horror stories from my friends regarding epis, so for some reason I felt a bit skiddish about them. I guess you can chalk it all up to one over all bad feeling. I wasn't sure why. I'd already done this twice. But its the unknown of it all that always freaks me out. As soon as mine was in place, I felt as though a load had been lifted, and I breathed a huge sigh of relief. "Epidurals really get a bad wrap," I thought to myself. "Unpleasant, but not a big deal. You totally did this. Scariest part over" Giant needles to the spinal cord complete with electrical shocks when put in place=not my forte.

Our nurse, a few moments later, put in the catheter in place. I felt it. And then the uneasiness set in. When I mentioned it, everyone told me it was only because the epidural was not working all the way yet. To give it time. At around 9, the doctor came in to break my water. That was when the contractions really began.

It was one of those moments in my life where I was faced with the fight or flight option: since I couldn't very well take the IV out of my arm at this point, say JUST KIDDING and ask for a do over, I decided to make my body work with it. I was breathing through each contraction, as best I could, letting all the tension go to one hand and forcing the rest of my body to relax while we waited for the anesthesiologist to make a return visit. I literally went to Tahiti in my mind. I was on the beach. In my safe place.

Looking back now, I was kind of impressed (not to mention totally surprised) with myself, and my ability to handle the pain. Jamin said he had no clue I was suffering that much, because I handled it so well. (read: I was levitating off the bed with Aiden Exorcist style the pain was so bad, but this time I knew what I had to do) The faulty epi was taking the very edge off each contraction, but I was feeling nearly all of it, and with each one the pain increased. In the end, the anesthesiologist pushed four doses of a new drug directly into my line, with which he said he should be able to perform a c-section. I remember telling him if he cut into me I would definitely be able to feel it. I could even jog around the room if he'd needed me to. He then told me our only option was to redo the epidural. He wasn't sure, but apparently the needle had slipped.

Wait. What? Seriously? I'm now supposed to sit through these awful contractions AND let you perform the scariest procedure ever AGAIN that didn't even work the FIRST time? And what's my pain management option after that? Natural childbirth? WHY isn't this working??? I was asking all these questions. No one could really answer them in a brief panic session. I then went back to my game face.

I gave the go ahead and the epidural took nearly twenty minutes the second time. The anesthesiologist wanted to make sure he didn't miss it. My mom was my lean-into person, and she was completely stellar. Jamin tends to wiggle, so I'd asked her before hand to be the person I used for my support. I knew she would be statuesque and dependable, if anyone would. And she was. She never budged. I was breathing into her and leaning and sweating the entire time, trying to get through each contraction despite the fact I was supposed to stay completely still. And she never moved. She was my angel. Props to my mom.

The second epidural in place, it actually worked. And not a moment too soon. Upon checking me afterwards, I was nine centimeters and ready to push. It was working this time, much to my relief, but not enough to take away any of the pressure. I felt it. ALL of it. If you look back at my video tape, (yes, we taped it, and will edit it one day to give to our children) I can actually be heard yelling "its a bowling ball" and that "they need to freaking get it OUT."

Pause: With Emerson I pushed ever so slightly and she was out. With Malone, I knew it was a boy, in those last moments. It was when I couldn't get him out. I pushed for a good twenty minutes, non stop, and skipping the truly gory parts, he was finally here. I just wanted him out. I hate I wasn't able to enjoy it more. I wanted to savor it, and simply wasn't able to. They handed him to me and shortly after and I just laid there on the bed.

Oh well. At least I'll be fully conscious for his childhood. Unless I can get my hands on some more of those awesome pain pills...

When the doctor delivered, he didn't say anything. We had been bantering about what he was for weeks now, and McDreamy himself had predicted a boy, along with Jamin. So he simply lifted him into the air and I could see. I, on the other hand, had sworn up and down on my Great grandmother's sister's mother's cousins grave and my womanly instincts on knowing my body, that he was actually a she. I was so wrong. And couldn't be happier about it. Just glad he was here and safe and healthy.

And that is the story of the grand arrival of Benjamin Malone Mills.

Aiden and Emerson have been the best part of it all. They have been absolutely thrilled to be around him. Emerson simply lifts her arms out to hold him, and has already taken on little mommy personalities of her own. It's precious. Aiden is priceless. When he first saw Malone, we asked what he thought it was and he simply stated "it's a boy". When we told him he was right, the look on his face was simply timeless. He then proclaimed he wants to "teach the new baby tricks" and says he is "beautiful."

In the meantime, I keep catching Jamin lifting Malone into the air saying the name Benjamin triumphantly, in a good storybook kind of voice, like a scene from the Lion King. I walk into the room, and there he is, arms in the air with baby. He's a little thrilled with himself since Benjamin happens to mean "Son of Jamin." Not to mention oh so hilarious. I keep reminding him that Benjamin was my grandfather's name, so he can tone it down a little in the drama department. He just loves being right, and will be relishing in the victory of it for a very long time.

Malone is a wonderful baby. He truly is a blessing, a HEALTHY blessing, and is simply a delight. He makes a great addition to our little family and (MOST IMPORTANTLY) so far, so good in the sleeping department. Hallelujah. I think we earned it.

I think the world is overdue for a few Millsy updates:

1. 32 weeks and counting! That would be eight months for all you non-mathies out there. I've gained ten pounds in the past seven weeks. I'm totally not laying off the double stuffs. My props to the anorexic pregos that exist in this world. I don't look like you. But I'll be HAWT in two years time anyway.

People will be all, OMGAH Aiden, is that your mom???!!! DUDE she is HOT!!! and I'll be all, WHO? ME? WHY YES, I AM A MOTHER OF THREE, and I DO DRIVE A MINIVAN! But I'm hawt and I LOVE MY LIFE too, so that totally makes up for it! Thanks for recognizing. and Aiden will be all, DUDE, SHUT IT. That's totally my mom. (In between gags.) And Jamin will be all, YEAHHHHHH!!!! SCORE in the WIFERY department!!!! sneaking high fives every time I walk past him. Riiiigggghhhhhtttt. High expectations much?

I hate it when people whine constantly on their blogs. I'm so THAT person today. Here it is. I'm kinda large and in charge. I know it. And those double stuffs are called coping mechanisms. I walk through the grocery store, babes in arms, and wonder if I'll make it to the check out without collapsing. I've been on drugs to stop contractions, which in turn, make me feel oh so worse. (read: pseudo bed rest=I'm getting a maid) Coming off the Zoloft has been beyond words in the difficulty department. BUT I know I'm in good company. {Can I get a whoop whoop?}There. Done. Over it. Just had to have my "turn." People have babies every day. They've had them for centuries. I'm just wincing my way through this one, hoping to laugh at myself in the meantime...and I have a lot to be thankful for.

2. Aiden hopped out of the shower this week and immediately turned his back to me, shaking his booty. Me: "WOOHOO! shake that booty! That is one good lookin' booty! Mommy would trade her booty for yours any day!"

Aiden: "Mommy." (very matter of factly) "your booty is special, too."

Thanks, Aiden, for the boost of confidence in the booty department.

3. Emerson has burst into character this spring, completely delighting us with her awesome little personality. Jamin and I are kind of glad we opted NOT to throw her through the window the first IMPOSSIBLE year of her life. She has this little miley cirus scratchy voice going on, and it makes my day to hear her laugh. Many of you may remember Aiden's Damien face. This is Emerson's Chucky laugh. Together, they make the perfect evil dynamic duo. Be very afraid if you wake in the middle of the night and they're both standing over you.

Just sayin.

She's morphed into this hilarious little stirrer of pots. Almost as if she's had enough abuse from Aiden in the first 16 months of her life, and its her turn. Aiden will be building something and we hear the laugh, just before the attack. Something will be dismantled, and Emerson will run towards us with her evil little laugh, coveted item in tow, big brother following behind... squealing unhappily. Yes. he squeals.

4. Emmy has a shoe fetish. This chick is totally into them. I guess she gets those honestly in her genes, but seriously, the girl prefers to try on different pairs all day long. She brings me a pair every half hour to help her modeling around the house. Even if they aren't hers. And then screams at me if I refuse to assist in said modeling venture. Little prima donna honestly thinks I'm her assistant. I guess she's not that far off from the truth.

That's my girl! I think she has around five pair now? She needs enough to match each bow...

5. Aiden is done with his first year of preschool. {sniff} His end of the year party was today, and we all had a blast. The kids were allowed to bring a ride-on toy. Think little cannon balls. Like a giant bike-a-thon where you ran the risk of being bowled over by the nearest three year old headed toward you full throttle.The preschool also rented out a giant blow up moon jump thing, and the kids loved it. The last photo is of Aiden with his two wonderful teachers. We sure will miss them-they were a bigger blessing than they realize this year!

In the meantime:

Yes, Please.

Puttered out.

Popscicles!