The pajama pants from you-know-where

Last year I sewed some matching pajama pants for my husband and daughter.  I meant to sew some for me too but didn't buy enough fabric.  Andrea has LOVED these pants and whenever she sees her daddy wearing the "owl pants" (they have owls on them) she begs to wear hers as well.  Sadly, those pants had some flaws and fit issues (to short and a little snugly in the nether regions) because I didn't use a pattern.  Also, Andrea has all but outgrown hers.  So, this year I thought I would give the whole matching pajama thing a second try.  Using a pattern.  And buying SIX full yards of fabric.

Silly me.

So far, these pants have been nothing but blunder after blunder.  I partly blame it on drowsy sewing.

Public service announcement: Kids!  Do not try this at home!  Falling asleep while a sharp needle rapidly pierces in a downward motion in a close proximity to your phalanges is not smart!

(Climbing off soap box.)

The first of my serious of rather egregious errors was the same mistake I made last year.  I didn't buy enough fabric.  Six yards probably should have been eight.  But unlike last year, I did not want to go with out matching pants again, so Paul and I spent an evening strategically positioning patterns, planning proportions, and pinning the purple panels.  And after much patting of backs and praise, I began cutting.  Sadly, mistake number two was waiting in the wings for its grand entrance.  I cut out Andrea's back leg panel inside out.  When I discovered the blunder I cried out in horror because at this point I'm starting to have deja vu of the pants of yesteryear.  Paul shook his head in shame as I reasoned with myself.  "It's okay," I said.  "These pants were going to be really big on her anyway.  I may not have extra fabric but I can slim these puppies down and cut out a new smaller panel out of the inside out one.  Yes, that's what I'll do!  Precious."  I mumbled like Gollum.  Imagine creepy Gollum hunched over purple owls.  Now add some more hair.  Brown.  Long.  And put clothes on him.  There.  That's what I looked like, wide eyes and all.

When I (assumed) that problem was solved I began sewing and in the process learned that I had cut one half of my pants way too short.  Pajama pants in the front; capris in the back. I considered turning them into shorts right then and there, but I really, really wanted warm PANTS.  I dug through the tiny scraps and managed to get two strips of fabric to add to the bottom.  The owls were sideways but I thought a nice decorative ribbon would make the blunder look intentional. However, when I went to sew the pant legs I discovered that I had not properly lined things up and the decorative ribbon at the bottom didn't match up at the seams and spiraled around my ankles.  Too lazy to unpick and recut, I sewed in a strange side pleat and moved on with life.

My pants (albiet ugly) were nearing completion so I tried them on only to find them to be HUGELY too big and uncomfortable because I thought I was a size that I wasn't.  Apparently, I not only have sewing issues but body image issues as well.  Fantastic.

I needed a break from those horrid pants so I turned my attention to Sam's, which after sewing one seam it was apparent that they were far to small.  I tossed them to the side because I didn't have the energy to deal with that problem.  Besides, his pants were low on the priority totem pole.  I decided to revisit Andrea's.  After sewing the inseam I slipped them onto Andrea's legs, and much to my horror, the revised pattern I used to solve the inside out panel was far to skinny.  They were also too small for Sam.  I again gathered those few and precious scraps and pieced together panels to add to width to the waist and legs of the pants.  Once those were pinned and sewn in place I asked Andrea to try them on again so I could determine how much fabric was needed to turn under around her ankles.  "I don't want to wear those pants," she said flatly.

"Andrea!" I gasped.  "But these are your owl pants!  They're for Christmas.  Don't you want to try them on?"  She again refused which prompted some water works. . . from me.  Because if the three year old I was going to all of this trouble for and spending all this money on didn't even want her pants, THEN WHY WAS I WASTING PRECIOUS BRAIN CELLS AND MOMENTS I COULD HAVE USED FOR A MUCH-NEEDED NAP?!

I have temporarily abandoned the pajama pants from you-know-where.  They are tossed in a corner, collecting dust while I contemplate suicide finishing them.

Next year I'm just buying everyone matching pants.

A scary story

Last night Andrea asked for a scary story. "I want a really scary one," she said. "I can take it."  I gave her a long look. This is the girl who's afraid of The Little Mermaid, and not Ursula either.  She rarely makes it that far in the movie because she finds the storm and King Triton so frightening.  But she looked up at me with her daddy's eyes so how could I say no?   I told her a story about a monster (monsters are scary, right?) who she insisted we call Tiny Tim (too many Christmas movies for that girl).  Little monster Tiny Tim lost his button collection (because what is more frightening?).  His brother had hid them under the bed (I figure under the bed is also on the list of more terrifying things in this world).  Tiny Tim's mom made his brother sit in timeout for taking Tim's buttons (timeout is torture, and what is a scary story without a little torture, amiright?).  Basically, it was the most horrifying thing I'd ever told her and she listened in wide-eyed wonder.  I left the room with a smile on my face because these are the moments I just love what I do.

We've had a lot of sickness at our house lately, hence the lack of postage.  Andrea had a cold that has calmly drug on for weeks.  Then on Thanksgiving Day, I noticed she was particularly ornery and complaining of some unusual symptoms which included pain while using the bathroom.  By evening there was blood in her urine so I took her to the doctor the next morning.  The poor girl had a UTI which explains why she woke up six times that night to pee.  And Sam, my darling son, who still wakes up every two hours, slept for seven and a half.  It was a little miracle sent from a loving Father in heaven who knew I would have my hands full that night.

(He's back to waking up every two hours, thanks for asking.)

Now my little five month old has caught Andrea's sniffles and likes to utilized the healing powers of his mother's arms for relief.  Strangely, I haven't been feeling as smothered lately by the constant stimulation of my children's touch.  Another miracle.  I've actually been enjoying some extra time with Sam.  He's been hitting all sorts of milestones at once.  Sitting up, babbling actual sounds like ma, ba, na, da, la, etc., and pushing up to hands and knees (he's actually been doing this for about a month but whatevs).  I can't wait to see what he does next.

Ooh, I hear him waking up.  Gotta go.

Keys

This month I took my car in for it's yearly safety and emission tests, and I failed both.  Don't be jelly of my skillz.  (That's how the teenagers talk.)  Anyway. . . in order to pass these tests and renew my vehicle's registration, I was forced strongly advised to get new tires for my car, which you can imagine was an unwelcome expense just before the Christmas season.  Thankfully, my father helped me call around and find tires that were within my budget.  What do you know?  Walmart had the best prices.  Whut whut!  (Again, trying to keep my teenage reader interested.) 

Yesterday, after Sam's morning nap and snack, I packed up my children and drove down to the nearest Walmart with a tire shop.  When my car was checked in I bought some lunch, and Andrea and I wandered the aisles of Walmart for two hours drooling over baby Christmas clothes, kitchen gadgets, and all things Dora the Explorer.  Andrea even helped me pick out some presents for her daddy.  This excited her so much she began pointing out everything that made her thing of Paul and begging me to buy them so she could practice wrapping.  Nice try kid.  She did, however, convince me to surprise Daddy with some holiday flavored Oreos with the hope that he would, you know, share with her.

With new tires installed on our little blue Neon, I buckled my baby and then my preschooler and we drove home listening to Andrea's favorite songs.  (Want U Back by Cher Lloyd and Just Give Me a Reason by P!nk, in case you have a child looking for some hip jams.)  Half an hour later I pulled up in front of the house.  Sam was starving and beginning to fuss.  Andrea was ready for a nap and begging to go potty.  I pulled the groceries out of the trunk and just as it latched shut something shiny caught my eye.  It was my keys fading into the darkness of my locked trunk.  My brain shut off and panic took over my body.  I ran around to the driver's seat and pulled the trunk release.  Nothing happened. I ran to the front door and twisted the door knob.  It was locked.  I bolted to the back yard and yanked fiercely on the back door.  Also locked.

I had to keep reminding myself to breathe as I walked back to the car.  Once Andrea was unbuckled she ran to the porch.  "I have to go potty!"  She reminded me.

"You need to hold it, Honey!  We're locked out of the house." I hollered back as I pulled out my phone to call Paul.  He didn't answer.  I tried again.  No answer.  I left a desperate voice mail before searching the internet for his office number.  Unfortunately, the battery on my phone was almost dead and my search was not going well.  Andrea continued to dance around in a rather suspicious manner so I promised her one of Daddy's cookies if she could just hold it a little longer.  She sat down in the grass with an Oreo in each hand and her complaints turned into quiet smacking.  I returned to my internet search but the panic I'd been feeling began to mount as that battery icon flashed.  The last thing I needed was to be locked out with two little children far away from family and friends and no way to contact anyone.  Did I mention I still don't know any of my neighbors?

With tears streaming down my face and the state of my daughter's bladder weighing on my mind, I called my mom.  As I relived the events of my afternoon I felt something wet on the arm I had wrapped around my son.  A yellow streak confirmed that his diaper had leaked onto his clothes and me.  Andrea finished her cookies and began to dance again.  While my mom googled Paul's work she asked me if the back seat of the car could fold down.

Why. Didn't. I. Think. Of. That?

I ran to the car to check and, sure enough,it did.  Holding my poopy boy under one arm I started pulling out car seats so I could crawl into the trunk and paw around in the dark for my keys.  When they were safely in my hands a wave of relief came over me until a little voice again requested a trip to the potty.

While we only sat outside the house for about twenty minutes, it was a rather exciting and unpleasant twenty minutes.  Memo to me:  Keep yo' keys in yo' pocket, you cray cray foo.  (Translate that if you have a teen in your life.)

Complete

I know that last post was kind of a downer.  I don't want anyone thinking that I don't love Sam.  As challenging as he can be, I wouldn't trade him for anything.  I love how he's giving me so many experiences.  He's so different than Andrea and that was immediately evident.  From the moment he exited the womb he was calm.  There was no wail or piercing cry to announce he's entrance into the world.  There was a gentle silence as he looked and studied the blurry faces around him.  Every nurse at the hospital was in love with his sweet spirit and gentle temperament.  And generally, he's still like this when he's rested.

He's so affectionate and cuddly. Andrea did NOT like to be cuddled.  She still doesn't most of the time.  Sam, however, loves to be held.  He loves to hold my fingers and gently run his hands on my skin as I nurse him.  He willingly rests his head against my chest and sleeps when we walk through the grocery store or to the playground.  When I kiss his face he almost always smiles a big open-mouthed grin.  He giggles when I kiss his neck and threaten to eat his fuzzy ears.  He tries to eat my nose kiss me with those drool-soaked lips, and he searches for my face whenever I'm not in his immediate vicinity.  I know Andrea loved me, but I KNOW Sam loves me.  It makes all of this exhaustion a little easier to bear.

Years ago, I stood in my bedroom getting ready to leave for work.  After I brushed my hair and put on my makeup I turned to leave the room.  As I turned I saw a little boy run past me.  Startled, I glanced around to spot the intruder, but the room was empty.  Though I was unsure how to interpret what had just occurred, I was sure of one thing. There was a male spirit connected to me, and I felt as though it was one of my children.  From that moment, I began to long for a son and a chance to meet that spirit again.

When I found out my first pregnancy was a girl I was excited but also a little sad.  I wondered how long I'd have to wait for my son.  I think that made the miscarriage more difficult because I felt so strongly that baby was a boy.  As my body rejected that vessel I became very upset because I was playing the waiting game again and unsure if my wait would lead me into eternity.  But the moment Sam was placed in my arms I recognized his spirit and knew I was finally holding that boy that had visited me years before.  For the first time since the day before May fourth, I felt whole.  He's definitely one of the loves of my life.

Andrea made me a mother, but Sam made me complete

PPD

When you're out in the world you may run into a mother who's ventured out with her new baby. You may say hello and ask her how life is with a new baby. She may hesitate to answer as she ponders the question because it's been three months+ since she's gotten any sleep and at least four days since she's showered. Spit up adorns the shoulders of her shirt, and her hands are thankfully washed clean of the poop she had to rinse from a onesie after a rather explosive bowel movement. At meal times she searches through the fridge for food she can eat one handed rather than something nutritious. Dinner times are getting later and later as cooking with a baby draped over one arm proves very difficult. Her body seems to shift and morph everyday as it peaces itself back together from nine months of growing a child, and everyday she sees a new image in the mirror. She never has a moment to herself yet she's never been so lonely. She loves her child so much it hurts but by the evening she finds herself so overstimulated and overwhelmed that holding her child almost repulses her and her breath is labored by the battle her muscles face to hold on regardless. She cries herself to sleep because she dreads another night of six or seven trips out of bed to calm the restless infant. Some days the little smiles and soft snuggles are not enough to balance the hormonal ravaging she endures in her mind that bring about so much guilt and shame. She loves her child but wonders when life will feel manageable again. Some days she feels like tearing her hair out because the disconnect between her body and mind make her feel unbelievably crazy, and no matter how much she tries to make sense of all her thoughts she just can't.

In a split moment all those things flood her mind. . . She smiles tiredly and answers the question with a quiet "Good."

If you bump into that new mother you might just have bumped into me. I'm a currently the poster girl for overtired, overstimulated, postpartum depression mothers everywhere. My sweet baby boy who used to sleep for six to seven hours stretches at a time decided to stop sleeping. It began during my stint with mastitis so I chalked it up to replenishing my milk supply, but after a couple weeks I gave up hope my old normal would return anytime soon. Every night I average 2-3 hours of sleep and each consecutive day of child-induced insomnia I become more haggard and depressed. Every day is like swimming through mud.

Because Sam is sleeping so poorly, my sweet and chill little baby has turned into a fussy fellow with a hair-line trigger. I spend most of my day holding him, especially for naps  Then I spend my night in his room rocking and nursing him back to sleep. Because I have essentially no breaks from his constant touch and presence I'm so overstimulated that being touched (by anyone) has become physically uncomfortable. Sunday evening Paul took a turn holding Sam for a bit, and when he tried to hand him back to me I had a full-blown anxiety attack. I couldn't breathe, and between my gasps for air I sobbed.

Sunday night, after being drugged* with gripe water throughout the day, Sam only woke up three times. Monday was wonderful.  Sam played on the floor, napped in his bed,  and hardly fussed. I felt relaxed, happy, rested, and desperate to eat my deliciously sweet baby in the most affectionate sort of way. Andrea finally got some attention from her mom and got to play with her best friend/brother who happily allowed her to hold his hands, hand him toys, ask him questions, and repeatedly rub his head.

Monday night he woke up five times. The next night it was six. Last night I lost count. How I wish every day felt like Monday.

*I gave him the recommended dose, don't worry.

Bertha

Because Paul works for an AT&T dealer he gets a pretty sweet deal on phone service.  However, much to his embarrassment, we've been locked into a T-Mobile contract.  Last week, however, our contract expired and he was able to get a new phone with his employers.  I opted to stay with T-Mobile (the deal he gets doesn't cover spouses) and inherited his old phone.  It's my first smarty-pants phone and I got very excited to delete all of his stuff and make the phone my own.  When I noticed how cheap phone cases were I begged Paul if I could buy one.  He laughed and agreed because he knew Andrea would never accept my ownership of his old phone unless it no longer resembled his old phone.  Right away I knew what case I wanted.

Zebra print.  Yeah baby!

You see, the inside of my purse is zebra print, and although my old phone was blue, I could never find it in there.  Occasionally, I would dig and dig and dig through the contents without any luck spotting that blue phone only to call it and find my purse vibrating.  Embarrassing!  But it didn't seem to matter how much or how little sleep I got, I could never find that dang phone.  Pardon my French.  So I'm trying a bit of loosely-defined reverse psychology.  I figure if I couldn't find a contrasting object, I should make the object blend in.  Now that my phone bears the same print as my purse lining I have yet to lose it.  It's actually easier to find.  Who knew?

Lastly, I think the zebra print adds character.  I've named the phone Bertha.  She's an older phone and reminds me of a spunky senior with tacky animal print glasses.  I am loving her!

Storage solutions (part 2)

Last time we delved into the reality of my storage situation I shared part of my solution for the miscellaneous knick knacks previously housed in a linen closet.  But that was only part of the problem.  Not only did I lose a linen closet when I moved here, but my laundry closet went from a horizontal format with lots of high shelving to a vertical format with no shelving.

At Lowe's I found this pantry rack and thought it was the perfect solution.

Paul hung it on the back of the door and I fell in love.  It perfectly fit all of my laundry needs as well as extra hygiene products for the bathroom.  Once I could take these products out from under the sink it freed up some much needed space for towels.

And we have a lot of towels.

Another place we lost storage was the master closet which is a bit smaller than our last one.  Paul put together some wire shelves which we placed high in the closet to take advantage of the nine foot ceilings on the second floor.  Paul also made a tall, vertical shelf and a dresser to house all of our clothes that we use to hang up.

On the back of the closet door we put some hooks for our towels and bathrobes since the master bathroom only has one towel bar.

Our previous apartment had a built-in bookshelf by the master bedroom for books and media, and we had a coat closet for games.  When we moved here we bought some cabinetry from Ikea for our TV that gave us a place for most of these things.

The best part is that most of it is behind doors so we can keep the Rowbabies from making too much of a mess.

Because the DVD's are now above the TV, the shelf that use to house DVD's now houses books.

Another change we made when we moved here was remove most toys from the living room.  I was getting so tired of staring at the toddler clutter in our apartment that I decided to make Andrea's bedroom the main home for toys.  However, I knew that she wouldn't just want to play in her room all day, so next to the media cabinet is a basket for Andrea to put toys she's brought downstairs.  When the basket fills up we take it back upstairs and empty it.  There's also a secret bucket of toys under the couch.

We also have a little nook that we plan on turning into a office area.  So far we've added this cabinet.

It's mostly a home to office supplies and some of the pots and pans that don't fit in the kitchen.

I have a plan for those pots and pans though.  I've got a plan and it involves this wall.

Our old apartment had a row of hooks by the front door that I used for aprons.  We put another set of hooks on the pantry door to store these things out of sight.

It's been so nice to have homes for most of these things and to have them out of sight.  I worried that I the storage situation here would be horrible, but with a little creativity Paul and I have found lots of solutions, and I love living here!