Lauren Wellbank

One mom and her struggle to survive until bedtime


Tag: mom problems

The curse of the second child

My entire life I have heard of The Curse of the Second Child.  It’s like The Curse of King Tut’s Tomb, but with less carnage and more apathy.  At least, that’s my take…

I can remember overhearing parents talk about it when I was a child, myself.  Then, as I grew older and my friends became parents, I would hear them joke about it.

The second child just isn’t as big of a deal as the first… they’d say.

Don’t mind so-and-so, she just has second kid problems…

The theory was that you had already spent all of your excitement/energy on the first kid, so when the second one rolls around it’s just not that big of a dealContinue reading

How I finally found my mom tribe in a Facebook group

In 2014 I heard the term “mom tribe” for the first time.

Of my very few girlfriends, only a handful were what you would consider close relationships.  Even fewer yet were mothers.  I’d had no reason to be familiar with that term up until then, because before a cold morning in December, I’d had no use for mom tribes.

Just like most new moms, I struggled in the beginning.  I had questions, I felt inadequate, and I wondered more often than not if I was even cut out for all of this. Continue reading

Life after death, our new normal

There is a reason why people clean when they grieve.  I think part of it is a need to be doing something mundane and normal.  Part of it also has to do with wanting to be in control of something, anything, when everything else seems so profoundly out of your control.

The honorary hospice nurse

These thoughts are knocking around in my head as I spend two hours walking through my kitchen rearranging flowers and food and wiping down every surface I can reach despite the size of my ever growing belly.

I wipe, I rearrange, I cry.

That’s been my routine since I woke up today, in this, the first day in my new normal.

 

Continue reading

To my daughter on her final days as an only child

We’re snuggled up on the couch together as I write this.  Your head resting on my shoulder, your arms intertwined with mine.

You fell down earlier while running through the hallway.  I was busy pulling your old bassinet out of the bottom of your closet, as you ran up and down the hallway, yelling with glee.  When I reached you, big wet tears were already rolling down your cheeks and you were clutching your knee.

Photo by Darian Green

And then there were four

After I soothed your tears away you asked to get into your bassinet.  You’ve been too big for it for so long now, but you were still desperate to get back into it.  Instead I rocked you, and cooed at you, and told you about the days when you used to fit into it.  Pretending to suck your thumb with your eyes half closed you smiled, laughed, and said, “I a baby.”  Continue reading

Pregnancy and the horse latitudes, what the last weeks and sailing have in common

Have you ever heard the phrase horse latitudes before?  If you haven’t, don’t worry, it’s an outdated term with several different interpretations that the average person would have no call to know. The origins of the saying have absolutely no baring on what I’m about to tell you.  That is, other than to briefly explain what it is so that you can better understand where I’m at right now.

Lions and tigers and bears, oh my

The horse latitudes is an old sailing phrase that indicated that a ship had reached a location with calm waters and no crosswinds.  Of course, this was prior to the days of two and four stroke engines.  Are you impressed that I know that terminology, because you should be?  With no prevailing winds, large ships would find themselves stalled out in the middle of the ocean.  Supplies would begin to run short and sailors would start to panic.

The inhumane (and insane) fix for this often began with water rationing.  The animals on board, specifically the horses, would bear the brunt of this solution.  When the ships remained moored in the middle of the sea they would begin unloading their least precious cargo, the horses. This would both lighten their load and reduce the use of their finite resources.

Continue reading

Parenting is not about the wins, it’s about living to fight another day

I’m sitting on the toilet, pretending to eat a fake carrot as my toddler stands less than an inch from my bent knees begging me to keep going.

“Eat more, mommy.”  She says, and pushes the carrot back to my face.  Again I make the “om nom nom” noise and pretend to nibble on the tip.  “It’s ice-cream!”  She yells, reminding me that I can’t even eat a fake carrot correctly, because now it’s been transformed into a fake ice-cream cone.  Get it together, mommy, her face says.  Parenting is kind of your job.   Continue reading

St. Patrick’s Day and Pregnancy; the two have more in common than you think

Every year since we first began dating, my husband and I have thrown a St. Patrick’s Day party.  The tradition began as “kegs and eggs”, which was basically just an excuse for some serious day drinking.  Over the years, as all of our friends began having children, it evolved into something a little more family friendly.

By the time we had our first child our annual green and orange clad shit show had morphed into something different.  It had become part wild party and part daycare, complete with an arts and crafts table.

We served champagne and juice boxes, we catered to everyone. Continue reading

Not my first time at the rodeo- how that second pregnancy is different than the first

When I became pregnant with my first daughter I was a consumer of information.  I googled, I read books, I asked every woman that I laid eyes on, that had birthed a child, all of my many questions.

I felt buoyed by the satisfaction of having knowledge.  Every ache or pain got googled or a call to the OB to make sure it was within the range of normal.  I checked and cross checked every item that I ate.  I even made the special no egg cookie dough when my craving got to be so bad that I thought I would die without it (it was garbage, by the way… spend the money, buy the good stuff). Continue reading

A surefire sign that you’re the problem when it comes to parenting

A funny thing happened in our house last week.  My husband and I were enjoying a rare moment where we actually got to sit next to one another on the couch, when he let out a sneeze.  Now, this man is a loud and obnoxious sneezer.  We’re talking cartoon style ACHOOOOO’s, complete with a full body convulsion.

So, he lets one such sneeze fly while we were sitting there.  Our daughter had previously been quietly squatting a few feet in front of us.  Playing, for maybe the first time ever peacefully by herself, reacted with an equally cartoon response.  Flinching, she jumped up, and almost involuntarily shouted, “Ham!”

It was adorable.  And hilarious.

After we stopped laughing we began speculating, why ham.  Did she have pork on the brain?  Did she think ham meant something other than, you know, ham?  Is ham her version of an expletive?  Did she mean damn?

Obviously these theories were being pulled directly out of our butts, but the one we kept coming back to was that she was trying to say damn.

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Now, I have never really thought of myself as being big with the curse words.  I actually don’t feel like I swear that much at all.  My husband is usually the one full of colorful language that has me wincing.

Naturally, I blamed him for the ham incident.  I promptly told him so, and that he better start watching what he says, because it’s only a matter of time before our daughter starts repeating everything she hears.

In slow motion he turned to face me and gave me a look that I feel should be reserved for people that say that they think that the moon landing was faked.

WTF?

Me?  You think I’m the one that needs to start watching their language?” He asked incredulously.  “You know, it doesn’t bother me when you say these things, but I think it’s going to be really unnerving the first time our daughter says cock sucker.”

And then I remembered.  I was literally just losing my ever loving mind in the kitchen when I couldn’t get the lid off the pickle jar, and I definitely said some things that I hope that my daughter never says.

Well shit, maybe I am the problem.

(That’s right, I’m admitting that I’m the problem.  Whatever, I can be mature sometimes too.)

And so it begins.  The campaign to watch my mouth, and in turn, keep my daughter from being known as that kid who drops F bombs at play dates.

So earlier this week, when a car came flying out of nowhere and careened into my lane, barely missing my front bumper, I did not shout out the first thing that came to mind.  Instead I gleefully screamed out, “Where did you learn how to drive, Apple Harvest?!” while giving him a wildly enthusiastic thumbs down.

Yeah, it probably didn’t have quite the same sting as what I normally would have said.

On the bright side, at least if my daughter had decided that today was the day to mimic me with a squeaky Apple Harvest from the back seat I wouldn’t have had to start the sweaty palm inducing count down until she said it in front of my grandmother (or worse yet, my husband who would have then pushed up his glasses so that he could look down his nose at me in a dramatic fashion while saying, “I told you so” with his eyes).

And yeah, this morning I really wanted to let fly with the colorful language this morning when I smashed my knee on the coffee table as I came down the stairs (coffee tables, the inciter of many explicit statements), but instead I swore an oath of “Mantra humming cork soaking coffee table!”

See, I can adapt.

When my oldest niece was younger, my sister told us that kids usually repeat the last word they hear.  So if you accidently let a four letter word slip, you just had to follow it up with a pallet cleanser.  There was a lot of, “Oh that son of a bitc- peanut butter!”  I always assumed when my niece grew up she would use peanut butter as its own expletive.  However, here she is, ten years old, and I have yet to hear her ask, “Where in the peanut butter is my back pack?”

I don’t remember my mom cursing much when I was a kid.  I do, however, remember her treating sucks like a curse word.  We were not allowed to say anything sucked.  Somewhere along the lines that went by the way side and we were allowed to say it.  Which as it turns out ended up being a gateway swear, as my vocabulary now shows.  So mom, you were onto something.  Also, way to drop the ball.

For now, I’ll do my best to remember that little ears are always listening.  If I play my cards right I may be able to complete this full vocabulary overhaul in time for when she actually starts picking up these more colorful words.

If I fail, she will be the kid that other kids aren’t allowed to play with, because she called a boy at a birthday party a douche bag when he pushed her off the cozy coupe.

Here’s hoping. 

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