My Baby Doesn't Know I Have a Job

Ahh life. You busy little thing. 

When I restarted the blog back in April, it was during my quiet season for work. As I’ve mentioned before, I have a small business that I run from home. It’s a seasonal job so there are months in the year when I don’t have any projects I’m working on and then there are other months when I get to immerse myself in super fun creativeness. I like the change of pace. It’s nice to have seasons that are vastly different. 

However, now that the little cogs of my business are once again moving, it may mean that my blog posts will become bi-weekly (or even monthly). 

I wish I had a more definitive answer, but honestly I’m figuring this out as I go. Last year I took on way too much in all areas of my life, so I am trying really hard to have a better balance. However, the busyness of last year WAS a bit of an exception because we sold our house and lived with my in-laws for six weeks and THEN moved into our new house (all with a 3.5 and 1.5 year old). Add in the normal responsibilities of work and raising children and life was pretty crazy. We were too busy. 

When winter finally came and my work slowed, I felt God ushering me into a season of rest. I finally slowed down and experienced life at a much healthier pace. It was very eye-opening. We were now in our new home and no longer living out of boxes or spending every extra second going to a showing. I don't like to be that busy. I think we all have different levels of busy that we want to have in our lives, and the important part is figuring out what is best for you and your family. Are you putting too much on yourself? Are you taking time to just be? To enjoy something you love? During my season of rest I finally learned the importance of self care. Sometimes you just have to stop. Oftentimes the blog has been a form of self care for me. It’s something that feeds my soul and rejuvenates me. But as my work begins to pick up and my belly continues to grow to epic proportions, I don’t know what self care will look like for me this time around. Last week I touched on how much different this pregnancy has been compared to my other two. To twist a T. Swift lyric, “I’m feelin’ thirty-two oooo ooo” and you guys, instead of writing the next blog post I may just need to take a nap. But like I said earlier, I really don’t know yet what the future will bring. I hope I can continue to spill my thoughts in this space, but if I can’t make that happen every week, that’s ok too. 

Recently, I was packing up my work bag and about to head out the door for a few hours to complete a job. My son saw me heading towards the door and ran after me inquiring about where I was going. I told him I was going to work but I would be back soon. He froze and stared at me wide-eyed and then yelled, “You don’t go to work! Daddy goes to work!” I laughed and realized that the last time I left the house to go to work, he was too young to remember it. I thought it was super cute and realized that my season of starting work again would be something that wouldn’t just affect me. We would all have to adjust to it. 

If you read this blog every week, thank you. I’m looking forward to figuring out what the right pace is going to be going forward. And once I figure that out I will let you know. 

So, if there comes a Thursday and you don’t see my inner monologue ramblings pop up, know that I’ll be back. 

Sending a plethora of virtual hugs to you and yours,

Shantastic 

My Baby is Not a Burrito

Imagine this scenario. Eight weeks pregnant, feeling like a bloated, nauseous beast and basically just trying to keep my life together. For the past three weeks my new best friend had become the big green bowl that I carried with me everywhere I went. I’ve been elated and felt blessed to have a new little life growing inside me, but man this kid has been kicking my butt. Obviously my husband has known from the beginning about this pregnancy, but our two kids still didn’t know that there was another sibling in their future. They just thought “mommy was feeling a little sick and needed some prayers.”

One evening when I had just reached the eight week mark, I was cleaning up the remnants of dinner and decided that the shirt I had been wearing for the last 48 hours was in desperate need of changing. I felt a slight twinge of annoyance (and a little guilt) because I realized that since I had been riding the morning sickness train so much lately, I was almost completely out of clean clothes. Who has time to keep up on laundry when you’re just trying to keep your oatmeal down? I figured there had to be at least something I could put on so I huffed and puffed my way up the stairs to my room. I threw open my drawer of t-shirts and found it almost completely empty. I quickly scanned my options and hesitantly picked up a plain red baby-tee and stared at it for a moment. I was hesitating because I knew it would fit a little tight. In my current state of baby-growing, I was in that awkward middle ground where it sort of looked like I might have an emerging pregnant mound OR a complete stranger may have easily thought that I just really like to eat burritos and cheeseburgers. You couldn’t exactly tell yet if it was a food baby or a real baby. I had been trying to wear looser fitting shirts lately so that my daughter wouldn’t start to grow suspicious about my stomach getting bigger. So, I wasn’t all too excited about wearing this shirt that I knew would emphasize my recent weight gain. We still had two whole weeks before we planned on telling her. As I continued to stare at the shirt I thought that I was probably just overreacting. She’s only four. She’s probably not paying attention to my belly. I quickly changed into the red shirt that I knew would hug my baby bump just a little too tight and then slowly met my reflection in the mirror. Confirmation. This shirt made me look pregnant. As my mind flashed back to those first “belly pics” I took when I was pregnant with Grace, I realized that the way my eight week belly was currently looking was more like my 18 week belly pic with her. My how things change the third time around. I stood there staring and my protruding mid-section and decided in that moment that I could either let this be something that got me down, or I could laugh about it and embrace the fact that I’m not in my twenties anymore. The first time I got pregnant my stomach muscles were actually in descent shape. Somewhat tight, not over-stretched by the pressure of an eight pound human. This time it was as if my stomach said to the rest of my body “Oh? This again? Meh why even try to hold it together?” and then it raised its figurative white flag and completely gave up. Imagining my stomach with a lazy personality somehow made me feel better. It actually made me chuckle a little to myself. Tis the season for growing babies and having ab muscles that just totally give up. 

As I marched back downstairs after having given myself a pretty good self-esteem pep talk, I passed by my daughter, Grace. She looked stunned as I rounded the corner to the kitchen and halted all conversation by throwing her hands up in the air and proclaiming, “OH Mom! Look!” I paused and said, “Look at what sweetie?” She ran over to me and put her hand on my belly. I froze and felt speechless because I realized what was going to come out of her mouth next and I had no idea how I was going to respond. She then blurted, “MOM! Your tummy!” Next she pursed her lips to the side in a matter-of-fact sort of way and said definitively, “I think you got a baby in there Mom. Because, look at how big your tummy is! Yep. You gots a baby in there.” My eyes about bugged out of my head and I suddenly heard the muffled laughter of my husband who was standing five feet away. My glance shot over to him with a look of “Please help me NOW!” but all I saw was a man holding the collar of his shirt over his face to try and hide the fact that he was totally losing it over our daughter’s allegations. He finally met my eyes and I had to nearly pinch myself to keep from erupting with laughter. I pressed my lips together dramatically as I tried not to panic. We weren’t ready to tell the world yet about the baby, and if we told my daughter then the world would surely know about it. I didn’t want to lie to her though so I went for the classic “Oh..wouldn’t that be cool? Hey look we still have some cookies from yesterday! Do you want a cookie?”  Maybe not the best method, but hey, it worked. She bounced away down the hallway, cookie in hand, and the talk about a baby being in my belly ceased. 

I feel so relieved to have made it to the ten week mark. Now my girl knows all about the real reason why my belly is getting bigger and I no longer have to distract her with cookies to keep her from talking about it. Right after our kids found out about the baby I overheard my husband explaining to them that this baby means that Mom might need more help around the house. When I walked over to them in the middle of this conversation Grace was beaming and said, “Mom! Daddy says we can help you by putting our dishes in the sink and helping you clean because your tummy is going to get SO HUGE! Is your tummy going to get really big Momma?” I smiled down at her as I relished the joy that was emanating from her. She was so purely happy about us having another baby, and she was already feeling proud of herself for knowing that it means we might ask more of her. I chuckled and pulled her close as I said, “Hon, I will definitely need more help and yes, my tummy is going to get huge.” 

Cheers to the season of growing a baby. I like to joke about some of the unpleasant side effects (like abs that give up on you) but really, this is such an amazing journey. I’m honored to be on it …even if I can’t find a clean shirt that fits. 

Blessings,

Shantastic

P.S. If you missed last week’s post, surprise! I’m expecting baby number 3! You can get caught up here ——> My Baby is a Kumquat and find out what made us want to jump on this roller coaster one last time! 

My Baby Did Something Gross

And the award for best (aka worst) parenthood story goes to….

When we were pregnant with Grace, one of our friends gave us some great advice about how to approach parenthood as a couple. She said, “Don’t keep score with your spouse.” She went on to explain that parenthood is not a situation where you and your spouse are competing or keeping score. Like, if you were the one who was home when your infant projectile vomited all over your church outfit and you had to clean it up by yourself, you can’t hold that over your spouse’s head and be like, “Now you have to change the poops for a week.” Parenthood is messy and we all get our fair share of having to be the cleaner-upper. It could have easily been Seth who ended up being 25 minutes late to church because he had to change his outfit at the last minute and then realized that the outfit Grace just threw up all over was the last clean “church outfit” he had that fit his post-pregnancy body…But it wasn’t him was it. It was me. And you know what? That’s not his fault. 

But on the other side of it, I can say with a proud sense of accomplishment that I have never been peed on by one of my kids. There’s been the occasional leak that seeped out onto my pants (that time it happened when I was AT church…) but he’s the one who has gotten the bare bottom spray of pee all over his shirt. Miraculously enough, he’s also the only one who has gotten the privilege of cleaning up all the bathtub poops. It’s fine though because since I stay home with them that means I get to do all the daytime poopies, so we’re good. We’ve got a good balance and know how to “take one for the team”.

We tried to take my friend’s advice and not keep score in an unhealthy way. However, we were still able to joke with one another if we ever felt like we needed just a little acknowledgement or credit for the most recent gross thing we had to do. For example, there was a time right before Christmas when I was about to walk out the door and enjoy un-interrupted adult alone time. I had barely taken one step outside the frame of the door when I heard Seth cry out from the bathroom that he had yet another bathtub full of poop. I hesitantly turned back in toward the house (the poop-filled side) and as I was about to offer to stay back and help, he popped his head around the corner and said with an overdramatic flare, “Just go babe. Just go.” He knew that we would be joking about it for the next week and that he had been the hero to take the fall alone while I got to go eat Chick-Fil-A waffle fries ALL BY MYSELF. So, I made sure to give Seth some much deserved credit for tackling PoopGate 2016 and being the hero who saved Mommy’s magical Christmas shopping day. 

Even though he appreciated the adoration, we both knew there was nothing that would ever dethrone me from what happened last spring. It would take a lot more than a floating turd to relinquish my crown. Those fateful seconds last May forever solidified my ranking as the one in our marriage who has the best (aka worst) parenthood story. No bathtub stink or pee soak would ever top “the incident”. 

Seth had taken our daughter out for a date and I remember I had been attempting to finish the last few dishes in the sink. But of course, my babe who never wants to be more than five feet away from me wasn’t havin' it. He came waddling over and started pulling on my leg, begging for my attention. As I looked down at his little face that was beaming back up at me I realized, wait a second, I have JUST Emmett right now which means I can give him one-on-one attention and just ENJOY his presence. Peace out dishes. I’ll see ya later. I instantaneously melted down to the floor and he crawled up into my lap. As I sat down I felt my phone dig into my side so I quick grabbed it out of my pocket. I started to set my phone on the counter and then thought it would be funny to send a couple Snapchats to my family. Emmett seemed to be relishing in his recent victory for my attention and was in the perfect mood for a couple silly videos. As I started recording little ten second clips of us I kept laughing hysterically as he hammed it up. He was feeding off my laughter and started slobbering and squealing into the screen. I giggled even more as I realized that he still had leftover peanut butter smeared on his cheek from dinner. He was quite the sight. 

I glanced down at my phone to select the people I was going to send the Snapchat to. I was a little distracted as I clicked the different names and right before I pressed the “send” button I felt something lightly brush my cheek. I thought to myself, oh gross. Emmett probably just wiped some spit on me..or worse, some of the peanut butter that was smeared on his face. Ew. I quickly sent off the snapchat and as I glanced up at Emmett I saw him standing face-to-face with me…with his hand down the back of his pants. He then pulled out his hand and extended it to me. 

It was in that moment I realized…. I had poop on my face. 

The award for best story goes to me.

I forever and always win. 

Blessings,

Shantastic aka Poopface

**********************************************

What’s your best (aka worst) story?? Does it top mine?? Share it below in the comments or find me on Instagram @TotallyShantastic (Or if you know me on Facebook, let me hear it! Do you get the crown in your family for the best story??)

FOLLOW BY EMAIL: Enter your email address in the box on the top right to get new posts sent directly to your inbox! Your address will never be shared and you can unsubscribe at any time!

My Baby's Pants are on Fire

I’m not a morning person. I’m a coffee person. But somehow, half of my DNA has created a little being who is an all day person. She’s a morning, afternoon, evening, and night person. How she is able to literally bounce through her entire day, I’ll never understand. One morning a few months ago I was (very groggily) loading the washing machine with a load of my son’s clothes. We were at that desperate point where if he spilled anything on his current shirt he would be borrowing something of his sister’s (and probably walking around in a pink unicorn dress for the rest of the day.) So, I was tired and distracted by my current task. As my head was shoved part-way in the washing machine, I heard my daughter come jumping around the corner and ask in an excruciatingly loud voice if she could have a cookie from the container on the counter. 

“No, you may not have a cookie right now. We don’t eat cookies for breakfast.” I robotically answered back. We don’t eat cookies for breakfast. Based on my mothering for the last four-and-a-half years, what would possess you to think that I would let you have a cookie for breakfast?? Kids. Ever-so hopeful. After I calmly recited my answer to her, I assumed she had skipped off into the living room to twirl, jump, and dive off the couch like usual. 

I finally finished loading up the washer and as I turned back around towards the kitchen, I instinctively glanced at the counter where I had left the cookie container. For a few seconds I just stared at the EMPTY spot on the counter and tried not to start fuming from my ears. The container was now most definitely not on the counter where it should have been. OH Mommy was awake now. Apparently cookie thievery works better than coffee to wake a person up. However, I didn’t want a crazed mommy monster to attack her with parental rage, so I first paused for a second and tried to steady my breathing. Then I took off marching through the kitchen until I rounded the corner of the living room. There before my eyes was my two-year-old standing over an open container of cookies and gathering them up in his hands. My eyes darted over to the stairs and I saw my daughter sprinting up to her room with a small mountain of cookies cradled in her shirt. 

I miraculously stayed calm as I asked her what she was doing. Her response turned into a ten minute interrogation of her full out LYING to me about having a secret cookie snack. (She even tried to blame it on her brother which could be a whole other post) As I stared in disbelief at her insistence on sticking to her lie, of course, disappointment flashed through my mind. But I also felt a tinge of guilt. Had she somehow learned this behavior from me? What had I done in my parenting techniques to make her think this was ok?

My mind immediately went to the thought that she must have learned this behavior from me because the concept of modeling was fresh in my mind. I had just recently learned a life-changing lesson when I had the flu. First of all, I learned that the flu sucks (totally). But, as Grace was so tenderly taking care of me, I sent one of my friends a picture of it all. It was so endearing. She laid out a blanket and a pillow on the couch and even brought her favorite stuffed animals downstairs to keep me company. She topped off the cuteness by making sure I had a glass of water next to me. My friend texted back and said “She is modeling how well YOU take care of her!” ..YES! My heart soared even though my body just wanted to sink into the couch and never move again. 

Yes, some of her traits are things that she has learned from my modeling and some of them have been learned from other people. But why is it that whenever she displays a characteristic that is…undesirable, I immediately take the blame and assume I have somehow failed her? In the same way that I can’t take the credit for everything awesome about her, I also shouldn’t take the blame when she is working through something hard. I hear the “mommy guilt” thing joked about all the time, and I know that it is something that a lot of moms (and dads) do. Myself included. I also know that mommy guilt is not productive or life-giving. So, with that knowledge, why do I see her lying about eating cookies and immediately feel like it’s my fault? I’ve never modeled how to eat cookies for breakfast and lie about it, but ok, I guess she’s gonna try it anyways! She is her own unique person. And I’m doing the best I can. It’s my job to help her work through these tough situations and not waste time blaming myself for it. Here’s to hoping I can walk alongside her in this journey towards truth-telling, and here’s to having hope that she will no longer be a liar liar with her pants on fire. 

Also…Note to self: Store the cookies in the pantry. Out of sight, out of reaching distance for her to steal them, lie about it, and blame her little brother. 

**********************************

Has your kid gone through a lying phase? How did you handle it? Did your kid get caught with her hand in the cookie jar too? :) 

FOLLOW BY EMAIL: If you would like new posts to be sent right to your inbox, just sign up in the box over to the top-right! It’s super easy to unsubscribe later if you change your mind! Your email address will remain private!

Instagram: I joined Instagram @TotallyShantastic  !! Come join me! :) 

Blessings,

Shantastic