I still drink heavily.

It really wasn't all that long ago that I blogged about how I've started drinking pretty regularly.  Here's the thing, today is my 2nd anniversary of being nuptially... responsible? Anyway, I felt that was a perfect excuse for a drink while cooking dinner! The Disaronno is always calling my name and a brand new, never opened bottle of Prosecco was hiding ever-so-quietly behind it. Except I'm a virgin when it comes to opening bottles of bubbly. Mr. G or my dad are the designated bottle openers when it comes to this stuff. So I turned to my good friend, Devon, at The Food Bitch Blog to walk me though the scary process. Because I looked like this...

all hippy mom and shit (complete with 7th Generation cleaning products because I'ma freak), and because I have one of these...

 ...enter insane toddler, I didn't want any bottles going all T.I. & poppin' in the direction of my  children. The ever so kind Ted Allen walked me through the process, and I, of course, saw an opportunity to be 15 and make dirty jokes.

Oh look! My bottle has a ... Well, you get my drift.

After holding my breath in anticipation, I popped the shit of that bottle. I may have even squealed in delight! Who am I kidding, I squealed. And giggled. Like a school girl. ME!? At the thought of alcohol. WHO AM I?

One of these things is not like the other.

So here I am innocently emptying the dishwasher I found when this.

This is what it's like having a toddler. Half eaten apples in the compartment of her tricycle. Three week old sippy cups hidden neatly behind a play kitchen. Mouthwash tucked into the lower part of a cabinet, just waiting to be discovered. It's almost as if she is reminding me who runs this joint. Because it sure as shit ain't me!

The one where I start drinking. Heavily.

Two under two is no joke. Even though you feel like the joke is on you. More than once. In one day. Because your toddler just woke up with shit on her foot, which answers the proverbial is-that-chocolate-or question, & the baby is screaming her bloody head off.

I didn't drink much before I had kids. Plural. Kids. Because even with Layla it was a rare occasion I sipped any kind of alcoholic beverage. Every so often I'd have a glass of wine to keep myself from jumping of a turnpike overpass. That was it. These days? It's a daily occurrence.

I now understand why people with more than one child drink. Last night I had a Blue Moon. Two nights before a Disaronno with cranberry while nursing Stella. Yes, while nursing, because if I didn't I would've been on the 5 o'clock news.

"Mom of two hides in bathroom. Refuses to come out. What appears to be grape jelly smeared all over windows of back French doors."

This is beyond the fact that I watch Max and his overbearing, controlling asshole of a sister Ruby and Mickey Mouse Club House on repeat from 8am to 8pm. I'd rather have a root canal than watch Goofy lose his mother effing hat for the 15th time this week. And all I want to do is sit and watch the Real Housewives of NJ marathon but I can't because the TV Gestapo is on top of her shit and will throw her self on the floor in a fit of rage if I so much as pick up the TV remote.

So I said to myself a few days ago, have a drink. It'll help. And it did. Then I said to myself, for every tantrum Layla throws you can have another drink. Except I'd be drunk. All day. Everyday. Not exactly functional for parenting? Too bad.

Stella Faith

Let me preface this by saying I'm clearly and certifiably insane. Why? ...because I popped this kid out o'naturale. Yes, folks, no epidural. No pain meds. Nothing. Nada. Except a lot of really weird noises and possibly some growling.

Here's Stella's birth story:

Around 6:30am on August 20th I started to have contractions. Nothing big but enough to semi-wake me up. These lasted on and off and pretty irregular all morning. Around 10:30 I knew shit was real when I lost what remained of my mucus plug. I know, just what you wanted to hear, but hey, this is a mommy blog and a birth post.

Moving on... I had an appointment at 3:15 to see my midwife, so I just kept that and went about my day. Got a manicure. Had a great lunch. Rested on the couch. And a few hours later I pushed out a baby. It was everything I ever imagined labor to be. I wish...

So, the lunch and manicure part I totally did. The nail tech asked me when I was due and I just said, "Oh, soon," and smiled. Meanwhile, I'm slightly timing my contractions.

Fast forward to 3:15. At this point my contractions are every 7 minutes. My midwife says to go walk the mall. What a novel idea. My mother is than concerned my water will break while we're walking (which it never does. Midwife breaks it for me around 8cm), and I'm all, "we're at the mall, I'll buy a pair of pants." So we get in the car and head 10 minutes west to the mall. Except it's 4pm on the first afternoon of school and we get stuck in NYC worthy traffic. Now I'm breathing through contractions every 5 or so minutes and we decide to pull a let's not and say we did on the mall and head straight to the hospital.

Not a lot of excitement at the hospital, to be honest. A lot of walking. At one point I'm squatting in a pretty awkward position "oummmmmming" through gut ripping contractions. I had hired a doula who was worth every cent to remind me that I had a goal. She also snuck me candy and water. I liked her.

Here's the thing, though. That OMG urge to push. I didn't have it. Doula lady said I was bearing down through a few but I don't remember. Pushing was a struggle again this time. I'm just not a big fan of feeling like my bowels are going to ripped out. I had to find strength somewhere to get this kid out, so I made another noise I've never heard before and growled with every push. I'll tell ya, three pushes after that and Stella was welcomes into the big bad world.

She was born at 8:57pm - about 4.5 hours after being admitted. All natural. No tears. I'm one proud mom.. Of myself for what I did and who I created.

I should add that the recovery time on a natural birth is about a trillion times better than a medicated one. I'm dead serious.

Last belly pic! 

Proof that I was in labor. Sent to the famous Aussie Cass.

Her pedi called her a Backyardigan when she had this hat on.

This face <3

7lbs 10oz 21in of yum

First real look of her.

Holy s*%t

The awkward moment when you realize.. Wtf, I have TWO kids?

Yeah. That shit hits me everyday. Mainly when I'm trying to pee for the first time in 17 hours and there's a toddler knocking on the bathroom door and a two week old screaming in her swing for boob. Yes. A two week old.

Last time I updated on the belly I was barely pregnant. Ok, not barely. More like.. 'Hmm, did she have a big lunch or is she knocked the F up' pregnant. I think I was 24 weeks. Well, folks, since then I have sufficiently baked and birth a healthy baby girl named Stella Faith. I shall tell the extravagant tale of her birth another day. In the mean time, let's discuss what life is like with two under two.

Let me just say I love when little old ladies come up to me and point out the obvious:

"Oh, how precious. Newborn?"
"Yes. Two weeks."
{insert 'don't extend that wrinkled old lady hand, Ethel, or I'll bite' face.}
"And this little one is yours, too?"
{Oh, you mean the rabid toddler? Don't let her cute ringlets fool you.}
"She is mine. She'll be two in November."
{Did I mention she's for sale? ....kidding. Sometimes}
"Oh, my. You're going to have your hands full!"
"No shit."<- actually I don't say that, but I'm thinking it. I usually just smile and nod and pretend that I totally have my crap together and didn't forget to bring wipes or an extra newborn size diaper for the 14 day old shit machine.

And I have forgotten quite a bit in the last couple of weeks. Packing for two? Not so easy. Especially when you're half way out the door and remember you forgot to brush your teeth... & you're *this* close to saying screw it but then decided that the general public may not appreciate coffee breathe at 3pm - because let's face it, getting out before nap time in the first few weeks just isn't going to happen.

I only speak the truth here, friends. So I'll be honest and say showering has become a luxury. I'm not proud to admit I've picked sitting my puffy ass on the couch over bathing more than once since August 20th. But... There is something magical about seeing my girls together. Layla has been the best big sister. Attentive. Protective. Never jealous. Ok, I'm lying: jealous once when I made the mistake of wrapping Stella up in Layla's favorite blanket.

Anyway, I'm going to make this blog public again. As of right now. I documented so much of LG's life and I really should do the same for Stella. Except I see myself documenting the antics of having two girls under two and how we'll shit butterflies and fart sprinkles while wearing tutus and bows the size of our heads. Because having girls is THAT much fun. Even when little old ladies named Ethel tell me I'll have my hands full.