It is 11:51 am and I’ve yelled 12 times.

For the last four years or so, I’ve been practicing gentle parenting. I don’t normally yell. I don’t spank. We use our words but the last few weeks have been hell.

My patience is wearing thin. My oldest is 9. She tests my patience to a point where I want to cry. I am so defeated that a 9 year old is getting the best of me. We start bed time routine at 8PM. They’re still fucking around at 9PM and 10Pm and occasionally even 11PM. They don’t even try. I’ve asked. I’ve pleaded. I’ve been nice about it and now the only thing left is being not nice about it.

My four year old laughs at me when I tell him to do something. He legitimately falls on the floor laughing at me. He cries and screams and tantrums to no end and then when its all over, he laughs.

My two year old doesn’t speak. She doesn’t listen. She doesn’t care. You try to talk to her and she just pokes you in the eye and says “Mama Eyes” and proceeds to point out everyone’s eyes.

So I’ve yelled and yelled and yelled and threatened to take away all of their toys. I’ve tried scaring them into submission. I’ve tried saying, “I’m calling dad!” Nothing works. They’re still not listening.

I’ve come to a simple conclusion:

My children escaped from my womb to make me want to run away. They elicit this fight or flight response every time.

So if you need me, I’ll be binge watching ID while eating giant Reese’s because #adultingsucks.

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BOOBS ARE MAGICAL.

When I say, “Boobs are magical” I mean it in the unicorn or flying pig kind of way. All these years, I’ve though boobs were just fun bags for my husband and here they are leaking and hurting and nurturing a tiny little human. Breastfeeding and I have a love-hate relationship. I love it and it hates me back.

So far, I’ve dealt with thrush twice and I must say that as much as I love seeing purple everywhere, I don’t enjoy feeling like I am lactating razor blades. (Yeah, it hurts that much.) We also get to deal with the small baby things where every single person who has to weigh the baby makes me feel absolutely inadequate. I also get to deal with the cuteness of milk drunk babies. Nothing is better then a little baby completely satisfied with your breast milk.

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I also find that the more comfortable I get with nursing, the more I want to share the love and show everyone, although this not always appreciated. I have not had too many unpleasant experiences when I have to nurse Charley in public, YET. I am sure I will get some ignorant person telling me to cover or to do it the bathroom. The stares will continue even though she’s in her sling and people will resist the urge to say something.

Its an amazing thing. I gave up with Bug early because I was selfish and lazy. I made the mistake of giving Ben bottles because I didn’t want to feel embarrassed and because I learned not to be selfish and lazy when it comes to your children, I slaved away at a pump for two years. With Charley, I want to have an amazing extended breastfeeding relationship. I don’t care if people says its for me or she’s too old.

77 Days!

In 77 days, my husband and I will welcome our new daughter, Charlee into the world, in an operating room.

Why you ask?

Well, to give the short version, I have never dilated or effaced on my own. None of my babies have ever became fully engaged and even with pitocin, I have only gotten to 3 or 4 cm after 16 hours. My OB has said that if I go into labor before my scheduled c-section, I can attempt to VBA2C. I would love that. In fact, it would make having a 6 year old, 2 year old, and newborn much simpler but I have a bad feeling that Charlee will be as stubborn as the rest of her siblings.

Funny story.

I was talking to my mother the other day about my awesome breast pump (which I still use for Benjamin who has been given exclusively pumped breastmilk for 18 months) and she told me that I shouldn’t be giving him breast milk anymore. He doesn’t need it. I am honestly agitated at her lack of knowledge about it. She didn’t breastfeed any of her three kids. She says its because her “boobs were too small.” Apparently, breast size is in direct correlation with ability to produce.

She also told me to get my tubes tied and to not wear this baby so it wasn’t a titty baby.

(Let’s avoid the lynch mob. FOR NOW.)

When I was a teenager, I promised myself that I would never be like my mother.

I would never put my needs and wants above those of my children.

I would never let my children CIO because I needed a “break”.

A crib wasn’t and still isn’t a place for the baby to hang out.

A baby needing love isn’t impeding on my life as an adult.

I will never lock children in their rooms at night so I can sleep in.

I would never practice their so-called “unattached parenting”.

I was five, maybe six years old and I remember being locked in my room in the morning because I didn’t want to wait for my mother to get up at noon. I am twenty-seven years old and I still remember freaking out and banging on doors and windows because I had no idea why I couldn’t open my door.

I don’t want my children to carry around memories like that. I don’t want them to ever feel unimportant or abandoned by the one person who is supposed to always be there. NO MATTER WHAT.

I chose to be a stay at home mom. That means above all, I am a mother.