Have poo, will change diaper

I’m starting to think that architects, designers, builders, and business-owners should be legally required to have either fathered a child, pushed one out, or at least completed a full-day baby-sitting trial of a diaper-wearing child that required a shopping trip and a stop at a family friendly restaurant for lunch.
Why, you ask?
Simple…because maybe then these geniuses who get paid the big bucks to sketch and play with construction equipment might actually stop to think that a changing station in the bathroom might be a good idea.
I’ll admit this is not something that occurred to me BB (Before Buttercup), but since the little princess has graced our lives, I cannot even begin to count the times I have walked into various “family” establishments only to have to walk right back out to my Jeep to change the baby, or have had to resort to stroller-gymnastics so I could change her all-too squirmy butt in the stroller.
Coldstone Creamery? Subway? The local coffee house? All have items on their menu that would make any kid’s eyes light up (hello, ice cream and hot chocolate!) or have kid specific menus…so what gives? Why in God’s name do they not have one of those handy little wall stations to change the dirty duds?
While Buttercup might not be partaking in much ice cream, java, or subs any time soon, she is still young enough where I can take her out with me while I sip on an iced-latte or enjoy lunch without her begging to eat what I have. She’s perfectly happy with her own meal, which I make sure to pack and bring with us. Even so, I know I am not the only SAHM/WAHM in the Metro Detroit area, let alone the world, who would rather bring her child with her when going out than hire a baby-sitter for the mere convenience of changing a damn diaper.
Because if it comes to that, I’m doing one of two things, which means I’m either boycotting businesses who didn’t bother installing a changing station, or I’m going to whip out the diaper bag and stinky poo right there in the middle of the dining area.
Maybe that will get the point across.
;)

Ok, so I'm a real freelancer

DEADLINES:
I'm not the most religious person in the world, but I do believe in God and that He shows us signs when He thinks we need them most.
Take my post on not being sure if I'm really working right now. Sure, I have semi-regular paychecks coming in, but I was really doubting my self-proclaimed role as a freelance writer. What if I was really only partaking in a glorified hobby? Could I actually call myself a Work at Home Mom?
Talk about self-doubt, right?
But the very next day, I got my sign to shut the hell up (Yes, God and the word "hell" are being used in the same post. I told you I am not the most religious one out there...) when I saw the new copies of this month's Metro Parent magazine at the gym where Mr. L. and I work out. I picked up a bunch to look through when I got home, since I knew I had a few stories in there.
As I sat down later to glance through and see what I had published this month, I came across my three stories on April TV Turn-Off Week in the actual Metro Parent magazine, and my interview with TV personality, author, and autism activist Jenny McCarthy, along with a story I wrote on how parents can help their learning disabled child foster self-esteem in the special edition of the Doctor Mom insert.
And you know what each article said at the very end?
"Pauline M. Lupercio is a freelance writer from Roseville."
That's all I needed to see.

DIAPERS:
Buttercup had me up all night. The little devil is teething again because apparently seven teeth was not enough to round out her first year of life.
What a show off.
Anyway, I finished writing at about 2:30 last night and then got ready for bed before checking on sweet lil' Buttercup.
She was out cold and oh-so-cute.
So I debated: Should I go to sleep and then have her wake me up in an hour (like every night) for a diaper change and bottle? Or should I just cut to the chase and take care of it now, rock her back to sleep, and then get a nice solid set of shut-eye?
Of course, I took the rookie Mom route and woke the sleeping baby.
The Sleeping Teething Baby.
Not smart.
And because of my being an idiot again, Mr. L woke up every hour listening to her screams. (I don't know why he's bitching though. Being "woken up" means he actually got some sleep. but I digress.) Because just as I got her settled again and climbed into bed again, she'd begin screaming like the world was coming to an end (or a sharp little dagger-like tooth was cutting through her tender gums, but what's the difference?)
All of the Orajel in the world was not going to make The Sleeping Teething Baby that Mommy Woke Up feel any better. Oh no.
At about 4 a.m., I gave up and pulled out the living room hida-bed as fast as I could, grabbed some blankets, a bottle, a diaper, and the baby and settled in for the little bit of night I was desperate to salvage.
It took her an hour, but Buttercup finally fell asleep. Thank God.
(And for the record, I woke up to her slapping me in the face with her teething toy. I didn't ask why, but am assuming she was reprimanding me for being stupid enough to wake her up last night.)

When did Jesus get trumped by the Easter Bunny?

DIAPERS

So I'm a Catholic and Buttercup is being raised as one, too. Mr. L is not, but he knew it meant a lot to me to both get married in a church and to have our babies baptized, so we are doing the "one religious parent and one who doesn't give a damn" thing.

Basically, Mr. L. says his rule is that Buttercup can stop going to church with me the moment she says she does not want to go.

Fine with me, I said. Only my rule is that she is mine and God's until she is eight years old. I was baptized and made my First Communion, and so will she. After that, she may not have to ask Daddy to save her from Sunday service if Mommy's drive to follow family traditions dies off the day after Buttercup hangs up her Communion dress.

Sad, but very possibly true.

As for Easter and Jesus, let me first say that I do go to church on a semi-regular basis. My mom and I had gotten into the habit of going every Saturday until my dad died, and then we spent quite a few Sunday mornings at St. Anne's in Mexican Town for the funeral and for the subsequent memorial masses for three Sundays in a row, so we have upgraded ourselves from the Holiday Catholics we once were.

And while I dragged us all, over-dressed baby in tow, to Easter morning mass, I was giddy with excitement to get back home and have Buttercup play with the Easter basket I decked out for her with books and stuffed animals.

And then when my family showed up, and each dropped a wrapped gift or stuffed animal into her little hands, I suddenly realized why my parents never bought us anything....we already owned every toy imaginable!

Seriously, my 9 1/2 month old baby got more toys for Easter than I think is religiously appropriate, but then again, I think my childhood Easters were exactly the same.

Future note to self: Do NOT buy ANYTHING for Buttercup next year...the stuffed animals are already conspiring to take over my home!

(Okay, okay, maybe just one little thing! But that is it!)

Getting to the bottom if it...

DIAPERS:
...of the pile of the crap on the floor, I mean.
So far, we have:
* put up shelves in Buttercups's room that have been taking up floor space
* cleaned the bathroom
* actually made the basement look decent
We still have to:
* Do everything else.

And our little Easter shindig? Yeah, well it went from 15 people (which is just a portion of my side of the family and the in-laws) to more like 30.
And people wonder why Buttercup's first birthday is going to have a guest list about 100 names long...

Why? Why? Why? (Banging head on wall...)

DEADLINES:
Work is currently completed.
If it wasn't Easter weekend and I wasn't cleaning and running last minute errands like a mad woman, I'd be celebrating by not depressing myself trying on pre-preg nice clothes to wear to church on Sunday and just buy something new in a bigger size and cut off the tag so I could pretend it was my pre-preg size.
That would make me feel better.
*Sigh*
But back to the deadlines.

*I currently have a pretty cool contest running on The Ruff Ruff Review. If you've got a dog and like free things, this one's for you.
*I'll have more Baby Gooroo posts as of Sunday night after the flock leaves and the baby passes out for the night.
*And I just received my Ergo Baby Carrier for review in the Metro Parent monthly Five Fabulous Finds column, which reminds me that I need to get crackin' on April's column.
A few teasers for upcoming feature items include the Baby K'tan Carrier (pictured), Bumblebags Diaper Bags, and a ton of children's CD's by artists I have never heard of yet because my baby is still thankfully young enough to spare me from children's music overload.


DIAPERS:
So why the oh-so dramatic post title?
We are having like 30 people over on Sunday (sucks being ethnic sometimes), and the house, as I have previously mentioned, looked like a flea market on a busy Sunday morning. There is crap no one ever uses EVERYWHERE.
Most of which was, is, or shall be the property of Lil' Miss Buttercup.
So I have errands to do today (like buy the ham and shop for other Sunday necessities), only to come home to Mr. L. giving his acceptance speech at the self-proclaimed World's Best Husband Award Event. (Attendance: 1)
Turns out he did most of the cleaning in the basement today (our second living room) and was more than happy to point it out. He's telling the truth. But why?
Maybe he wanted a cookie?
But seriously, who cares? I mean, I love him and am grateful he is taking the time to help me get the house ready for another too-big Mirish (not a typo) family fiesta, but I don't recall pointing out each time I do something that needs to be done (Mommy, Mommy! I used the potty again all by myself!) like cleaning the kitchen or doing the grocery shopping or simultaneously working on a story while keeping the baby occupied while dinner cooks on the stove after living on four to five hours of sleep (on a good night) for the past nine months.
I just do it.
Again-I love him to pieces, but isn't this like a defect in the male genetic code or something? I have witnessed it plenty of times. My father-in-law. My dad. The neighbor across the street.
The need for a "Yay for you, baby!" pat on the head for a domestic deed well done and the total state of oblivion that as moms who have to do it all every day, we just aren't that impressed anymore?
As for the head banging reference in the title...I almost got to that point while I tried to explain to him why I wasn't bowing down at his feet for the basement cleaning job (rookie mistake, I know that now.) Thankfully, I quickly came to my senses, thanked him, and joined in on the cleaning frenzy, wondering if same sex couples go through this Men-Mars/Women-Venus crap.
My theory is no, and that makes me insanely jealous.

Snowmen, corn flakes, and baby poo

DEADLINES:
I am now sitting down to type as much as I can on two stories due Friday while Buttercup sleeps. Well, technically, I am now typing on my blog about getting ready to type as much as I can for my stories.
Priorities, you see.

DIAPERS:
Why am I not surprised that the listing for the stupid Frosted Flake has been removed from eBay?
Turns out the sisters who found it yanked it and re listed a coupon for the flake, since there were concerns about listing an edible item. Whatever.
The new auctions ends on Friday and is already at $700 plus. Nice.
And for those who have no original thought, copycat corn flakes like the snowman and Florida are available, too.
Looks like I missed the bandwagon.
Or did I??? Maybe I can save Buttercup's next poopy diaper and list it as an abstract piece of art? Not that I pay too much attention when I'm wiping my baby's ass clean, but she has, on occasion, gotten creative and pooped out what appeared to be tootsie rolls. And one time I threw away a probable gold mine in the shape of a small Idaho potato.
No really, and I didn't alter it in any way, either.

I'm sorry I have a baby?

DEADLINES:
Yep, let's just some my progress in the past 24 hours as non-existent. I still have to post for Baby Gooroo, too. And at 1:27 a.m., I'm wondering how much I will get done.

DIAPERS:
I wish I had started blogging much, much sooner. But truth me told, I had no effing clue what a blog even WAS, so hindsight isn't going to get me very far there, is it?
The reason?
My friend Sara is currently doing her damnedest to get pregnant. It's been about two and a half years and if I remember correctly, we both may have started trying about the same time. (Is that right? Buttercup is nine months old now...you do the math. I am a writer. Enough said.)
Well, it took me 18 months (while everyone I knew popped out babies like Pez dispensers, including my sister's two boys), and in that time I found out I was insulin resistant and had PCOS (along with an already diagnosed thyroid problem). So much for being fertile Myrtle, huh?
Sara and I would talk and kind of console each other. We understood what it felt like to repeatedly have to answer the "So, are you trying yet?" questions, since we got married within 6 months of each other almost 6 years ago.
But I eventually got pregnant with Buttercup while Sara got left behind in the land of Those Still Trying. And bless her sweet and giving heart, her tears of joy and Congratulations For Being Pregnant gift were the most touching responses I can remember. No matter how much it may have hurt, she was still happy for me.
I recently started reading her blog and well, I kind of feel like a big a-hole now.
I got caught up in being a mommy and while Sara keeps me updated on her journey, I'm think I forgot what it felt like to be on that side. But getting peed on when the baby's diaper is too big will do that to you, I guess.
Is it weird to feel sorry for having gotten pregnant first? For it being easier because I didn't have to deal with the "want" for as long? For having a baby?
And since I never shared any of that online, anyone reading my blog may just assume I got knocked up without even trying. (That's why I wish I had started writing this sooner.)
*Sigh*
But I am crossing my fingers and praying that Sara will be a mommy soon. Come hell or high water, she'll make a baby very lucky some day when she holds it close to her heart for the first of many times.

DEADLINES:
It is now 1:51 a.m. And yes, I waited 'till the last minute on every writing assignment in high school and college and Aced all of them. But before you decide to hate me, I need a calculator to add 2 +2.
Seriously.

The Great Flake

DIAPERS:

Plain and simple. I am an idiot.

Buttercup is spending the night at the in-laws's house (par-tay at Grandma's crib) and I have a baby-free night (St. Patrick's Day, to boot!) and what am I doing?

The smart answers would include:

a) getting into bed at a reasonable hour and reveling in the fact that I don't have to keep one eye open "just in case."

b) getting in some "quality time" with the husband.

c) grabbing a drink with a girlfriend and not worrying about what time I get home (hey, I work from home, after all...) since I don't have to worry about being woken up in the morning until I feel like getting out of bed.

d) finishing a good book/watching some non-baby TV/soaking in the tub with some bubbles and a glass of wine.

But am I doing any of these? Nope. Instead, I am scrubbing kitchen counters.

Brilliant.

********

On a positive note, we can all sleep in peace knowing that some schlub out in cyberspace is about to plop down over $200,000 for a freakin' Frosted Flake shaped like the state of Illinois.

Makes you wonder how the little flake was discovered. Did the seller stop, mid-pour in their breaksfast cereal bowl, and gasp in amazement at the flake-sized replica of The Great State of Illinois? (I wonder how many unrecognized states I have eaten in my life!?!?!)

And at what point did they think "Thank the stars I didn't just eat a $200,000 Corn Flake!"????

I am now inspired. I think I'm going to quit freelance writing and become a Frosted Flakes Hunter. Looks like it can be pretty profitable.

Sleeping beauty (not)

DIAPERS:

The plan this afternoon was simple.

Get home from running errands, get Buttercup settled and in her jammies, and get her to bed at the first signs of sleepiness. (There are deadlines to meet, after all, and Momma usually gets her work done after baby is in bed.) Easy, right?

*Smirk*

So she starts yawning and sucking on her fingers (DING DING!) at around 8 and while early, it's not an unusual time for the little princess to get ready for dreamland. So I take her into her room, grab a story book, turn the iPod to the "Buttercup's Bed time" play list, and rock her into what is usually to appropriate state of sleepiness.

Twenty Minutes later, she is red-faced, snotty-nosed, and pissed off. She was SO not ready to go to sleep and now it is time to pay.

The rest of the night kinda goes like this: Sleepy signs, parents gratefully respond, baby laughs in their faces and begins to play again; sleepy signs, parents gratefully respond, baby laughs and decides she is hungry for a major serving of solids; sleepy signs, parents tentatively respond (while praying to the God's above); baby laughs and then gets mad because this time she really is sleepy.

She cried herself to sleep in less than 30 seconds.

Total time to get Buttercup into bed this fine evening? Three hours.

Glad I didn't have anything else planned.

The holiday rush

DEADLINES:
Yeah, so I have two assignments due on March 21 that I had been hoping to have done by TOMORROW that I haven't even finished interviews for yet.
Wonderful.
Looks like my relaxing week of hectic and frenzied cleaning and shopping (see below) just got a whole lot crazier.

DIAPERS:
The husband and I spent a good portion of today trying to clean the obstacle course that is our home in preparation for Easter Sunday. It does not help that we have been over run with baby toys and gizmos and gadgets galore.
I am not exaggerating when I say that our basement is probably a fire hazard right now with the amount of crap that has to be stepped over in order to move from one spot to another. And that is bad, really bad, when said basement is finished and used regularly as a second living room.
And yet somehow, someway, we must get out house in presentable shape so both sides of the family can spend the day playing a (hopefully) friendly game of "Pass the Baby."
We don't even bother trying to fool ourselves into thinking that everyone wants to come to our house to see US...nope.
It's all about Princess Buttercup. We just get to partake in the basking of baby adoration since we happen to live in the same house.