The last few years of my life have all been a blur. When Jamin and I were childless, we had all the time in the world. Seriously. All the time I could ever want. To do anything. Ever. {We just thought we were busy. We just thought we were tired.}

 I vaguely remember, as if looking through some obstructed, foggy memory, what that was like.

 I went shopping. At the MALL. With FRIENDS. For CLOTHES. That were for ME.

I could do this thing called BROWSING. I could stay out as long as I wanted without having to adjust the stroller, change a diaper, or pop in a pacie and do it all in exact synchronization with meltdown hour due to loss of naps. I could walk down any aisle without uttering short low gurgled grunts of warnings in the semblance of a cow in labor when those little hands reach out for something that cost more than our monthly income. And I could stand and debate over an item for as long as I deemed the situation warranted, without the sudden demand for “SNACK!” And “JUICE!” coming from my immediate lower vicinity. 

But forget shopping. I could take naps. I could lie on the couch for as long as I deemed fit and spend my Saturdays doing whatever I wanted. I could SLEEP IN.

Then one day I blinked. And there was a mortgage. A dog. Three kids and a pair of uber-saggy woman parts to prove they belong to me. And though the numbers may not tally up at the moment to my exact age, I think three kids add up to about five years each. Yep. I think that’s a fair amount.

And I realized I’m old. 30. That’s me. This December. So, thirty plus fifteen gives me the precise equivalent of 45. I know it’s all about perspective, and attitude, but thirty isn’t twenty. And it may be flirty and thriving, but in the grand celebration of feeling a bit creaky and saggy, there are some things I have decided I can no longer pull off. Or bother to. I’m not talking skinny jeans (though the jury is still out on that fashion statement.) It’s the literal things my body can no longer handle due to this dramatically different aging process we call parenthood, and the children that wreak havoc upon our bodies, as a result.

I’m now too old for…

1. Roller Coasters - I could ride with the best of them. I remember doing so many rides at six flags that my equilibrium would be all kinds of screwy the next day. I could eat a full-fledged meal and then go for the ninja backwards. I popped out a few puppies, and the next thing I knew I was suddenly worried that the roller coaster wasn’t that stable. What if we fall off? I’m not so invincible. That I just may lose that hamburger I just downed, and BOY do I have a whopper of a headache. I also think I lost half my spinal cord on that last corkscrew. Now I know what all those disclaimer-warning signs are about. For people like me. I’ve officially joined the masses.  I still love the notion of an all American good time…but I’ve definitely lost my hard core edge in the land of roller coasters.

2. Junk Food - Which, I mean, duh. The obvious. Who really wants to down five double doozies after a package of sour patch kids at the mall a-la-the teenage years anymore, anyway? Okay. Me. When I’m pregs. But with child, I no longer am. Again with the babies and the aging. I used to eat all the stuff I wanted without so many consequences. Cellulite aside, stuffing my face with piles of junk isn’t so much my forte anymore. Stomach ache much? The bod = no longer equipped to handle massive amounts of crap.

3. Tanning bed - I’m over it. I wish I’d never caved to the pressure of teenage years of yore. I’ve always been fair skinned. But seriously, I don’t care to look like the old lady hairspray chick from there’s something about Mary by the time I’m 35. I stopped a couple of years ago. Leatherface much? That’s so nineties, and the damage is irreversible. Let’s face it: you look super insecure when you’re brown in November. It’s okay to be comfortable with the skin you’re in. Who has time? Life is too short to spend hours in the cancer coffin.

4. Horror movies - I went with a group of friends to see Paranormal activity the other night. Yeah. I actually left the kiddies with the hubs. So I’m all lying in the bed, tossing and turning, angry with myself for seeing some stupid movie, trying my best to close my eyes, and get a grip when Jamin decides to be hilarious and put his hand in front of my face. I screamed. And nearly slapped him. I almost died. Of cardiac arrest. In the dark. I’m still not entirely sure I’m giving those up if it weren’t for my loss of…

5. Pulling an all nighter - Which I used to do in college all the time. And you think it would get easier as I am older, but the whole waking-up-to-feed-the-kid-constantly thing isn’t flying with me. Sleeping = essential. Can’t even FATHOM staying up past ten at the moment.

WOW. I’m fun. {And whiney!}

Your turn: I know I’m not the only one. Spill it.  

I live my life in sheer amazement at the ability of my children to transform a clean area into complete wreckage in mere moments. My kids have super powers. As in Saturday-morning-cartoons-a-la-Captain-Planet-mega-powers. They simultaneously punch their little fists into the air and some random voice from the great beyond emits itself (sometimes with giant cartoon sound waves.) I don’t usually have a chance to listen, because I’m chasing them about the house attempting to subdue the chaos, but its some key phrase about letting their powers combine to destroy our home. Neatness=down to zero. These kids are little disaster inducing phenoms with individual tickers…waiting to go off on impact. 

Aiden embodies the characteristics of an octopus in a hurricane. We’ll call him Octorricane boy. A mammoth Octopus with a ridic plethora of arms combined with his intense speed and omnipresent ability to be everywhere at once. No room, surface, or area is considered safe. The noise. The speed. The intensity of it all...give him five seconds and anyone left in the wake of Octorricane boy’s path will rue the day.

Emerson is an exceptional force of nature. She possesses the lifelong ability to cause extreme amounts of sleep deprivation for her parents. When their guard is down, this uncanny strength is paired with violent Richter scale seismic quakes caused by extreme amounts of a not so delicate balance of whining and all out screams when denied any request. I’m quite surprised she hasn’t broken the glass in our home with her unreal achievements in octaves. Seizemo girl is quite the force to be reckoned with when she does not get her way. She can be quite exhausting.

A Tsunami with his special spittle powers and major horrid diapers a-la volcano of bodily fluids is Malone. He’s alternately known as Explosa-boy. You’re enjoying his presence like a nice pretty day on the beach, basking in his smile and his alluring, irresistible face when WHAMO! You’re totally sprayed with this sudden eruption of crap and regurgitated breast milk. The kid remains immobile yet maintains the ability to produce more laundry than Octorricane and Seizemo combined. The constant breastfeeding is a weapon of choice for Explosa boy, weakening his mother by yet another form of exhaustion, and furthering his cause for chaos. He has some mad projectile skills and sometimes intentionally aims for different areas of the room…exorcist style. His forcibly eliminated bodily fluids cannot be matched.

Our home has been declared a national disaster area. The coffee table is now a launching pad of Olympic high jump proportions. The piles of clutter and dust bunnies apparently mate at night, managing to multiply on their own even after they’ve been cleared for the fifth time in a row. The laundry is at its all time pinnacle of ridiculous proportions, growing daily. And yet here I am, once again, trying to keep my head above the diapers.

Hi. My name is Ashley. I quit. I am a reformed OCD clean freak, cured by time and the natural resources that are my own children. It’s a good day if I brush my teeth. I can’t seem to get my “act” together (whatever THAT’S supposed to be) I’m perpetually EXHAUSTED and for now, there are more important things in life than tending to laundry, repeatedly picking up toys and making the beds every SINGLE morning.

With a tag team super human triple threat on the loose, I just can’t beat them.

So, in celebratory surrender, I’m putting up my feet and joining their ranks with some stereotypical stay at home mom bon bons action, while I enjoy the forces of natural disaster with my latest DVR acquirement. All praises to mass chaos and Oprah.

THE question I think all pregnant women thoroughly dread from the casual passerby. I will, if I must, preface this brutally honest entry with the factoid that I do not always despise the “how are you doing” question. It can be really sweet of people to ask. But it can have different connotations depending on from where said question actually originates.

If it comes from my mom, or my doctor, it’s different from say, the random person I know has issues with being what most of us would refer to as “normal” in public.

The encounter usually goes a little something like this:

Oh look! She has a gigantic bowling ball protruding from her belly. And she looks like an evolving gorilla. The passerby doesn’t specifically say such things…but their eyes do, as they glance down at my bludgeoning top heavy body until they realize I’m looking right back at them and they now must cover with a question…Their eyes then make the socially appropriate jump back to mine. They then decide to top it all off with a classic: “how are you doing?” {Because this makes the obvious judgment behind their smug visage all okay…}

“Fine,” or “I’m here” I respond, with a half-spirited smile, hoping to end the conversation there. Short and sweet. I’m not a COMPLETE whiney butt. It’s when they press further with the conversation,  that I begin to feel my first twinge of annoyance. It usually goes with,  “well my wife got really large like you” or “I can’t believe you’re still here” or “your face looks ready” Or some other completely not okay and socially challenged statement at which point I really exhibit my stellar example of self control. Any halfwit would realize these are the unfair statements with total lack of a verbal filter. And I’m supposed to play the role of a traditional southern gal and smile ever so politely… when they just so happen to get me all kinds of riled up.

I have to continually comfort myself with the superficial acknowledgement that these people mean well. I know that. But let’s just face the facts. Sometimes, their true intentions are pretty obvious. Heaven forbid I over share.  I think the only reason they ask me, is so THEY can.

Let’s have a replay, shall we?  Of how the encounter WOULD go if I were in charge of the world and all things conversationally awkward. 

SRRPB: (socially retarded random passerby-I can successfully make this judgement based on previous encounters and obvious cues) How are you?

Me: {cutting them off at the pass} Well, Jamin is out of town, so I’ve been chasing these two little nightmares around for about five days now-Aiden-STOP stabbing Emerson with that fork!-I have severe anemia,  so I’m exhausted all the time. I have problems walking across a room without having to stop and pant heavily.  This is merely complicated by a sinus infection, bronchitis, a really bad sunburn a few days back since I was busy taking care of these two at the pool. Yeah…little blisters EVERYWHERE. Speaking of my back, it seriously aches, and I have severe round ligament pain since I never  finished breastfeeding Emerson before I was pregnant again.

Oh, you don’t know what this is? Sometimes I have problems walking and I think that I may need a wheelchair because it hurts so badly to take a step. Think knives in the groin. Stabbing. It brings tears to my eyes. The other morning I had to sit on a heating pad for TWO HOURS. The contractions have let up a bit, but if I’m really lucky, whenever I’m standing up, I may be thrown to my knees asking God for sheer mercy if this baby doesn’t decide to stick its foot through my hoo-ha while I’m shopping for apple juice at Walmart.

You think I look tired? Well, Emerson screamed for an hour and a half in the middle of the night and Aiden woke  at 6. And I’m supposed to feel like a bad mother for throwing a pop tart on the floor and letting them watch Madagascar  three times in a row so I can survive the day by stealing an extra ten minutes of blissful sleep. Which won’t ever happen because Aiden isn’t POTTY TRAINED, and still poops his pants at the magic hour of FIVE in the AM. No I don’t care to hear about your sister in law’s pregnancy experience, your own horrible birthing process, or your moms sister’s anemic friend who also has Chiari.

But I’m good. Great. STELLAR.

This too shall pass. All is fair in love and pregnancy…and I DO know it could always get worse. Just do me a huge favor and spare me these last few weeks in the special category of the perpetually socially challenged.

Thank you.

{I know you have all had your own experiences. Share away…}

More posts here: 

baby books

birdie sling beginnings

random shots

It's been one of those weeks. I won't lie. One of those woe-is-me-what-the-crap-was-I-thinking-having-kids-type of weeks. One of those completely mislead I-could-be-an-up-and-coming-designer-in-NYC-but-I-went-for-my-MRS-degree, I chose desperate housewives suburbia heaven and I'm-freaking-lousy-at-it-kind-of-weeks. {Hey, I said mislead. Let me dream!}

Then, after that realization, another wave of Oh-my-lord-please-save-me-I'm-about-to-have-another-baby-I-will probably-leave-attached-to-the-car-Griswald-style-because-I-now-officially-have-more-than-I-know-what-to-do-with, kind of panic attack. Because you know. It totally compliments that kind of week.

I've cleaned up vomit, atrociously dirty diapers, lysoled the house continually from a strep throat infestation, and then cried/laughed like a lunatic when I realized today I haven't left the house since SUNDAY, and my poor husband who I have snapped at repeatedly, mentioned "You've been little moody lately."

"It's SOOO HARD!" I wailed in a classic guilt laden response. REALLY? YA THINK!??? {It's a miracle he's still married to me-BLESS him.}

I've bargained with Emerson who currenly has a death grip on my arm to let me put her down. For a second. Without a high pitched scream. A REPEATEDLY high pitched scream. The kid's a banshee.

I've perused the Martha Stewart site for new craft ideas in my short breaks. My version of letting lose and keeping my finger firm on the pulse of society.

My perspective on reality, to say the least, is a bit skewed.

SUNDAY, people!

I gave Aiden five spankings alone, in a row yesterday (my strong willed child-yes, we spank when warranted-lets get past it, shall we?) he had an option to sit on the couch for time out for shoving his sister (twice) and he said no. So I spanked him. He had a choice. He says no a bit much. (read: all the time)

He then said NO again. Spank. NO! spank. NO! spank. SERIOUSLY? I'm not talking about little spanks here. I was going for the gusto to make my point, and my hand was hurting. Skin to skin. Red bootay. I then gave up, because of course I started to feel bad. It obviously wasn't working. I picked him up off the floor (still screaming NOOOO!) and PITCHED HIM onto the couch (non child abuse with a neck fracture style). He stayed until I had a peaceful conversation with him later regarding the use of the word no and shoving his sister.

When all was calm, I heard munching coming from the laundry room. Munching. Emerson. Dog food. Multiple peices. Chewing. I let her, until she decided she was ready to spit it out.

It's been one of those weeks.

And then today I got a flyer in the mail from Piper Lime, to top it all off. You know Piper Lime. That cute lil optimistically overpriced shoe company the owners of Gap/BR/& Old Navy have launched. And I realized, while looking at said flyer and therefore plummeting deeper into my own woe-is-me-I-suck-at-life-state, that I couldn't tell you what shoes were in style if you PAID me a million on the spot. The only reason I saw was because they sent a FLYER in the mail. To my house.

I used to shop for shoes. A-la-Carrie style. All the time. I was a shoe museum. And I can't tell you the last pair I bought. Maybe a pair of boots last fall? I don't care who you are. That's pretty bad. And I find myself resenting people who still shop Carrie style. Guess you can say my priorities have changed. Ever so resentfully.

So I'm writing on my usual blogging day to let you know I have nothing to write about, other than how out of touch with the real world I am. Sometimes {read: MOST OF THE TIME} being a mom sucks. {kidding} Sometimes being a wife does too. And life. Did I mention life can suck? But that doesn't mean I don't love it. It just means I'm a little overwhelmed with hormones, lack of Zoloft in my system, and surges of disparity at my dwindling supply of dusty shoes shoved in my closet because I am once again having a who the heck is going to don THOSE heels while balancing THREE CHILDREN kind of moment. And what that symbolically means I have become. Am I a dusty old shoe?

It's been the kind of week to send the most stable of women into yet another identity crisis, just when I thought I had it all figured out.

I usually regard myself as stable.

I'm not very eloquent today. {when am I ever?} This is the part where you chime in and make me feel better. Love you all. Have a great weekend. I'm going to soup up on some caffeine so I can get my nasty house clean, AFTER I put the crying babes to bed.

{No. I won't throw them in there...}