Poop Creates Traumatic Moment for Momma

The youngest pooped in her crib and took her diaper off. There. It's out there. I ripped the band-aid right off.

I can't believe she did it. Her cry woke me up this morning. She was unusually upset. Normally she wakes up and plays with her toys a few minutes, starts talking to herself (mumbling really). When she's ready for D or me, she'll start whining. Rarely does she cry to get out of bed. But this morning the cry was urgent. Like, "Get up here now! There's this stuff in my bed that stinks!"

When I opened her door, I saw she was cowered in the corner of her bed. Her gown was gathered around her waist. My eyes adjusted to the room's darkness and that's when I saw it. Poop. Like deer poop ... only bigger. Drops of poop in a couple of different places, and the youngest sitting in the corner like a puppy in a crate.

I scooped her up careful not to touch her little bottom to my clean gown (you know how I love my sleepwear). I carried her downstairs and told D what happened. He said, "Oh Eliza. You're nasty." If she could have understood what he said, I suspect she would of hit him. Hard.

After cleaning and diapering her, and covering the diaper with shorts so she couldn't rip this one off, I left her with D so I could clean the muddy mess. Poopy droplets were placed neatly on blankets. So I just lifted the blankets and dumped the loot in the toilet. One quick flush and it's bye-bye to the nasty nuggets. Then I stripped her bed, made one big pile of smelly linens and tossed them downstairs.

I then went to check on her and make sure she had recovered fully from this traumatic experience. She was grinning ear to ear. I guess she was feeling pretty good with a dry bottom, a bottle and snuggling next to D. That's when I realized, cleaning her poop out of the crib was only traumatic to me. "You little ..." I growled with a snarled lip and squinted eyes. "You're lucky you're cute."

Tonight, she's wearing PJ bottoms to bed.

Rain is Better than Zoloft

It's a rainy day in the mountains. Rain is a like a mood elevator. If you could bottle the effects of rain and sell it, I think it would be more effective than Zoloft. I love rainy days. I love it when nature gives me and my brood a perfect excuse for hanging around in our pj's while watching the Disney channel and snuggling under blankets.

The middle one loves to sleep late. Sleeping in during a rainy morning is the best. She looks so darn cute while snoozing, I didn't have the heart to wake her so we could make it to 9 a.m. jazzercise. Um ... yeah ... that's it. I'm ditching exercise for the health and well-being of my child who needs her rest. Maybe I'll make the evening class.

The youngest did not sleep late. She was up, fed and playing shortly after. I think she's going to have my dad's ears. See how they stick out? Maybe she'll grow into them.

Thinking we were going to the gym, the oldest got dressed five minutes after he got out of bed. Shocker! I didn't have the heart to tell him his sleeves were ridiculously short and he looked very dorky in his hoodie from two years ago. We've been saving the unisex hoodie for the middle and youngest. But the oldest is apparently not letting it go without a fight. He's still cute.

Not sure what's on today's agenda for kiddos and me. Think we'll go shopping for household accessories. I've been trying to revamp the house into a French country cottage retreat. But that's a whole other long, complicated and most of the time frustrating subject that I'll save for a later date. I'm feeling too relaxed to get myself worked up over half-finished household projects. By the way, if anyone has any suggestions on how to complete interior paint jobs while caring for children, I'd love to hear your advice! Just give me a couple of more hours to enjoy the rain.

Laundry: Living, breathing domestic demon

As I wait for supper to warm, I'm trying to decide if I should be offended that D just asked me what inspired me to stay in my gown all day. Yes, it's almost 7 p.m. and I haven't changed out of my night gown. In my defense, I have worked on laundry all day. I just didn't see the need for me to dirty up more clothes to turn around and then wash.

I hate laundry. To be exact, I loathe laundry. Of all the household chores, in my opinion laundry is by far the worst. Mainly because it never ends. Once a load is washed, dried and neatly folded, another piles up in the hamper. It multiplies. Laundry is a living, breathing, nasty, unending task than tortures and torments its domestic master.

And the laundry that lives in a house with three small children breeds worse than a bunch of bunnies. It's downright discouraging.

Notice I haven't even gotten in to the part where the master must put the monster away in its appropriate living quarters. I can't stand putting away clean clothes. I love it when its done. I love the accomplished - short-lived - feeling of order. But in less than 24 hours, the dirty laundry demon is back with vengeance.

I don't understand people who enjoy doing laundry. I admire them, but I don't understand them. My mother is one of those people. Her laundry is never backed up. I think Mom is a laundry junkie. After having to wash laundry for my own family for a few years now, I'm fairly convinced no one could actually like laundry unless there's an illness involved. I think when dirty clothes start collecting on the laundry room floor, a little part of her gets excited and she just needs a hit. In goes the dirty darks. Ahhh ... that's good.

Not me. Give me a cup of coffee and a Snickers Marathon. Now that's my drug of choice!

Oh, dryer buzz ... time to switch!

What? These Three? No Way!

Yes, these three. These three are the wrecking crew that have invaded my house one little baby at a time. Looking at the picture above, it doesn't look possible that these three can wreak more havoc than a bunch of fraternity boys at a keg party. But it's true.

The oldest just turned five years old. He's the ring leader. The girls adore him and rightly so. He's a pistol. Moody, temperamental, high-strung, sweet, stubborn, perfectionist and sharp as a tack. He's full of energy and has an imagination that keeps me guessing who he's pretending to be from one minute to the next. And never have I seen a kid who likes to change clothes as much as the oldest does. It's exhausting. Every time I turn around he's sporting a new look. I can't keep up with what's clean and what's not. So, in our latest effort to police the amount of clothes he dirties up in a day, D and I have allowed the oldest to pack a gym bag. He can wear anything in the gym bag anytime he wants. If he strays outside the gym bag, he's dog meat. So far, it's working out well. Will keep you posted.

The middle is a firecracker. She's sweet and pretty. She has a great sense of humor and makes D and me laugh all the time. Aside from worrying about her being the middle child, she really hasn't presented any challenges that ... well, can't be controlled. Of course she has her occasional temper tantrum. And she gets into some fashion of trouble pretty regularly. But for the most part she's really pleasant. My fear is she's not getting the attention she deserves. You know ... not the oldest and not the baby. The husband and I make specific efforts to share with her all the great qualities God has given her. Her sweet nature (with a strong hint of zesty sass) is hypnotizing. I just keep holding my breath, waiting for her to act out or up. She's three years old. Wiser women tell me the middle will make her way in time ... it's called teen years. Wah!!!

The youngest just started walking. Need I go any further? She's into EVERYTHING. The lazy susan hasn't seen this much action in years. She DEMANDS attention. At 13 months old, if she wants it - whatever it may be - she better dang well get it or her entire body stiffens out like a board, her face turns this pinkie-crimson sort of color and a squeal that could break glass erupts from her scrunched up little mouth. She follows the other two around. She sleeps all night - praise Jesus. And she laughs and smiles a lot. She's chubby and cute. Even the other two spoil her. It's yet to be seen what my major point of concern will be with her.

Well, that's just a overview of my these three kiddos. They are much deeper, more complicated and lovable than I could ever convey with mere words. When I look at them, snuggled together in momma and D's bed, I pray I never know a world without them ... my three!

Hillbillies Head to the Beach

Recently the Helmadollar brood vacationed at Myrtle Beach, S.C. Over the years I've been blessed to visit several beaches along the east coast. Without a doubt Myrtle Beach ranks in the top three of my favorite. So I was overjoyed to spend a week of uninterrupted family time there with hubby and kiddos.

The highlight of the road trip was an impromptu stop at a farmer's market where momma, hubby and kiddos devoured fresh strawberries.


The middle child LOVES fruit and veggies. She gobbled up almost a half quart of berries. She wore the other half on her sweet little chin.

The youngest enjoyed the snack so much she almost took off my fingers.

Once we arrived, we put away our things, hit the grocery store, slipped on our flip flops, enjoyed a golf cart ride around the lake outside our condo (above) and slipped into lazy vacation mode. It was FABULOUS! Great, great fun ...

I should of known the first speed bump was just around the corner. We hit it wide open when the youngest rubbed a greasy combination of sunscreen and sand in her eyes. Not so fun for her or her father who had the unfortunate task of flushing her peepers with warm water. I'm not certain, but I think she still has a baby panic attack when she sees us running bath water.

This was minutes before the traumatizing eye-flushing nightmare. Not sure why she has an expression like an angry little elf. Psychic?

The oldest spent most of his beach time constructing highways, or boat docks, or sand castles, or any number of structures that required him to roll around and cover himself with sand. By the end of the day the kid had sand in every nook and cranny.

The middle one said she preferred the pool. Ms. Thang is so opinionated.

Ahhhh ... my boyfriend (the oldest) and me snuggling poolside. Does it get any better?

So I'd love to hear from you! Where is your favorite beach? Why? And can it handle a bunch of hillbillies?

When is enough enough?

After yesterday's more than two hour memorial to Michael Jackson at Los Angles' Staples Center, I find myself thinking about his life and legacy more and more. Mainly because it's virtually impossible to live on this planet and not hear or read about it. The whole thing is getting on my nerves.

Please don't misunderstand. I have great admiration for Michael Jackson. I'm sure he did break boundaries for African Americans and musicians in general. And I do love most of his music. I would even go so far to agree that he's a musical genius and possibly the greatest entertainer who has ever lived. (Do you feel a but coming?)

BUT, what has become of this nation - correction - this WORLD when the news of his death trumps every major news story for almost two weeks AFTER he died? Seriously, the man must be pickled by now. I don't mean that disrespectfully to his memory or his family. I'm sincerely sad for what his family must be going through.

During this terrible time of loss they can't even grieve without being scrutinized by the media. Even the memorial service was held under a media microscope and criticized! I know one could argue that the Jackson family has put themselves out there to be gobbled up by media, fans and generally bored and nosey people. But I have to wonder, when is enough enough? When did we - the public - earn the right to know private and personal information about celebrities? And did celebrities sign up to divulge any and all personal information to pursue a career in showbiz?

This may be the information age, but I for one have had enough.

Man with the Milk

As soon as my eyes popped open this morning, one idea dominated my thoughts - must grocery shop.

Ugh.

Grocery shopping sounds easy. It was to me too once upon a time. But then I had children - three to be exact. Plus Wal-Mart and its clever displays of bright "stuff" underminds any plans of a quick shopping trip. So after three cups of coffee, dressing myself and children, I was off to conquer the dreaded weekly chore.

Once there, I bribed children to stay safely seated in the cart with promises of any kind of candy they want IF they behave. Kids strapped, momma armed with concise, bargain busting list and we're off! Goes smoothly for the most part. Then something changes. The wind? A slight shift of the earth's axis? Who knows?

Oldest starts hooting like an owl, which prompts girls to howl. Youngest spits up EVERYWHERE. Nice juicy spit-up speckled with Goldfish. Wipes under all the groceries. Race to check-out lane. Kids pick out push-up suckers ... then misbehave. (Any other mother might quickly reposses the rewards - not me. ) Unbuckle youngest so I can clean spit-up. Forgot to buckle youngest. She climbs out reaching for the register and I catch her as she tries to step out of the buggy. And, oh yes, she's only a year old. Hold youngest while piling bagged groceries back into buggy. Oldest and middle - five and three respectively - are holding cork board and poster boards respectively. Then they start swinging cork and poster boards almost harming at least three elderly people.

Groceries and goodies bagged. Youngest on my left hip, pushing buggy with right side of my body, oldest and middle walking on each side. Youngest slipping. Still pushing. Oldest and middle decide to be a team and carry cork and poster boards down the middle of the parking lot lane causing slight traffic jam. Just had to make the chore chart, I think. Still pushing.

Get to car. Buckle youngest in car seat. See man in little red truck backing up. Look to make sure other two children are alive.

Little red truck man yelled, "I think you forgot your milk."

"What?" I asked.

"Your milk," he said pointing toward another older man holding up a gallon of milk like a torch. He looked familiar. I think he was one of the men the oldest almost hit with the cork board.

Little red truck man drives away after a little "see what I mean" wave.

Other man with milk walks up to me, hands me the milk and said, "You know ... you could of bought that at Food City for a $1.98. What did you pay for that? $3 or more?"

"You know, I hate to admit it, but I don't even know."

"That's a shame," he said shaking his head and walking off.

"Well ... um ... sorry. But thanks for bringing me my overpriced milk."

Is it wrong to tackle an old man who just delivered your milk?