Stirrin' it Up

Its a well know fact that these two do it.

Focus people. I'm talking about having a "family bed".


And since blogs are the confessional of the 21st century, let me just state, that my bed has been turned, right under my nose, into a family bed. Yep. Me, Schnerberwitz, and Snuggliebaby. All together from midnight to 6 am. I know, I know, this is a controversial issue. But the election is over, and it's time to bring up some pros and cons. Don't you miss them? Do you think Fox News will pick up this story? I have some things to say about Family Beds. They're weirds. As in plural weird. I've been looking up the subject and geeze lousie, I have some questions. Burning questions.

Like here's one. If you have a family bed, does it stop with just sleep? Or after you all sleep in the same bed, do you have to start eating in there too? Does it become the family slash bed slash table?
Because if you start up with the eating, then you're not only going to be dealing with the foot in the face issue, but you're also going to have to deal with the foot in the face with the toast crumbs issue as well.

And is there a rule that every single person has to be on board with the idea or it is a no go? Because I think that if I were forced by a young mother and her infant to be in a family bed, then that would be my rule. Because do you really want family members saying to themselves: "Am I a family outcast if I want my own room?" Besides, I don't think this chick looks too wild about being the baloney in her family bed sandwich.

And what about this: who do you allow in there? Where do you draw the line? I mean, families are big sometimes. And there's weirdos sometimes. Like, what if your dad is this guy? Does that mean you're sleeping with him?



Or what if there is a family pet? And it smells? Or what if he has his own bed? Does that mean you have to drag his bed up on to your bed so he will be happy and so it will truly be considered a family bed?




Or worse, what if THIS is his bed? Are you obligated to drag this monster up into your bed? I guess it could be done. You maybe could position that metal thing right over your head if you need to economize space. Then the doggie could still sleep with his bottom positioned in the fuzzy green thing right above your smeller.

And where does it stop?

Is Grandma invited in to the family bed when she becomes to infirm to care for herself? Because you know what that means. Say hello to installing side rails and having a bedpan handy. And you know she's going to bring along her C-PAP and there might be oxygen tanks just for kicks and giggles. KaBoom KaBlamm.

And what about the bed bug issue?

If you add more people, will there be more bed bugs? However, with regards to this issue, maybe you personally will get less bed bug bites. Because the bugs will be biting your kids instead of you. Now there's a plus.


I found that the family bed has become a cottage industry. For example, there are Bed and Breakfasts that cater just to families who prefer a family bed:



WooHoo... There's a vacancy.... Get going.....


And don't you just love it when you find a good children's book that will help you solve a problem that one of your children is having? Who knew there was sensitivity to this issue?




And there's junk you can buy to further junk up your bed with. Junk to keep your baby safe and secure. But one has to wonder... where is Daddy sleeping now?


And just to take the stress out of it, there are "Stay Dri" items you can buy to stick between you and your 800 thread count sheets. 'Cause you never know.

And not to worry. There are books designed to undo what you have done. You can find it all on Amazon.com. Amazing website. Love it.

Don't stress. If your child experiences trauma from you kicking him out of the family bed, it is perfectly OK for him to request that you make him a family bed birthday cake to help him cope.

And after reading the how to get the kids out of the bed book, and you just can't seem to make it happen, then just embrace your inner chi. Get yourself one of these floating family beds. "Keep your family bed pure" was the slogan on the ad for this baby. A good idea for the whole earth, I always say.

I don't know. After mulling this over, I did find one good idea. Get yourself one of these bad boys, and if everyone is bugging you, why just close that puppy up. Problem solved. And hey sports fans....it's a space saver too.

PS If you wanted an update on the little man, he lost his umbilical cord yesterday. Oh you know he enjoyed that warm water bath.

PSS. I apologize for any offense that may have been caused in the stirring up of this matter. Can't we just all get along?

What Two Grandmas Might Do to Someone Else's Baby when they find Someone Else's Camera Lying Around

Mommacita's List of Favorite Things: Newborn Edition

Do you tire of overbearing Grandmacita? Um. Too bad because I don't really care.

So with a grand flourish, a wave of a satin cape, a sound effect that sounds like magic and twinkly lights, (going to have to use your God Given imagination) and a handful of glitter tossed in the air all over you, here is

Mommactia's List of Favorite Things: Newborn Edition

In no particular order:

There really was a baby boy in there!

Baby Fuzz!

Baby Squeaks!

Baby Skin!

Snuggling accompanied with kitty sounds!

Smiling at Timmer's picture! (according to out of town Grandma, she showed him his picture and he focused and smiled. I bought it instantly. Like a sucker.)

Those lips!

That smell!

Teeny tiny ears!

Sniffing! His and mine!

Seeing the mothering instinct kick in instantly with someone who left her cabbage patch kid in the box! So Fun!

Repeat the one above!

Warmth!

The Name!

Sad crying!

Mad crying!

Whimper crying!

Lip quivering!

Any noise at all coming out of those lips!

Rooting!

Rooting on my neck!

Nursing!

Not being sore from nursing!

Hearing the Swallowing from across the room!

Wipie Warmers!

Minkie Blankets!

Flannel!

Cone head one day, perfect sphere the next!

Dad's brow!

Mom's nose!

MY CHIN!!! (I'm 3 for 3 on the chin, so I'm officially starting to groove on my chin. You wish you had my chin)

Moses Baskets! (thanks Gina!)

Friends bringing in dinners! (thanks friends!)

Fingers, precious baby fingers!

Same as above only insert toes as the body part!

The back of his head!

The back of his neck!

Eyelids!

Baby Tongue!

Free Pampers from the hospital!

I could go on and on!

and On!

How cute are they doing the man hands holding the idy bidy baby thing?

PS Today he decided he like his lime green Binky. That info was for out of town Grandma.

PSS He misses out of town Grandma.

Communication: The Key to Life

Precious Perfect's parents have changed his name to Henry. I'm a little conflicted, because Precious Perfect was so fitting. And his initials could have been, well, ....something that is very important to a newborn.


Anyway, Precious Perfect, or Little Man, or Henri (when I'm feeling french) or YummyBaby is a delicious specimen. And do you want to hear a story? You do? About my grandchild? You do? Because you're interested? Because you love stories about other people's YummyBabies? Wow. You're kind. I might not be as kind as you are.


So here's a story,. It's called,

"YummyBaby Communicates to the Grandma's, but Not Until He Exerts a Lot of Patience, Effort, and Good Ol' Elbow Grease Do They Finally Get It."

The following is not a musical. But it is good enough to be on the Lifetime Network. And it's about women and women's stuff so it has a chance. However, the two men in this story are nice so that might work against it being considered. On with the reinactment.

Nurse: Schneebermoms, because you have just given birth to the YummiestBaby of all of 2008, you and your rear end win a free trip to the jacuzzi room down the hall. You might want to go on a date with your husband while you have two such loving Grandmothers to watch your YummyBaby.

So off they go, walking hand in hand, one walking more gingerly than the other, one walking slower than he is used to. Wish I had a photo to insert here. But not one taken from behind because a behind shot of a daughter in a hospital gown after birth is not what the Internet is for. Even if you're really really tempted.

Yummy Baby: Snort, SNORT

In Town Grandma: Let me jiggle you YummyBaby. You'll like that.

YummyBaby: Snortcryyowl, SNORTCRYYOWL!!

In Town Grandma: (Whispering) Don't make me look like a rookie in front of the Out of Town Grandma YummyBaby.

YummyBaby: Out and out crying. Lip quivering crying. HystericalBaby in a movie crying.

In Town Grandma: Maybe he needs to be changed. (Sets YummyBaby down on his mother's bed.) Proceeds to look for what is none of her business.

Yummy Baby: Mmmm-mmm, ZZZZZZZZZZZZ-zzzzzzzzz

In Town Grandma to Out of Town Grandma: Wha? Why did he stop? Do you think he smelled his mother in her bed? Do you think the smell of his mother comforts him?

Out of Town Grandma: Maybe.

In Town Grandma: Out of Town Grandma, do you want to have a turn?

Out of Town Grandma: YES!

Out of Town Grandma gently picks him up, all warm and swaddled.

YummyBaby: er er er......... YOWWWWWWWWWL. CRRRRRRRRY. WAAAAAAAAAAA

Out of Town Grandma starts jiggleing, rocking, singing, cooing.

YummyBaby: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
Breath
WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
Breath
WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!

Schneebermomma and her date walk (a little less gingerly, a little more spry, thanks to the free jacuzzi) through the door.

Schneerbermom standing in doorway: Hi Guys.

YummyBaby: SnivelSnivelSniffSniff
YummyBaby: exhale
YummyBaby:
YummyBaby: coo.

Is not my Henry an impressive little dude?

You're Dying to Know this Actual Fact

Precious Perfect Willeigh is here. Born this evening at 7:22 pm. 8lbs. 15 oz, 21 1/2" long with a head circumfrence of 36. Big Huge hands. No name yet. I'm too pooped to give you more, because I found myself pushing too.


Parents of Precious are Delighted. Soaring in fact. All three are very cute. But the baby smells better than Christmas.

Ghetto Fabulous

Today I really really REALLY missed going to the polls.

In my state they have mail in ballots. Remember the wonderful precinct stations, of days gone by? The ones where you'd get a little card in the mail telling you to go to a certain place (your child's elementary school) and on election day they'd have special parking for you, (making you feel all special and pretty) and so you'd park in it and get out of the car and you'd follow little patriotic signs that said VOTE written in the shape of an arrow,

and those signs would direct you to a table full of little old ladies from the league of women voters that would greet you so warmly that you just knew they were professional grandmas in real life, in fact they smelled just like cookies

and they would be in charge of these giant computer print outs with the names of all the registered voters in the precinct and you'd tell them your name (Mommacita please) and they'd have you sign your name, and right below your name you could see that your husband had already voted earlier that morning and signed his name, and you would think, "Oh, the Tim-o-tee, I just love that guy", and then you were given the thumbs up so you could proceed to the flimsy red white and blue cardboard voting booth

and armed with your voters pamphlet (just in case you forgot something) you would carefully vote. And then your new grandma would give you a flag sticker that says "I voted today" on it. And you'd proudly wear it for the rest of the day.

Remember that?

Well today I took my ballot to the Smokers With B.O. Lounge (Department of Motor Vehicles) to personally drop it in the ballot box. This is what the genius's at the DMV came up with for folks to drop their ballots into:

A Rubbermaid box with a slot cut into the side

And for Fort Knox Security the edges of the lid were wrapped a couple of times with this:And taped to the lid of the Rubbermaid box with the jaggedy slit there was a sign that was made with discarded cardboard from a pantyhose package that said

"Stick Yer Votes in this Hear Box"

And then there were toothpicks to one side so you could pick your teeth on the way out.

I wanted to pull my toenails out.

And no. These are not my real toenails. Don't be stupid lest I tire of you.

11/3 at 3:11

Today is the 5th anniversary of our Tim-o-tee's death. He died on 11/3 at 3:11. Which is kind of weird and spooky if you want to look at it that way, or you might want to say to yourself, that it seems kind of deliberate. And careful. I'm going with the latter. Anyway, 5 years have slipped away since he laid in our family room, in his hospice bed, under a blue quilt made by his sisters, and smiled and reached toward heaven with his beautiful beautiful hands. He was in the presence of his mother and his daughter, women he loved most dearly. And it's true. He really did smile and reach.

I was happy for him that day, because even though I was in the other room talking with the hospice nurse during the reaching and smiling part, I was with him for his last breath. I was happy for him, because he was ready to go, and he was tired of his broken body. He was a person who loved moving, was always anxious for the next step. His broken down body was holding him back, and he was annoyed with it. I remember the room being filled with joy after his last breath was taken. It was undeniable.

However, before that, before the joy, as I sat near his side holding on to his hand, I remember noting how the process of dying was so parallel to the process of birthing. There's impatience. There's suffering. There's drama. There's loneliness, the knowing that it's you and you alone that has to get the job done. There's knowing that what is happening is of vital importance. Birth and Death? Very Big Deals. There's the beginning of a new life when it all is finally over. And there's the joy. Joy for the one moving on, the one about to experience all the luscious brand new things. And there's joy for the people with arms outstretched, waiting for and welcoming that new life into their realm

As I reflect on it all, and as I watch Tim's daughter prepare for the birth of her son this week, I am grateful for the parallel. It settles me. I love things that are beautifully designed, things that fit together so well that when you finally notice them they make you catch your breath a little and then you feel a little surge of pleasure rush through you.

The parallel explains to me, without words, just how carefully our earth life was designed and crafted. There is nothing haphazard here. And there's comfort in that idea for me. Comfort in God doing that for me. For us. Comfort when there's impatience. Comfort when there's suffering. Comfort when there's drama. Comfort when there's loneliness. And an explanation for the joy. The precious joy that I look forward to this week, and the joy that I'll feel in the future, when I will be the one welcomed.

It can make so much sense, you know?

And I love it when things make sense.

More Parallel Universe

Do you ever want to blog and you can't because your daughter is walking around 9 months pregnant and she hit you accidentally with her babytummy twice today and you find yourself just lying on your bed because you want the baby to come out but he won't so you just lie there on the mattress thinking about your daughter birthing and you can't stop trying to imagine it so you just keep thinking and laying there when you could be blogging but instead of the blogging you roll over and grab a handful of cashews because soon the baby will be here and you know that then there will be no lying around and cashew grabbing or reading of "Wuthering Heights" (lots of big words in that one I'll tell you) and when the birthing finally does happen all there will be is you, just you you you and you being all supportive and helpful and not judgemental about ANYTHING; and you know that in a matter of days that that's all there will be in the entire whole wide world and universe, all there will be is just you, being the perfect earth mother-of-the-mother, the perfect earth mother who keeps smiling all the time no matter what and is never in a bad mood and does cooking and is supportive and keeps her mouth shut and doesn't say anything like: "Binkies cause nipple confusion?" or "Huh?"and the Perfect Earth Mother would never ever ever say: "You can't put this snugly yet lovingly made (by a very attractive grandma) quilt in his bed with him?" or the P.E.M. absolutely would not say: "I put all my babies on their tummies backs and sides and nothing ever happened to them." so you as a Perfect Earth Mother don't say any of that archaic Grannie sounding kind of stuff because in actuality you're young and hip and now and happnin' (although saying happnin' might make you not so happnin'), and since you realize that by not saying those things it will keep life upbeat and happy and supportive, so you very strongly plan on not saying stupid things and keeping that smile pasted on, but you don't trust yourself to do it, so you run to your bedroom and fling yourself on the bed and grab around wildly for the nuts? Grab for nuts wildly like a blind man that has no elbows in his arms?

Does that ever happen to you?

It Does?

Well then, how about this one: When you explain it to everyone, do you have to explain the whole thing in one big ginormous expansivly ridunkulous sentence?

You Do?

Just so you know...

You and I?

We're Simpatico.

Which, by the way, is something that should cause you to fear and tremble.

It's the ADDWAEOTR

I am finally posting because of my neice Annier. She informs that it has been eleven days since the last post. Annie, whilest I had a chuckle at your comment, and I'm still kind of jiggling because of it, I haven't posted for 11 days because I don't know what to say. I have writer's block.

At first I thought it was because of Up Chuck. Up Chuck is my nephew-nephew. Is that what you call a nephew's child? His mommy has been undergoing a stem cell transplant, and every time I would think about my blog, and it's ridiculousness (my TV watching, my getting you to feel sorry for me, my running amok thought processes...) I would just feel shallow and then more shallow. There are people out there (Up Chuck's parents and grandparents and sisters for starters ) who are living life gracefully and dealing with real earth life issues. And I wanted to blog about how wonderful I think they are but I just couldn't do them justice. So I stuttered.

Then I thought I couldn't blog because of the Baby Mama. I had a good blog all started and then she shoved it underground and I was told (with quite a bit of hormone edge) to blog about my own life. Point taken. Although too bad for you because I had really good material about her slipping back into life as it was in high school. Lots of funny stuff about waiting for her boyfriend to call. ZINGADINGDING!

Then I thought the blogging problem was because I was no longer thinking. I am not living with just my thoughts anymore, but I am talking to Baby Mama all day and have no (air quote) blog thoughts (air quote) that would over take my world. I spend my day talking to Baby Mama about TV and mullets and squirrels and dreams instead of creating a little blog world with them. Tim used to say "A card laid is a card played." So by that we logically deduce that he would say: "A thought spoken is a blog that doesn't happen."

This is a theory, and is not meant to change the world. But I think I've stumbled onto something.

Then I thought maybe I can't blog because we're waiting around here for something BIG to happen. Like a live birthing. Everything else seems small in comparison. Maybe it's because I'm so excited I run across the room every time Baby Mama says owie. Or my back hurts. Maybe I am distracted by the rotund. I never knew that about myself. I have ADDWAEOTR. Pronounced Add-way-o-ter. Attention Deficit Disorder With an Emphasis on the Rotund.

Off the subject sidebar: How do women stretch like that???

Anyway, I am trying to save myself from my writers block. I want to blog about the Baby Mama naming her son Maverick, but I just can't get it going. I want to blog about the top ten reasons why I should be in the delivery room, but I have already been invited, so I don't need to pressure anyone with ridiculous reasons. I want to blog about the Mitchmeister, whose birthday is today, and tout how proud I am of that little cowboy. I could have put one of his baby pictures on the blog, you know, one of those where he's only wearing cowboy boots and a holster and nothing else, and I could have put a black strip over his nethers (or his eyes, you pick...but don't bother telling me because it would gross me out too much) and You all would have said Oh, remember when Mitch was running around the neighborhood in his nethers making his Mumzie's blood pressure press in her jugular vein a little to strong? Remember that? That would have been a blog that would have pleased and touched and you all would have had to reach for the Kleenix. And then you all would have had to sit back and remind yourselves to just breathe.

Why oh why can't I just be about the blogging?

Help me O Be One Kanobi. You're my only hope.

Happy Birthday Lil' Tim. You have always been a crowd pleaser. And everybody is thinkin' about that today.

I Should be in the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. You Know I Should.

Today, while the Baby Mama and I were watching this young man on General Conference,

I disclosed a deep dark secret to her. I have always wanted to be in the Mo Tab.

Always.

Only I can't really sing like those ladies (you can tell they can all sing well....they sing with their eyes closed or their eyes buggin out and their mouths really open wide.)

I have emotional baggage about singing with my mouth open really wide, because in fourth grade I was standing in front of the class with a group of other kids, singing for the rest of the class, and we were singing that "Gloria" Christmas song, and I was really getting into it and I had my mouth open as wide as it would go, just Gloria-ing my little 9 year old heart out (probably with my eyes closed) (probably bobbing somewhat in place.) and I noticed that there were some boys who were pointing and laughing and I think to myself: who are they laughing at and after a reality check or two I realized it was me. I instantly knew that I would now be known as

a. Tonsil Girl

b. That weirdo Gloria singer.

I spent recess in the bathroom. And I was miles away from puberty when this tragedy happened, so we can't blame it on that. My fragile little singer psyche was bruised. I didn't try out for choir in high school until it was too late. I walked into tryouts and suddenly became aware that all the other kids were singing operatic vibrato. How did I miss learning how to do that?

Anyway.

Here are the reasons why I would fit in with and should be in the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Totally discounting singing ability and taking into account desire. In no particular order:

Reason #1

I think that I would really enjoy all the trips

I've never been to Rushmore. Or Russia. Or China. Or the Olympics. Or the Inauguration of a President of the United States.

Reason #2

I could really be valuable in keeping their fashion sense afloat. In fact, this could be my special job. My speciality if you will. I might put the ladies in suits. From Chicos. JUST KIDDING. Not about the suits part. I really think this would be a good job for me because there's nowhere to go but up. There's only improvements to be had.

Not that this example has anything to do with the Mo Tabs, (it just demonstrates my skilz) but today, during the afternoon session of conference, they had a children's choir, and the little girls were all in pastels. I wouldn't do that. And some of the little girls had satin dresses on. I wouldn't do that. Not good on every body type. I think I would go for crisp and not flow-ie. I think I would go for less not more. (less fabric bunched up in a little sequined gather thingy at the hip) I think I would consult Christian Dior. Or Channel. Or whoever is designing Sarah Palin's beautiful beautiful suits.

I mean why not? Those CD sales are up. Spend some, make some. In fact, now that I'm on this roll, I'm thinking an outfit for the Mo Tab Ladies would be an EXCELLENT challenge on Bravo's Project Runway.

Wouldn't that be AMAZING??? Mo Tab singers stomping down the runway to Mo Tab Music in front of Heidi Klum? So if elected, you now know what I'd do. So pick me. Love me. Then I'd not only be in that awesome choir, but I'd get a rocking suit.

Reason #3:

Once we got the outfits under control, we could make them in lots of different colors. Colors that I might look good in. Because if I look good in red,

or Blue,

then you know that the rest of the choir is going to look good too, because we all pretty much have the same coloring. Check it out. It's true and you know it.

Reason #4

I have the essential over 50 afro hair do. (see above) Again. Perfect fit. Can't deny.

Reason #5

I would have the opportunity to feel wonderful things.

How or why would you deny me feeling wonderful things, after all I've been through having two broken legs (OK, feet but I get extra points because there were two) at my son's wedding?

Reason #6

I could go around saying things like, "Oh, I'm unavailable on Thursday because I have to go practice with this choir I'm in, maybe you've heard of them, they're the world famous Mormon Tabernacle Choir and I'm in it now because I am an amazing singer finally."

Reason #7

If I happened to be so utterly fortunate to realize my fondest dream and be in the choir, you could hunt for Mommacita whenever you see the choir on the BYU Channel. It would be extra fun for you. And your entire family. You all would feel like you know a celebrity (me) when you say to your preschooler or the person you live with: Hey, there's that lady we know who writes a blog sometimes except when her daughter comes to live with her then she becomes a total slacker.

Reason #8

I would really really really think yea on me.

PS. If you are from my ward, and you are involved in the ward choir (and your name might possibly be Wettlauf.... and this blog makes you think: Hey we need to be getting that Mommacita coming to ward choir; then you need to get one of those reality checks performed on yourself by a health professional because I'm not such a great singer. Insurance will probably not cover that reality check. At least mine never has. Anyway, no ward choir wants me. I just like the Mo Tabbers. And I long to be with them. So back away.