Sweats are the new black

Speaking of doing nothing else.....

So yeah, the chasm between blog posts are becoming much wider as time flies by. It's already Thanksgiving and almost time for Christmas madness. How in the world did we get here?!

Anyways, things at Bang household have been pretty standard - lots of poop wiping, general childrearing and house cleaning going on around here.

It's now been about a year and a half since I quit my job to stay home with the kids and in that time frame, I've noticed myself evolving. I've never been the most ambitious person in the world but I've always been generally uniform in my daily tasks. Brisk. Efficient. Before I had kids, I used to shower and dress in normal clothes regardless of my plans for the day. Even if I had planned to stay home and clean the garage, I'd shower, straighten my hair and put on a little makeup. I always felt that being physically put together made me feel more awake, more energetic. Like a human being.

However.

I realize how that the longer you stay home, the more parental responsibilities you hold, the less sleep you attain, things change. And change they have.

A few observations:

1. Daily showers are now rare optional.

2. Long hair is required for ease of ponytails and haphazard buns. *See #1

3. Kids in pjs all day? What's the problem?

4. Me in pj's all day? What's the problem?

5. I have three pairs of sweats on rotation every week. Two of them have bleach stains and rips at the bottom hem.

6. I can officially cross my name off the list for "Hottest Mom in Bonney Lake. *See #5

7. I lie - actually my name wasn't even on the ballot.

As I type this, I'm sitting here in last night's pj's with my unwashed hair in a greasy ponytail. I can feel the beginnings of a volcano zit start to form on my upper lip and I just bit part of my ragged nail off my rough, dry man hands.

I'm still waiting for my casting call, Tyra Banks. ANTM, baby!


***

Btw, my ps camera broke so pictures will be sparse until I can replace it. Boo.

Slowing down.

I'm always hearing how moms (and dads) struggle with finding the life/work/extracurricular activity balance. These days it seems like kids are overscheduled to the max, starting at the ripe old age of 2 yrs old.

Preschool. Soccer. Dance. Music. Church. Playdates.

Parents are racking up the miles on their minivans and SUVs shuttling kids back and forth. and back. and forth.

For some odd reason, I find people actually ask me how I manage to handle everything - three kids, a husband with insanely long and irregular hours, a large house to clean, buckets of laundry to wash. And you know how I manage to do it?

It's because I don't do anything else.

Now, I have nothing against having my kids involved in extracurricular activities. In fact, if our financial and childcare situations were a bit more flexible, ideally I'd love to have Oliver playing soccer, or Evelyn in swim lessons. Or Wesley in theater classes because dude is dramatic these days! Because I don't. But not only because we really can't, but because I really don't want to.

I think it's great that my friends have their children involved in things outside of school. I believe it allows children to let loose, find what interests them and also gives them hobbies.

However.

My children are young. Ages 5, 3 and 1. The oldest attends pre-k three times a week from 8:30-3. While she's in school, I'm able to spend more quiet, quality time with the boys. When the youngest is sleeping, I get some much needed and rare one on one time with the middle child. When she's not in school, we usually spend all day at home together. I let them play, color, do whatever they want. I want them to enjoy this time of youth and innocence. I want, for a fleeting moment, for life to slow down, capture my babies in the moment. Because I know soon these moments will be few. They'll grow older, become more busy, have less time for family, more time for friends.

I'm in no hurry to get them out there in the world before I'm they're ready.

My first

I remember like it was yesterday. Awake at 1:30 in the morning, drawing a bath and wondering what the hell I was doing. Calling the nurse and asking how to tell if they were real or false. Watching the dogs tilt heir heads in curiosity as I bobbed up and down in a tub full of warm water. The nurse said if it was false, they'd go away once I got in the tub.

They became worse..

Then I remember poking him awake, whispering that I thought it was maybe "time to go. NOW". I remember him bolting out of bed, jumping in the shower trying to desperately shock his body awake, even though at this point it was now closer to 2 am. He threw on a hat, grabbed my hospital bag and we jumped in the car. I grabbed at the door handle, writhing in pain for the longest 20 minute car ride of my life. At this point they were coming every 1 to 3 minutes.

The next thing I remember is being wheeled into a room, baring my ass so I could get into the gown and snuggling into the bed with the pillow I had brought from home. Every few minutes I felt a searing pain shoot across my stomach, followed by a brief moment of relief. But that moment was always over just a little too soon, and then I had to brace myself for yet another jolt of pain. Hot, searing pain.

Then the nurse came in, asked if I'd like an epidural and I said "Yes. Hell, yes". When the anethesiologist came in, I rolled on my side like an obedient dog waiting for some bacon strips and waited for the extremely long needle to do its magic. 30 minutes later I felt all the pain subside, as well as any other feeling in my body from the waist down. I can't recall ever being so happy as I felt the pain lift away from my body. It was at that moment I decided that I'd have a t-shirt made, maybe even coffee cups, that said "I love the epidural. I love it so much I would marry it". It was that good. Drugs are good! And then, time seemed to suspend in air, like fruit in a jello cup. It was now 6 in the morning and I felt I deserved a nap. The last thing I remember before falling asleep was having him tuck me in and then pass out himself in the chair next to me, exhausted from me gripping his hand like a wad of putty.

I woke up around 8. The nurse informed me that I was ready to go. Hmm, I could have probably refuted her statement but I figured it was probably safer to listen to the medical professional than my tired, irrational bloated mess of a body. The next hour flew by. I remember pushing, resting, pushing, resting. I also remember thinking that the time would have been more enjoyable if the tv had been turned on to the food network. But anyways, after some more pushing, she was here. Finally here. They placed her tiny, bloody body on my chest and I remember thinking "

"Whose baby is this? She's black!"

and also,

"Yay, I'm not pregnant anymore! I can eat sushi!"

Heh. What can I say, I am random.

But upon closer look, I realized "Oh. She's dark because she looks like John. She looks like her daddy."

I watched as they weighed her on the scale, wiped her eyes with ointment and wrapped her up like a delicious, tiny little asian burrito.  The nurse handed her to John, who wiped his eyes and stared at her in amazement. Then he placed her in my arms and all I could do was laugh. She was so dark, so hairy and so tiny. She was the baby I'd incubated for 9 months. The baby who left me a present of angry stretch marks and bad skin. And yet, all I could do was stare at this beautiful thing.

Evelyn Hae-bin Bang, we'd decided her name would be.

And now, five years later, here we are.
She is the best daughter in the entire world.