I was originally going to blog about 9/11, where I was, what it meant, blah blah blah, but there's enough of that going on today.  Plus, let's be honest, it's a real downer, and that's not what this is about.

So, without further adieu...

Trevor's new catch phrase, for lack of a better term, is "Oh Snap!"  He says it in reference to anything, shocking or not.  Trevor, we're having mac and cheese.  "Oh Snap!" Trevor, your shoes are untied.  "Oh, Snap!"  Trevor, Victoria is holding me up at knife point.  "Oh Snap!"

I don't know where he learned it, but I'm tempted to teach him something else to say, so I can stop feeling like I'm trapped in a bad 80s movie where someone is about to get served.  Plus, the gang symbols he's attempting to create aren't helping.

Today I went to work in dirty pants, and no, that's not my secret, although it was gross.  My secret is that I don't do laundry.  Usually this is something Wesley handles, but he was in class last night, so this was the result:

This came to a head this morning when I realized my options were to bare my hairy legs in a dress, wear some very unflattering knit pants, or dig through the dirty clothes.  I initially chose the knit pants but was informed by my loving husband that they didn't look appropriate for work.  I assume he was referring to the fact that you could count every fat roll I have (I lost count) plus see the outline of my sexy granny panties.  So, after debating for a solid 5 minutes, I chose to wear dirty pants instead of visually assaulting everyone with my "inappropriate" work pants or hairy legs.

As I sit here and type this, the mound continues to grow exponentially because I know that ultimately the ever-expanding pile will break him before it even comes close to bothering me (Trevor gets his OCD honestly).  Let's be honest, I could dig out of the dirty clothes hamper for a few more days without thinking twice.  And, don't get me started on putting up the laundry.  I don't have any need for a dresser.  I'd be perfectly content with living out of a laundry basket.

For those of you judging me and thinking how lucky I am to have found a man to put up with this, please know that there is a trade-off.  As nasty as my laundry habits are, Wesley's man-farts are absolutely nauseating.  His gas could choke a donkey.  If I ever file for divorce, the reason for separation will surely be flatulent abuse.  Any court in the land would back me up. 

I only have one more day to go to deal with a lack of clean work pants, because Saturday is always a big laundry day in my house (for him, not me, of course).  Sadly, I'll probably just end up shaving my legs, so I can wear a dress.  All that effort just to avoid doing laundry.  I truly am lucky I live with someone who keeps me from living in my own filth.

Update: Laundry was washed last night and dried this morning.  Best. Husband. Ever.

    I'm watching Vic putting on lip gloss and pretending to curl her hair.  She's dressed in her princess dress and wearing her finest jewels and mock crown.  She reminds me of old hollywood glamour- Audrey Hepburn or Liz Taylor, someone along those lines. Then, she reaches down to scratch her ass, and I once again recognize the Victoria I know and love.

Dear Sophie,

Today you are 8 months old.  You've come so far, but I think you can do better. 

First, the positive:  You're an ace at rolling over.  In fact, at this point, it's your chosen method of transporation.  Ever heard of crawling? 

You're pretty much sitting up on your own, but then again, I pretty much eat healthy.  You see where "pretty much" gets you? 

You're still the most good natured kid and have such a sweet disposition.  Translation- you're boring.

Now, the negative:  You're STILL not sleeping through the night.  And whoever suggested letting a baby "cry it out" obviously did not have one that was such a relentless little piggie.  I can only blame teething and growth spurts for so long until I just turn off the baby monitor altogether and leave you to your own devices from 10pm to 6am.  Consider yourself warned.

Grade C+

In all honesty, you are such a joy to have, and  I'm grateful to have you in my life.  You bring a much needed calming influence into the house.  I look forward to watching you grow and develop and can't wait to see your true personality emerge.

Working almost 12 hours today almost makes me wish I could be a Stay at Home Mom (SAHM)... Almost.  Then I remember why that's not an option, nor do I want it to be.  I have my reasons:

1. My kids like stuff.  By this, I mean they, like every other kid, like toys, video games, activities, McDonald's, etc.  If I stayed at home, we would be eating Ramen Noodles and tuna nightly, and we would be cooped up in the house staring at each other in the dark due to a lack of cable and electricity.  And if you know my kids, you know that they cannot survive without cable.

2. I'm lazy. I know if I were to stay at home, there would be a lot of expectations about keeping the house clean, cooking dinner, showering...I know myself well enough to realize that if left to my own devices, I would never step foot out of my pajamas, I would eat constantly, and the house would consist of little nesting piles.  It would be a daily internal struggle to want to make Wesley happy by coming home to a clean house and cooked dinner versus sitting on my ass, gorging on pints of ice cream, and watching House marathons. Let's be honest, Hugh Laurie will win every time.

3. I need to feel important. As much as I enjoy motherhood, I need something that's totally unrelated that gives me a sense of accomplishment.  Despite the fact that motherhood is far more important to me than my job, I happen to be very good at it.  It's the first time in my career that I feel like I'm the perfect fit for my position.  I receive consistent positive feedback from my co-workers and clients, and I receive a real sense of satisfaction from helping people.  It's not without its frustrations, but for the most part, it's pretty conducive to motherhood.

4. I'm a procrastinator.  There is so much pressure on kids these days with what they're expected to know by the time they enter Kindergarten that I know the Learning Center Sophie is in and the Child Development Program Vic attends are doing so much more with them than I ever could.  Vic, at age 3, can write her name, count to 20 plus, knows her shapes and colors, and can draw basic people.  Sophie speaks 4 languages and writes haikus.  What?  You can't prove she doesn't. When I was in school, I never did anything until the day before it was due. I don't think you can cram 4 years of learning into the day before Kindergarten starts.  I prefer leaving teaching to the professionals, but that means a hefty childcare bill, which, in turn, means me working a full-time job.

5. My kids get on my nerves.  Yes, even the most perfect children on Earth are loud and obnoxious, and I need a break from them, even the baby.  I can't tell you how many Monday mornings I've breathed a sigh of relief walking into work.  I pretty much know what's in store for me at work, and people are  easy to work with for the most part.  WIth the kids, however, I'm constantly on my toes.  It's exhausting refereeing fights, entertaining the masses, and persuading them to do every little thing from going potty to cleaning their rooms.

The bottom line is that I choose to work because it makes me a better mom, and it benefits the kids.  I get a much needed break from them, and they from me.  That makes the weekends and holidays that much more special, and the time away makes me appreciate them more.  Also, we have the funds to splurge on toys, eating out, and doing fun activities. 

There are so many sites encouraging mom's to stay at home and work from home (Ha!).  I wanted to let people know that not only is working outside the home a viable option, but it can also be a preferable one.  There should be no guilt in being a full-time working mother.  However, if I win the lottery tomorrow, all bets are off.

I just received the following email from Facebook...

Your friends are awaiting your response

On Tuesday, I awoke with a rumbly in my tumbly.  Skip to 4 hours later, and I was bowing before the porcelain queen in what I so affectionately call the "poo potty" at work.  You know the one I'm talking about.  It's usually the handicapped stall in the most tucked away bathroom in the office.  It is the savior for those of us who are poo shy.  We are lucky enough in our building to have one toilet in each bathroom that is a fully-enclosed toilet, complete with walls and a door with a deadbolt.  Everyone knows what your mission is when you enter that room, so much so, they should keep a fully stocked magazine rack in there.

Well, I chose the poo potty due to the fact that not only am I poo shy, but I'm puke shy as well.  I didn't want anyone hearing me losing my breakfast.  All it took was thinking about what everyone else had done in there prior to my visit, and I was able to vomit effectively and efficiently and be back at my desk within 5 minutes.  I'm sure my boss would have been proud.  Anyway, I spent the next few hours in misery and finally surrendered at 3pm, leaving early to go home.

I was quarantined at home that evening, barely being allowed to speak to the children and definitely not allowed to touch them.  I stayed home the next day and started to feel better but not up to par.  The kids knew I was sick, but that didn't stop Little Miss Victoria from taking a swig of my Diet Dr. Pepper.  You can guess what happened next.  Thursday at lunch time we got a call from the school telling us to pick up Victoria because she threw up.  She spent the next day and a half with her daddy as he proceeded to test out the illness by letting her eat bacon, french fries, a frosty, and more.  His rationale was that she was sick, so she should be allowed to eat whatever she wanted, despite the fact that she was suffering from a STOMACH virus.

Trevor refused to get near her.  He has OCD as it is, so having a sick, slobbering sister come within 10 feet of him was his worst nightmare.  I wish his concern was without merit, but he awoke at 3 am this morning throwing up in a bowl.  He proudly showed off his accomplishment to his father by thrusting the bowl under his nose while he was sleeping on the couch.  Trevor has diligently kept count of the number of times he has vomited (6 at last count) and keeps me abreast of all medications he has taken so that he does not meet Michael Jackson's fate.  Seriously, he's worried that he's going to die from over-medication like Michael Jackson did.  I guess I shouldn't tell him about DJ AM.

So the 5 of us are cooped up together inside for the long holiday weekend.  Boy did I pick the wrong time to come off Zoloft.

For the past 8 months this has been my constant companion. It's like that egg project from high school where you have to keep it with you at all times in some lame attempt to show teenagers what it would be like to have a real kid. If they're really trying to keep teenagers from getting pregnant, this is a much more effective deterent than a stupid egg.  I am, for all intents and purposes, a human milk machine.  A cow.  A meal ticket for a growing infant.

I'm part of a small demographic of mothers who exclusively pump (EP on the Mommy boards).  There are several reasons that women do this, and they're all applicable to me.  First, I work full-time.  Unfortunately, I'm not independently wealthy, nor am I married to a well-to-do man.  I married someone who chose his family over his career (rightfully so), so he's not now, nor will he be in the near future, in a position to allow me to be a kept woman.  Due to the strict policy against having a nursing infant attached to your hip/breast at work, I'm forced to put her in daycare.  This restricts my nursing abilities.

Second, even if I stayed at home, I'd have to pump.  Let's just say I don't have Jennifer Anniston's overachieving nips (like you haven't noticed), so I am physically incapable of nursing Sophie.  I didn't know it was a problem until Trevor was born.  I had intended to nurse him but was told in the hospital that I couldn't and would have to use a shield while nursing for him to be able to feed.  I made a valiant effort, but the shield was such an awful experience that I gave up trying to nurse after 6 weeks.  I didn't even attempt to nurse Victoria, because I didn't think it was possible.  When I was pregnant with Sophie, I was determined for her to be breast fed, and I did a ton of research on how to handle inverted nipples.  It turned out that I could have nursed all of my children, had I done the proper research and gotten a decent breast pump from the beginning.  I still carry guilt from not nursing Trevor and Victoria and am convinced every time one of them gets sick, it's due to the fact that they were formula fed. (Insane- I know)

The other reason I exclusively pump and don't even nurse Sophie when I'm not at work is because Sophie has what is known as a vigorous suck.  She latched on immediately after birth in the hospital.  I was so proud and excited.  Then, the feedings became more and more painful.  I noticed my nipples were cracked and bleeding, so  I asked to see the lactation consultant.  She took one look at my war torn chest and said that I would have to either exclusively pump or use the breast shield due to the trauma Sophie was causing my nipples.  The TRAUMA.  I had traumatized nipples.  That is not what I wanted to hear.  I knew the breast shield would never work out, so I opted for EP'ing.  And, 8 months later I'm still doing it.

That's not to say it hasn't been difficult.  The first few weeks, you have to pump every 2-3 hours just to build your supply.  Over time, you can drop pumping sessions, but it's months before you ever get to enjoy any real freedom from it.  Now I'm down to 3 pumps a day, but that still means I have to pump once during work, which isn't always feasible when I have to meet with employees on a regular basis, and constantly have a shit ton of things to do.  I also hate pumping right before bed, because there are so many nights when I'm exhausted and just want to crawl under the sheets, but I know I have a 20-30 minute session ahead of me.  I have to confess that I do enjoy having it as an excuse to relax, though, since I can surf the Net while doing it, but I can't do much else.  It forces me to take breaks.

As much of a pain in the ass as this whole process has been, I have to say that I have a complete sense of pride when I see what it's done for her.  She's 8 months old in 12 month clothes.  She's the size now that her brother and sister were at their 1st birthdays.  I love chubby babies, and boy is she ever a chunk.  Just look- see the results for yourself.

I'm definitely in favor of a mother choosing the best option for her.  I understand why someone would choose to formula feed, and I never think a mother should be guilted into breastfeeding, since the last thing you want is to resent your baby for a decision you feel pressured to make.  I just want people to know that there is an alternative to breast and formula feeding, and it is possible to succeed in the long-term.  I hope to keep it up until she can go on milk at age 1, but I'm just thrilled to have made it as long as I have.