Always have your own money; it’s important to have that independence. That’s what both my step-mother and my mother taught me, ingrained in me. It stuck with me, as it should, that I should be able to care for myself should something happen to my marriage leaving me to fend for myself: to raise my children with little (or no) support, financially.

Because of those lessons, I keep my own personal bank account, I have my own RRSPs (retirement fund) and I make my own money.

Before I continue, I, in no way am trying to belittle those who have made alternative arrangements, those who have decided to live entirely from one bank account and whom have given up their personal aspirations of a career to raise their children, because I have no doubt that sacrifices have been made and they (you?) are definitely contributing to the family. There is no question.

(Huge run-on sentence, sorry; but did I manage to use ‘whom’ in the correct context? I have NEVER been able to use that word correctly!)

And though I have my own money, I have made sacrifices for my family (ie: Maternity Leave) which has decreased my personal income, in turn has left me more dependent on my husband’s income to buy clothing and things for myself. I do not feel guilt for buying them, for treating myself once and a while. Like yesterday: yesterday I went for a badly needed haircut, a new style and dye. I don’t keep a regular regime for my hair care, I go when I can and because it’s rather pricey, I try hard to stretch the time between visits - like four to six months!

I came home really excited about my new do, most notably, gained a little self-confidence with the drastic change. (Of bangs! OMG!) And waited patiently for him to come home so I could show it off a little.

(Ah, delusional. Men don’t care about new hair. I know.)

He came in the living room and just looked at me. It’s different. You’re definitely a blonde hun. Dark doesn’t really work for you. Wha? Definitely a blonde? That’s what you think of my hair? Fine. I can handle that. Whatever, you’re a man, which means you don’t know shit about hair and fashion.

(Ya, I was a little disappointed with his reaction. But whatever.)

The kicker?

How much did you waste on that? Well thank you Prince Charming! Aren’t you fabulous!?

He then tied into me about wasting money and how I didn’t need to spend that much on my hair. It’s just hair.

(Okay. I can handle that. But then…)

I don’t work my ass of for 15 hours a day for you to spend it all on your hair.

Um. Wha? What just happened there?

Granted he has been working a lot. I will give him that, but in no way will I tolerate him telling me that he works all those hours and I am just frivolously spending his hard earned money!

I have held a job since I was 15 years old. I have worked to pay my way for all these years and I have sacrificed forwarding my career in order to start a family and have children. For him to sit there and belittle me as though he were my keeper struck a cord to say the least. It struck a cord indeed.

Woman sacrifice so much in for their families - some men, yes - but more often than not, it is the woman who says goodbye to the career and work life to stay home and rear their children. It is us who give up the education, the paycheque, OUR BODIES!!!, the adult interaction to care for our children, our homes, the groceries, the laundry, the bills, the cleaning, the gardening and whatever else may need tending to.

We leave behind the satisfaction of a job well done, the promotions, the lively (haha!) board meetings, the lunches with co-workers, the stimulation; we leave all this for the vomit, the spilled milk, the dirty diapers, tantrums and piles of laundry. And for what? The satisfaction of knowing that we are caring for our offspring and our husbands? Puhlease.

I would maybe enjoy it a little more should he even acknowledge the fact that I’ve sacrificed so much for this family. For us. For him.

But instead I’m told that I am wasting our money on myself!? What a kick in the proverbial nuts!

Need I remind him (and you) that while I sit here with my two boys, I am being paid. Sure, it’s not my full salary but I am being somewhat financially compensated by the government to spend this year home (as well as designing to try and compensate for the salary cut I’ve taken). Yet, I feel as though I am viewed as a slacker, a leech, a nothing.

I can’t pinpoint the reason he feels the need to belittle me this way. I don’t know how I can break through to him that I am still being paid to sit her on my ass and eat bonbons while I watch soap operas - because that’s what he thinks I do all day. When it came time to start my Maternity Leave I offered him the possibility to take Paternity Leave (where he can stay home for a couple months while I return to work). He outright refused stating that he makes much more than me and we can’t afford for him to stay home. Resorting to belittling me AGAIN! as an excuse not to stay home? I don’t know.

I am just beyond irritated that he views my being home as though he is given full right to dictate my spending habits as well as treat me as though I am inferior to him because I am not working. Call it jealousy, or envy, whatever. I just know it’s not right, or fair.

I am so beyond pissed and I just can’t get past how fuckin‘ mad I am at him for treating me this way!

I’m in an all ’round shitty mood today. Horrible, horrible mood. I believe I even described myself as a hateful bitch on twitter earlier. (click for a larger view)

Nights have been fuckin’ awful around here lately. Hudson will not sleep unless he’s touching me. Some part of him has to be touching some part of me at. all. times.

Yes, so cute. Awwww… but! As soon as I move he begins to fuss… then WAIL. It’s getting very tired very fast. I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in weeks. I am a zombie throughout the day and now today? FUCKIN’ BITTER.

The whining, the fussing, the WHINING is enough to make me suicidal, and to top it off Mike whines and bitches that he’s not getting any sleep either. Well, whoopdi-fuckin’-doo. Welcome to my world. Yes, yes you have to work in the morning my love; I too have stuff to do - like take care of little children and KEEP THEM ALIVE!

Last night he even asked me to stay downstairs a little longer so that he could get to sleep before I brought The Hot Fuss™ upstairs. Am I the only person that thinks that makes absolutely no fuckin’ sense whatsoever? Wait until your sleep to bring The Hot Fuss™ upstairs? Idiot. But I did has he asked and it all went to hell in a handbasket as I tried to put the damn baby down so I could take a piss. Hudson fussed, Mike bitched and I fuckin’ lost it.

What the fuck did you think was going to happen? HONESTLY?! You ask me to WAIT until you’re ASLEEP to bring him upstairs? It’s your own fuckin’ fault you fuckin’ moron.

(A tad harsh, maybe. But? Serioulsy?)

So he left to sleep on the couch.

Later fucker.

I got to share the bed with The Hot Fuss™ for the night while he squirmed, fussed, nursed, farted and slept. I, on the other hand, tried to stay perfectly still so not to roll on top of him and smother him with my giganiticness.

HOT MESS.

I have the pack n’ play wedged beside my bed but it’s not good enough for him because: OMG OMG, I can’t feel you - any part of you - TOUCHING me CONSTANTLY!

The thing is: this? This has been going on for over a month now and I mah brainz r fried! I can’t handle living in this foggy cloud of anger; being deliriously tired all the time. It’s aging me so fast: by next Friday I’m likely to be an extinct dinosaur. Bring on the fuckin’ ice age! Maybe then it’ll be fuckin’ QUIET!

Today I’m dragging the old spare bed back into the nursery and moving there with Hudson. Maybe this way we can both get a decent sleep, even for a couple hours. I’m just so frustrated because Carter wasn’t like this; at four months he was sleeping through the night already - I know, I know all babies are different but I no likey this different. This different fuckin’ BLOWS!

Oh and to top it all off? Get an email this morning from a co-worker telling me that they received a messege from my “temptingmama” account. Even though I specficially told gmail to send it from my other personal account it tacks on a fuckin’ messege saying that it was sent from temptingmama ON BEHALF OF … Someone please explain that to me?! WTH is THAT!? So mad. So so mad.

I am so close to just locking myself in the closet today.

I just want to run away! Run away!

Oh, and if you’re wondering how I had the opportunity to write this post?

* The Hot Fuss™ coined by her, stolen by me.

I am not one who can function well on little sleep. No amount of caffeine can alleviate the wanton urge to close my eyes and drift off to a peaceful slumber. Not even the loudest most irritating alarm can get me out of bed on time. I am grouchy, impatient and often agitated easily when I’m tired. There really is no consoling me aside from just letting me go to sleep.

That? That doesn’t happen with children.

I was hesitant about having children for that very reason. I would have to forgo sleep for an unknown number of years.

Petty right? Don’t have children because they affect my ability to sleep in. Yup. Selfish.

Carter was a great sleeper as an infant. He’d wake to eat, then right back to sleep; he was the baby of my dreams. But as a toddler? He rises and falls with the sun. There isn’t enough coaxing in the world to get that child back in bed once he’s opened his eyes and seen even the faintest amount of light peaking from behind the blinds.

Doesn’t bode well with a person who loves to sleep.

Then throw an infant into the mix and I’m a walking zombie most days.

Every morning Hudson wakes at 6:30am; I quickly gather him from his bassinet (STILL IN OUR ROOM because Mike isn’t ready for him to move into his crib. *sigh*) and pull him into me as my lay in my bed, hoping not to stir Carter just yet, I quickly shove a boob in his mouth to smother his coos and squawks for food.

But my efforts are usually futile since Carter has hawk like senses and is up and jumping from the bed before Hudson even gets a latch. Seriously, that kid could hear a penny drop about 6 blocks away.

The door opens with a creak from the years of paint on the jam: then silence. Waiting for another sound, he stands in his doorway. As soon as he hears something, anything he comes running to my room, It’s wake up time Mommy! he states. Every. Single. Morning. Then he questions, Where’s Daddy? I don’t know if he expects that the answer will differ each day; but without fail, he asks.

I fade in and out of consciousness as I try and play defense. Keeping Carter from poking and tickling (which is more like shoving his needle-like fingertips into your gut) Hudson while he eats is like trying to separate a PMSing woman from chocolate. I try to coax him from the room with Hot Wheels waiting for him in the living room, or sending him to go pee - just to buy myself a couple extra minutes; but he is relentless.

I’m up. I’m up!

Once Hudson’s finished we all make our way downstairs. Hudson gets placed in his swing, the television is tuned into Dora, orange juice and Nutrigrain bar are distributed while the coffee brews. I plunk myself down in the overstuffed arm chair waiting for that sweet beep telling me my lifeline is prepared for injection. Sweet delicious coffee.

As I sip my coffee and peruse The Blogs while we relax, I peek over the top of my laptop to see Carter sitting peacefully on the couch, fingers threaded behind his head, lounging back on the sofa: the baby seeing his fingers for the first time, mezmorized in his swing.

They ain’t half bad these early mornings.

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Being a Rookie (Mom) Ain’t So Bad is still ongoing! Get your challenge and post to the Mister Linky by Sunday @ 12pmEST to be entered to win!

We were going through a phase where poop was scary and Carter just wouldn’t go in the toilet. He was consistently constipated, and I realize now not that he COULDN’T go - he WOULDN’T go. I had no idea how to deal with it accept feed him prunes, prune juice concoctions and hope that it just got to the point where he could no longer hold it in.

I never thought I would be so happy to see someone take a dump on the toilet. I was on the verge of jumping up and down, completely elated that there was FINALLY! poop in the toilet!

You’re wondering just how we got to this point, aren’t you?

Well, back in July while most of you were meeting cohorts in San Fransisco a small group of us met up in Niagara Falls for Blog Friends Fest. As I explained our potty training woes over dinner (yes, AWESOME dinner conversation!) Kitten Pie mentioned how she was able to train ‘pie to poop in the toilet.

I leaned into her, hoping not to miss one minute genius detail. If I had a pen and paper - they would have been in hand. Ready to soak in her brilliance I waited with baited breath.

“I just told ‘pie that her poop was going off to play with the other poops.” she said so nonchalantly. So much in fact, I thought she was trying to pull a fast one on me.

“Wha? Srsly? That’s it? And she just pooed?” I asked. Admittedly, I was a little deflated: how could it be THAT easy? Carter wasn’t going to go for that.

I blew it off thinking that ‘pie was just some fantastical toddler. How could that HONESTLY work? And went about the same ol’ boring begging that just wasn’t getting through. Carter? Not fantastical.

I resigned to the fact that he would be pooping in the toilet before college and that was something I could look forward to.

A little over two weeks ago I was at my wit’s end. I had run out of ideas. Smarties, stickers, begging, promises of cars and no curfew just weren’t cutting it with this kid.

I told him that he poops wanted to go play with the other poops.

(I admit, I even scoffed a little at the idea: why am I saying this? It’s SO not going to work.)

And now?

I must apologize you my sweet Kitten Pie.

It WORKED!

My kid craps on the TOILET!

And HOLY MOLY does he ever! I swear that thing was (and continues to be) the size of my arm!

My three year old has given my 30 year old some serious poop envy.

The first time Mike was in the washroom with Carter while he crapped (armed with the poop friends story) he came running out: “Sam! Sam! Holy shit! You gotta see this shit! It’s HUGE! I’ve never even had a shit that big!”

*sigh*

*BIG sigh*

To humour him, I took my time walking up to the bathroom. I could hear him coaxing Carter not to flush because this poop was a trophy poop. That I had to see it first!

At this point I was cursing the fertility gods for leaving me in a house full of boys.

As I walked into the bathroom both of them we standing on either side of the toilet, looking into the bowl with HUGE grins.

I peered into the bowl, definitely not expecting to see what I saw, because in that bowl was the HUGEST poop I’ve ever seen in my life.

A poop so large it had to be preserved in digital format.

Yup. Took a picture.

OH! The Shame!

Hey if she can do it, so can I!

(Hi Lotus, ya that was me sending you the weird google hits for poop in the kitchen. Cursed poop in the kitchen!)

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If I haven’t scared you off already be sure to check out the Being a Rookie (Mom) Ain’t So Bad challenge! See an activity that appeals to you, do it, post a picture then you’re entered to win FREE STUFF! Who doesn’t like FREE STUFF!