Feats with My Teats

If Xtreme Nursing were an Olympic sport, I very well may take home the gold. No, I don’t mean Extreme Nursing, like the kind where a mom breastfeeds her child until she’s old enough to fill out her college applications. I mean Xtreme, like wild and creative. Tonight, I tried one that I do not understand why I never thought to try before. I will certainly keep this trick up my sleeve for future use.

My 5 month does not sleep. I mean this boy is wide awake all hours of the day, unless I am lying beside him in my bed and my nipple is within a 1 inch radius of his mouth. I am not permitted to roll onto my back, scratch my butt, or do anything else that would prohibit him from having complete access to my mam And yes, I call it “The Mam” because as my husband ever so eloquently pointed out a few months back, “Those haven’t been tits in a long time. They are full-fledged mammary glands.”

 I nursed my twins until they were 2 ½ years old and finally weaned them once I was two months pregnant with my third child. I expect to nurse him for as long his sisters did. And I am Ok with this. I made this decision and I know it is by far the best thing I can do for my children. However, when one is as sleep deprived as I am, and have been for 3 ½ years now, one can often be heard cursing at her spouse under her breath after be awakened for the 6^th time that night, “Damn you! Why can’t you have tits, too?”  I know that all mothers are tired, but being a mother of multiples adds a whole other layer to the level of tiredness.  And now, adding an infant into the mix, who also does not sleep, may very well drive me even further off the edge then I already was.

I have resorted to some pretty wild feats with my teats in order to get a hungry/tired/cranky child to calm down, which has resulted in an overall numbness for the past 3 ½ years due to over-suckage. My twins were, and still are, on the same feeding schedule since birth. Hence, they thoroughly enjoy simultaneously sitting on the same toilet, cheek to cheek, while pooping. And we have two bathrooms. I supposed their twin connection has created such a close bond that they feel completely comfortable doing their business with her sister’s stinky bum pressed up to her own. When they were infants I could often be seen jumping over the front passenger’s seat into the back of the moving car to TTTT—throw them the tit. Now I may have bigger boos, but I don’t have plastic tubing or PVC piping attached to my nipples, unfortunately.  So, ultimately, I would only be able to pacify one girl at a time. Inevitably, her sister would be shrieking from the car seat on my other side. My husband would eventually pull off the road and we would each take a baby so I could feed them at the same time. I would nurse one in my lap while my husband held the “flying baby.” Who’s ever turn it may have been would be held midair to meet the level of my boob. There must be a slew of people who have been lucky enough seen me completely topless with two adorable twins hanging off of my utters. I bet truckers got a real kick seeing the Queen’s mams while driving down the highway. Individuals at rest stops certainly got an eye full while peeking into our car parked at some truck stop off the highway. Oh well.

So tonight, in the attempt to get our son to sleep in his crib I decided it would be worth the effort to hang my teats over the crib railing and into his mouth while standing on my daughters’ pink and purple butterfly step stool. And, hey, it worked. He is currently sleeping. In his crib, nonetheless. I have not had to change his crib seats since bringing him home from the hospital. No need to, he doesn’t sleep in it. Except for tonight.  So I’ll take 30 minutes of him in his crib because he is usually attached to one of my double Ds for at least an hour by the time Double Jeopardy rolls around at 7:15. Every other night, I have to balance my handsome little butterball in one arm as he nurses away and I peck the keyboard with one measly finger in the attempt to catch up on my E-mails, read about the daily political scandals or the latest celebrity gossip. Not tonight, I get to use both hands. How liberated I feel! And it’s all because of a little acrobatics and my Xtreme nursing abilities.

You May Now Meet the Queen

So, I am finally getting around to starting this thing. I have been wanting to for quite some time now, but when you are the ruler of a kingdom, spare time is not common place.

Let me begin by stating since I am, in fact, the Queen I can say what I want, when I want. Call this childish, call it foolish, but there are few things in this world that are just mine and now this is one of them. I can vent, rant, rave, kick and scream like a complete lunatic, or do whatever I feel is apropos for the moment. I am not just a monarch; I am also a mother, educator, activist, and CEO of my family. I am a strong believer that politics invade every crevice of our lives and I do not hide my beliefs. If you do not agree with me, have no fear for I will not banish you from the Land of Poops, which I rule, I will simply remind you that you do not need to read what I post.

You are probably wondering about my name, so let’s just get that one out of the way. Indeed, I am the Poopie Queen. I have three young and quite beautiful children. Two—twin daughters in fact—are potty trained. My other, is a mere babe. Well, my girls have a variety of food allergies and sensitivities. Upon beginning their elimination diets, I would constantly have to check what their, to put it bluntly, poops looked like, smelled liked, and consisted of in order to determine what foods could and could not be part of their  diets. It took some time, but things are now under control with their BMs. However, they got so used to me asking what their poops looked like once they began using the toilet by themselves that it is still an everyday occurrence that I am called in to the bathroom to examine what may be floating in the bowl. Some children like to lie on their backs, and gaze up at the clouds, pretending that the fluffy ones floating by look like an elephant or perhaps a ship. Not mine, they like to frantically call for me to come into the bathroom to see their fish-shaped poop or their cigar turd. Yep, this is just one of my many responsibilities of being the Poopie Queen. It’s not like my life was free of poop issues before I had children. I too have been a long time sufferer of stomach problems before being diagnosed with Celiac disease in September 2008. I too, have had to eliminate several common allergens from my diet, similar to my daughters.

So, now I share with you one of my many daily poopie stories. Today, my children and I were in Target when one of my daughters loudly announces she has to poop. My daughters feel the need to christen every public restroom possible with their stinkyness.  They must have been frat boys in their last lives because they thought farting was funny before they could even speak, literally. They began lifting a butt cheek at the dinner table before they were two. One of their newest shenanigans is farting in their baby brother’s face after he cracked up the first time it was done to him at 4 months of age. I was so tempted to make my daughter wait to use the bathroom until we got home, but I quickly remember by last visit to Target the busy week before Christmas when my other daughter shrieking "I just made a little poop in my panties. I farted and it just squirted out." The on-looking, sympathetic mothers could not help but laugh out loud.  I took her into the same bathroom I sent her sister into today and promptly took off her panties, which she would not let me throw away because they were, after all, the pretty purple Elmo panties. So, I grabbed a paper towel rolled up the stinky soiled panties, and threw them into my purse. It was more than 24 hours after that endeavor that I remembered I had them in my bag. So this particular bathroom that my family now has a close and personal relationship with a single bathroom, wheel chair accessible, is located directly next to the pharmacy.  Today, I was driving one of those huge shopping carts that rivals a Zamboni.  It has this extra part attached onto the front where two children can face one another. Great idea in theory, but not great for the mother who forgets to bring her referee whistle when out running errands. I quickly lost count of the myriad of fights between my twins while riding in these seats, which often results in one getting pushed overboard & I nearly tumble on top of whoever may have lost that particular fight. But, being a mother of 3, I seek out these particular wagons like a turkey vulture over road kill. I have been known to follow other mothers to their cars when I spot them lunging through the parking lot with one of those few carts.  Today, however, I was lucky enough not to have to stalk another mother for the massive wagon. Our cart was overflowing with necessary crap as I made my way towards this private bathroom. But since I had so much stuff and a sleeping baby in the top portion of the wagon, I did not want to have to unload my other two simply to bring them into a bathroom that was about to get smelly, if it wasn’t already. I simply opened the door and let my daughter do her thing. Of course, she had to narrate her duty--no pun intended.  But, to make matters worse, her twin sister did not want to be left out. Standing approximately 10 feet from the door, the girls’ conversation went something like this, “Do you need me to come in with you?” “No, but it really stinks.” “Are you sure you don’t need me in there with you? I can wipe your butt.” “No, that’s Ok, but you really should smell this one.” “Are you sure you don’t want me to come into the bathroom with you? I could come in, you know.” At this point, I didn’t even care the entire pharmacy staff was laughing at us. I am pretty used to having attention be brought upon ourselves. Our family is quite the spectacle. I think twins, in general, are. We cannot go out in public with being asked that question, “Are they twins?” Why yes, yes they are. And if you can see, they are both having a wicked tantrum while lying on top of the heavy infant car seat I am awkwardly carrying. Now get out of my way.

So, this is a glimpse of my life as the Queen. It’s a tough and malodourous job, but somebody’s got to do it.