Our family’s switch to organic food was not difficult, at least when it came to access to organic food. We live in the opposite of a food desert: There are two Whole Foods, a Trader Joe’s, a Balducci’s, and a Mom’s Organic Market, all within a super-short drive. There’s a Giant, a Safeway and two Harris Teeter’s, all with substantial organic/natural offerings. I can get organic milk and other staples at our Target. And don’t even get me started on our farmer’s market options. We are the luckiest dirty hippies on earth, I swear.

Cost, on the other hand, is something we’re still working on. When Whole Foods is your neighborhood’s default corner grocery store, it’s easy to start losing your grip on how much things cost. Or how much they should cost. And there’s no greater wallet-suck than the frozen/packaged/prepared convenience foods.

Take waffles, for example. My oldest son has eaten a frozen toaster waffle for breakfast every day, for as long as I can remember. And once I started getting super-picky about ingredients, a big giant box of Eggos wasn’t going to cut it. I wanted organic whole grains, fiber, low sugar. So I started buying crazier and crazier waffles: Organic Wildberry Buckwheat Bran! Natural Hemp Flax Whole Grain Honey with Added Omega-3s!

It was bad enough when we were going through one box a week. But now? With three kids who are ALL on the morning waffle train? It was time to cry uncle and figure out how to make them ourselves.

We bought a basic waffle maker and got to work trying out different as-healthy-as-possible recipes, but never really hit on a winner. Too much sugar in one, weird texture in another, this batch tasted great on Sunday but didn’t freeze well, etc.

Then one weekend my husband skipped the waffle iron and made some seriously dubious-sounding pancakes: Whole-wheat oatmeal pancakes, sweetened only with a little maple syrup. To say I was skeptical and under-enthused about these pancakes is an understatement. My exact thoughts were: Gross, dude. You just killed the entire point of pancakes.

But then my kids started eating them. And eating them. One right after another. Then asking for more. I have NEVER seen them both so simultaneously excited about a homemade food offering in my life. Jason whipped up a second batch and I finally got curious enough to taste one.

Oh my God, so good. SO GOOD. These pancakes have no business being as delicious as they are. Oats? Whole-wheat flour? No sugar? Just a little cinnamon and nutmeg and NOM NOM NOM NOM OKAY I GET IT NOW.

Coffee & toaster pancakes: The breakfast of champions and also stray Kung Fu Pandas!

Ever since, we make two (sometimes three) batches of these pancakes on Sunday morning. The kids pig out to their hearts’ content and then we freeze the leftovers in parchment paper and freezer bags. So every school morning, everybody gets a warm, lightly toasted pancake in addition to their cereal and fruit and milk. (Toasting them does change the texture a bit — Noah says they’re more “waffle-ly” during the week, but in a good way.)

Satisfying, healthy and seriously CHEAP. Spring for all-organic baking ingredients and you’ll still wind up way ahead on the cost.

(Baby Ike loves them too, though note that there’s egg, wheat and milk in this recipe. We had our pediatrician’s blessing to introduce eggs and wheat in baked goods at eight months, since we have no history of food allergies in the family. Ike is thankfully not allergic or sensitive to milk, eggs or gluten, but we knew that before we handed him something with all three ingredients at the same time. Your doctor’s advice may vary so OH LORD PLEASE LISTEN TO THAT AND NOT ME OKAY?)

This is also an INCREDIBLY adaptable recipe, as you can see in the user reviews over at Epicurious. (The original calls for brown sugar instead of maple syrup. I’m not anti-sugar or anything, but if a natural sweetener works just a well [and indeed it does in this case], why not use that instead?) You can also add applesauce, bananas, blueberries, vanilla…pretty much whatever you want and they will likely come out awesome.

Whole-Wheat Weekend/Weekday Toaster Pancakes

(slightly adapted from this recipe by Andrea Albin via Epicurious)
(note that these measurements are for a single batch — obviously try them and see if you LIKE them before doubling or tripling the recipe, and stuff.)

3/4 cup quick-cooking oats

1-1/2 cup buttermilk, plus 2 tablespoons well-shaken buttermilk*

3/4 cup whole-wheat flour

1-1/2 teaspoon baking powder

3/4 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 teaspoon cinnamon

1/8 teaspoon grated nutneg

1/2 teaspoon salt

1 large egg, slightly beaten

2 tablespoons melted, unsalted butter

1 tablespoon maple syrup**

*Regular milk works just fine too — just add a tablespoon of vinegar and let it sit for a minute.
**You can absolutely use more syrup if you like them sweeter, just eyeball the mixed batter and add more flour if it seems too wet.

Combine oats and 3/4 cup buttermilk to soak.

Whisk together flour, baking power, baking soda, cinnamon, nutmeg and salt.

Stir egg, butter, maple syrup, oat mixture and all remaining buttermilk (3/4 cup plus the two tablespoons) into dry ingredients until JUST COMBINED. It’ll be lumpy, but don’t overmix. (Sometimes I think it could use slightly more buttermilk than the recipe calls for, so don’t be afraid to futz with the proportions at the end — it’s super-forgiving batter, and I’m a complete baking idiot, usually.)

Heat a lightly-oiled griddle over medium heat, then pour your pancakes. Make ‘em about the size of your average boxed toaster waffle (or a tad smaller) for best results — you want something that will fit easily in your toaster and not too thick, so a medium toasting will still defrost the center. Heat until bubbles appear and the bottoms are brown, then flip — just a minute or two per side, really.

(Epicurious claims the yield on a single batch is four pancakes but…uh, that’s wrong, unless you’re making ginormously huge pancakes. One batch is plenty to make a nice breakfast for three or four people, I think.)

Freeze whatever doesn’t get eaten between sheets of parchment/wax paper inside a zippered plastic bag. DONE.

A big thanks to YoBaby for sponsoring this campaign.  Click here to see more of the discussion.

Read more original flavor Amalah
Follow her on Twitter
Check out her writing at Mamapop / Alphamom

More from Amalah’s West:

Journey to the Center Of the Mall Santa Universe
I Don’t Know How I Do It
An Open Letter To Certain Random Strangers at the Grocery Store

Amalah: Greetings, sports fans. Today we’re talking to Crazy Sports Dad about the troubling trend of parents going batcrap insane from the sidelines of their kids’ sporting events. So welcome, Crazy Sports Dad!

Crazy Sports Dad: What the…where’s my microphone? I came here to yell into a microphone! What kind of interviewer are you if there’s no microphone? GET IN THE CAR, TIMMY. WE’RE LEAVING.

Amalah: Well…this is kind of just for a blog. Also pretend. But I’ll be sure to transcribe your quotes accurately and…

Crazy Sports Dad: Oh my God, look at that kid. LOOK AT THAT KID. You call him a ballplayer? Why is he in the game while mine’s on the bench? GET IN THE CAR, TIMMY.

Amalah: Um, that’s just my baby. I couldn’t get a sitter. You realize we’re at a Starbucks, right?

Crazy Sports Dad: (starts clapping, for some reason) Alright, alright, alright, good call. I’ll give you that one. GET OUT OF THE CAR, TIMMY.

Amalah: So, I actually wanted  to talk to you about parents behaving badly at their children’s sporting events. Just recently, a father bit off a coach’s ear at a sixth-grade basketball game. Why do you think some parents fly off the handle like this?

Crazy Sports Dad: Listen, I may not be the coach, but I know stuff, okay? I’ve got EYES, okay? I played baseball in high school and I was varsity and I coulda played in college but I hurt my shoulder but I STILL know better than that no-talent doucheclown they’ve got coaching this team and YEAH I SAID IT, YEAH YOU HEARD ME. Yeah, go ahead and have Jaiydyn bunt, that kid couldn’t hit a slow-moving meteor but if you tell my kid to hit a sacrifice fly next inning I will hunt you down and murder you in your sleep.

Amalah: Are you…talking to me? Or the barista? I don’t…

Crazy Sports Dad: (Gives the “I’ve got my eyes on you” signal to a nearby carafe of half-and-half.)

Amalah: Okay, can we at least talk about the example being set for the kids? That verbal abuse and even violence is acceptable, at all, ever, much less over a game? I’m not saying we have to fall into the “everyone’s a winner! everyone gets a trophy for showing up!” trap, but aren’t some parents really missing the point of youth sports? Teamwork, sportsmanship, trying your best?

Crazy Sports Dad: Oh, so you’re one of those. Listen, my kid is a winner. If he doesn’t win, I’m not gonna act like that’s worth praising or “just as good because he tried” or whatever. That’s crap. That’s crap and it’s destroying America. If my kid doesn’t win, I’m gonna do the right thing and…

Amalah: So this is about traditional masculinity for you? Or more about modern parenting in general? Or…

Crazy Sports Dad:  …blame his failure on somebody else. Anybody else. His coach, the referee, his stupid teammates, or the old guy who mows the playing field on Wednesdays. Because if they did their job right, my kid would win. It’s that simple and ALL RIGHT THAT’S IT, I have had enough of that *#$ing #$@#$s incompetent moron over there…

Crazy Sports Dad: (gets up, lunges at the carafe, attempts to strangle it) WHY IS YOUR LID NOT SCREWED ON PROPERLY? HUH? YOU MADE MY ICED COFFEE OVERLY MILKY! STOP LEAKING, YOU SONOFA…

Amalah: Okay! So this was great, but, I’m gonna leave now. My kid’s got karate at 4, anyway. Plus the manager just called 911, I think.

Crazy Sports Dad: GET IN THE CAR, TIMMY.

Read more original flavor Amalah
Follow her on Twitter
Check out her writing at Mamapop / Alphamom

More from Amalah’s West:

Journey to the Center Of the Mall Santa Universe
I Don’t Know How I Do It
An Open Letter To Certain Random Strangers at the Grocery Store

You know how having a baby is supposed to put things into perspective? Like you look at their face and get so overwhelmed and humbled by the responsibility that suddenly everything makes sense? Life, the universe and everything? Politics, religion, activism, atoning for your own bad behavior and past mistakes and just that overall making-the-world-a-better-place-type crap?

That happened to me, but not technically until my second baby was born. Oops. I was so determined NOT to let having children change who I was — no way, man, I’m gonna stay cool and awesome and stuff! — that it took a long time for me to have that moment of SERIOUS BIZNESS IS SERIOUS clarity.

Our specific moment of clarity was mostly centered around…well, food. Going organic and sustainable and humane and local and all that, as much as possible. We’d always been super into food, particularly the “eating” part. But mostly at restaurants. And carry-out. And delivery.

When it came to stocking our own fridge we still mostly defaulted to convenience foods and unexamined labels and ingredient lists. Cooking was a chore and baby food came from a jar at the store because science, probably. I dunno. Using a food processor is hard. I had no idea if I regularly bought products that contained partially hydrogenated oils, HFCS or artificial food dyes. (SURPRISE: I did.) I had never sought out objective information about suspect foods and ingredients — or the expensive, “healthy” superfood-miracle stuff that’s mostly just good marketing. I had never really thought about preservatives and pesticides and genetically-modified-hormone-fueled-mucked-around-with foods and whether maybe — JUST MAYBE — there was a happy medium between the all-food-is-evil-except-acai-and-goji-berries conspiracy theorists and the soda-n-nugget-n-lunchable crowd.

We started out small, in the “can’t hurt, might help” camp: we switched to organic non-RBGH milk and yogurt, we stopped buying anything with hydrogenated oils and HFCS and started shopping at farmer’s markets. We actually, you know, read stuff about food and the food supply and where it all comes from and why it’s important. We learned that cooking at home can be awesome and fun. Plus BPA, phthalates, parabens, oh my! The day I stripped Red 40 and Yellow 5 out of my special needs preschooler’s diet and saw a huge, overnight and sustained difference in his ability to process the world was the day that the ceiling came down on my previously blase attitude about whether or not this stuff matters. It did. A lot.

It’s one thing for me to decide to drink that can of Coke — I know it’s not good for me, but I’m a grown-up who can make my own choices, plus ZOMG COKE I LOVE YOU — but it’s quite another for me to shrug my shoulders and saying “whatever” about the things I put on the table in front of my children.

When my second baby was born I looked into his eyes and realized I no longer cared about being cool or awesome. I cared way, way more about keeping his little body healthy and safe.

Having children turned me into an organic-shopping label-reading vegetable-gardening composting baby-food-making bread-baking crazy person. And I love it. Thanks, children!

A big thanks to YoBaby for sponsoring this campaign.  Click here to see more of the discussion. And prepare yourself to watch me geek out and post recipes here in the coming weeks like the crazy person I just told you I was.

Read more original flavor Amalah
Follow her on Twitter
Check out her writing at Mamapop / Alphamom

More from Amalah’s West:

I AM
I Don’t Know How I Do It
An Open Letter To Certain Random Strangers at the Grocery Store

Something…strange happened yesterday morning. Strange and unusual and frankly, pretty disorienting.

The boys were all eating their breakfast when Noah looked at the clock and informed me it was time to get to the bus stop. I poured some coffee into a travel mug and gave the official starting signal. Jason didn’t have to be at work yet, so he took over feeding Ike his cereal. The rest of us hurried to the door for shoes and coats. Noah put on his backpack — I’d already hung it on the doorknob like always, with the lunch I packed the night before tucked inside — and we headed out.

As we walked down to the corner and turned, I froze. The bus stop was empty. Nobody was waiting. I glanced up and down the street and realized it was empty too. There should be at least half a dozen kids and a handful of parents staggering out of houses and lurching zombie-like towards the bus stop by now. I panicked.

“Oh, buddy, did we miss the bus? Already?”

(Officially scarier than clowns: the sight of the back end of a school bus driving away)

No, we couldn’t have! I dug around for my phone to check the time but realized I’d left it back at the house. I mentally went back over the coats-and-shoes process, which hadn’t felt like it was taking any longer than usual. I calculated the odds that I had forgotten about a random in-service day or missed a weather-related closing announcement? On a bright sunny spring-like Thursday? Probably not, right?

Right. That left only one possibility: We had missed the dang bus.

I stood there and fumed. It must have come early, right? I have things so DOWN in the morning now, so much calmer and more streamlined than they used to be. I have a process, a plan, a timeline and a freezer full of homemade oatmeal-and-cinnamon pancakes we make every Sunday for easy weekday toasting. Good lord, I have a kindergartner who watches the clock and tells me when it’s time to leave and a preschooler who understands what happens when the big hand touches the three! Two children who are my morning allies, rather than children who actively work against me in the Battle Of Getting Out The Stupid Door on time!

FOR GOD’S SAKE I HANG BACKPACKS ON THE FRONT DOORKNOB NOW SO NOTHING IS EVER LOST OR LEFT UNPACKED AT THE LAST MINUTE, WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT FROM ME, UNIVERSE?

Noah thought we should keep walking.

So we did, but I couldn’t stop jerking my head this way and that, scanning the neighborhood for signs of other families. I wondered if anybody was maybe watching us from their houses, having already seen the bus come and go, and if they’d take pity on us and come out to deliver the news that yeah, you better go get in your car, because you’re on your own. Or maybe they were just laughing at us.

(No, I don’t know why the default imaginary versions of my neighbors are all such jerks either.)

And then it happened: Doors opened, and the morning shuffle of kids and parents began. We hadn’t missed the bus. At all. We’d actually just been…exactly on time. Early, even. Without even breaking a sweat.

…unlike another mother who has always, ALWAYS been ready and present at the bus stop with her kindergartner by the time we arrived, ever since the very first day of school. She was sweating, because they were a good block away when the bus pulled up and had to sprint the rest of the way in winter coats, because she didn’t have time to check the weather report.

“Just one of those mornings, I guess,” she sighed and panted, as we waved goodbye to our children as the bus rolled away.

“Tell me about it,” I nodded.

Read more original flavor Amalah
Follow her on Twitter
Check out her writing at Mamapop / Alphamom

More from Amalah’s West:

I AM
I Don’t Know How I Do It
An Open Letter To Certain Random Strangers at the Grocery Store

As promised (because I’m sure dozens of you were on the edge of your seats), we did indeed go to Ikea over the weekend. We had a purpose this time, because come hell or high water or signs stating that Småland Is Currently At Capacity Please Check Back In 40 Minutes, SUCKERS, I was getting myself some office furniture.

When we bought our townhouse, one of the things I liked was the extra room off the master bedroom. It’s a wee little spot, designed to be used as a den or nursery or even (if you’re our next-door neighbor) an over-sized walk-in closet. I deemed it perfect for an office. We bought a small desk and stuck it in there, and I never, ever sat at it. Partly because we forgot to buy a chair.

But mostly because YEAH RIGHT, like I was gonna hole up and blawwgg about my feeeeeeeelings all tucked away upstairs while Noah toddled around the house unsupervised. No, I needed to employ the proper mommyblogger method of only semi-ignoring my child: On the couch, with a laptop, with my eyes and attention bouncing back and forth like a ADD-addled ferret. Type, check kid, type, check kid. Blah blah, yes honey, I will get you a snack in a minute, but first I need to finish this overwrought entry on how motherhood has profoundly changed me, blah.

I did that for years. Still not really sure how. Or why. By the time the second kid came along I basically losing my always-frantic mind several times a day because wait. What was I doing? What was I supposed to be doing? How many sites did I need to update today? Why won’t you take a nap? How is it time to go pick up Noah from school already? What did I do with my keys? AND WHERE ARE MY PANTS? I SWEAR, I JUST HAD THEM?

So I finally cried uncle and hired a part-time babysitter a few months after Ezra’s first birthday. During her interview, our sitter basically told me I wasn’t allowed to work out where the kids could see me, because it upsets the who’s-in-charge order, and she needed to be the sole authority figure during her shifts. I immediately agreed with her, mostly because I am so completely terrified of her not liking me or thinking I’m some typical jerky rich-person so I tend to go out of my way to seem cool and agreeable.

But by that point, the small desk had been relocated and re-purposed and the “office” was now an extension of our bedroom. I think we intended it to be a dressing/sitting area, but only got as far as moving our dressers in there. We still neglected to buy a chair. The room — because it had a full-length mirror — basically became little more than my Belly Photo Self Portrait studio during my pregnancies, until the amount of clutter built up to such a level that I was embarrassed to have it even be seen in the mirror reflection. It was officially a full-sized version of a kitchen junk drawer and my secret shame and the reason I refused to give anyone an upper-level tour of the house.

Meanwhile, I worked every day camped out on my bed. Which I think is usually ranked as one of the Worst Biggest Mistakes People Who Work From Home Make on every Worst Biggest Mistakes list ever. It’s bad for your back and wrists and brain. By climbing back into bed to sleep in the same spot where you work, you might as well just be curling up with all your stress and deadlines and every jerk or annoyance you dealt with during the day. Cozy!

The office remained on our to-do list the whole time, but we just…didn’t. The task had been put off for so long that it was officially Very Daunting to me. Everything in the room was linked to a good three or four other house-related tasks that needed to be completed first, and those tasks had similar issues, and so on and so forth. We couldn’t do the office until we got a small dresser for the bedroom, we couldn’t put a dresser in the bedroom until we moved all those storage bins to the basement, we couldn’t move the storage bins until we purged and organized the basement, gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh you know what let’s just all calm down and watch TV instead.

Obviously, (SPOILER ALERT) we eventually managed to half-ass our way through enough of the preparatory projects and set up an office. And I’m now basking in that cliched feeling of “I can’t believe I didn’t do this sooner!” and an over-inflated sense of accomplishment. BEHOLD THE EXPEDIT WORKSTATION WHICH I HAVE BUILT WITH MY OWN TWO HANDS, HEAR ME ROAR.

But also it’s been yet another in a long-ass list of house-related experiences that make me wonder if other grown-up people are as…well…not exactly competent at being grown up as I am. At keeping their homes clean and chaos at bay; at not procrastinating and letting toys and plastic whatzimahdoozits take over the living room with a disinterested shrug.

Or maybe I’m confusing “grown-up” with “people who simply aren’t lazy slobs.” Hmm.

Readers of my blog — the main one, the OG one, as opposed to the 14 frillion other blogs I’ve written/contributed to/abandoned over the years — probably are aware that I really, really love Ikea.

My documented love for Ikea goes way back, and despite once comparing Ikea to an emotionally abusive boyfriend that I keep going back to no matter how many times he sends me home with missing drawer fronts or crooked bookshelves; no matter how many breakdowns in grown-up communication my husband and I have in the self-service aisles because they are out of the EKBORPENOT and we’ve invested too much time and effort to go home empty-handed so why can’t we just buy the ROOPENTORK instead?

Because even though I know in my head that my house will never, ever look like the Ikea catalog — so perfect and cheery with so much adorable storage! — my heart will never, ever stop believing. Life balance and household order is only one flat box and an umlaut away. Also ooooh look, honey! Napkins for $1.99! I totally use napkins! LET’S BUY 20 PACKAGES OF NAPKINS.

My love for Ikea has only grown since having children, for the obvious, hallowed reason that IKEA BABYSITS. Småland is proof of Ikea’s all-around evil-genius-ness and I, for one, welcome my Swedish overlords. Show up, yank your kids’ shoes off and set them loose in a magical land of ball pits and slides and TV and bored employees who you do not know at all and yet you do not care. At all. Not even a little bit. See you in an hour, boys! We will probably try to be as far away as humanly possible when the pager goes off and tells us our time is up. Sorry, sorry! I hurried back as quickly as I could, but I got lost in the textiles department and IT WAS GLORIOUS.

Of all the stupid things I’ve come to have an overly-inflated sense of appreciation for, it’s the opportunity to cry over a sold-out mass-produced TV cabinet in the self-service aisle by myself, like a perfectly normal crazy person.

The facts that we’ve joined Ikea’s frequent family shopper program just so our kids can stay in Småland for longer than an hour, and that we actively discuss and look forward to the day when all three children can go to Småland (I currently wear Ike in a backpack for maximum shoppy freedom, and Ezra still only gets in because I fluff his hair up before they check his height) are probably signs that we have a problem. Or problems, plural. Signs that 1) we buy too much crap at Ikea, and 2) we’re basically admitting that said crap is not actually solving a finite list of problems but is more akin to a Quixotic quest for something we will never, ever achieve. And maybe we do know that. And maybe we don’t really care, because 1) we really DO need new nightstands and 2) Swedish meatballs that I don’t have to share with anyone.

What’s the dumbest activity you now love irrationally simply because you get to do it without your kid(s)?

Read more original flavor Amalah
Follow her on Twitter
Check out her writing at Mamapop / Alphamom

More from Amalah’s West:

Journey to the Center of the Mall-Santa Universe
I’m Taking a Stand For Once In My Life
An Open Letter To Certain Random Strangers at the Grocery Store

Guess what! I got some of that much-coveted alone time this weekend! Hours and hours of time without any of my children. It turns out all I needed to do was get on a train and go to New York for a day and a half! Because you know, that happens so very often.

After a long, busy, very-much-NOT-alone day (the highlight of which was hanging with Catherine and Mira and a bowl of cheesy polenta with poached eggs of DELICIOUSNESS), I planned on curling up in my hotel with some room service, followed by a bath in a tub without squeaky rubber frogs and bottles of dog shampoo lining the edge, only to discover that there was no room service and the bathroom only had a standing shower. So I ended up trudging around Williamsburg by myself, in search of food.

I sat in a corner booth, surrounded by 20-something hipsters wearing t-shirts for bands I listened to in high school, eating some really good duck confit (FOOD AND TAXI STIPEND YAY) and wondering if the restaurant had high chairs and if my kids would like the sweet potato fries. I read terrifying Instapaper articles about All The Ways You Children Can Get Really Screwed Up, Like Meth and Prescription Pills And Suicide and More Meth and Booze and Seriously, WHY DO I HAVE SO MANY ARTICLES BOOKMARKED ABOUT METH?

So I was actually really, really grateful when my husband called and put the kids on speakerphone. So I could tell them goodnight and that I loved them and DON’T DO DRUGS EVER OKAY? Then I ordered dessert and regretted it, because man, I was tired and wasting valuable uninterrupted sleep time at the hotel.

The rest of the evening went something like this:

Get in bed. Dick around on Internet. Watch Portlandia on Netflix. Test out every pillow on bed in search of proper firmness. Attempt to will self to sleep. Doze. Jerk awake. Forgot to pump milk! Pump. Stash milk in minibar next to Pabst Blue Ribbon because Hipster Hotel Is Hipstery. Will self back to sleep. Jerk awake at thought of forgetting breast milk in minibar tomorrow. Type reminder in phone. Will self back to sleep. Jerk awake because somewhere there is an imaginary baby crying at a frequency only I can hear. Bury head in pillow in futile attempt to block out the sound of not-real crying that isn’t actually happening. Doze. Jerk awake because boobs are also now ready to feed said imaginary baby who doesn’t exist zzzzzzzzWHATzzzzzBABYzzzzzWHERE AM IzzzzzzWHY IS IT SO HOT IN HEREzzzzzzzzzWHERE’S THE BABYzzzzzzz.

By the time I checked out and got on the train home, I was completely exhausted and ready to be back at home, in my own bed, even if it meant sharing the space with Jason and Ike and the cat, while Ezra to poked at my eyeballs to see if I was awake and Noah excitedly shouted the plot of the latest episode of Kung Fu Panda: Legend of Awesomeness at me and the dog skittered around in a SOMEONE BETTER LET ME OUTSIDE RIGHT THIS SECOND OR YOU WILL ALL BE SORRY AND ALSO PUDDLY.

I got all that and more when I got home. It was really, really nice. I do love these nutballs, after all.

It was super-interesting (and reassuring) to read your responses to my last post about Not Leaving The House Ever (and being sort-of lamely okay with that). I was happy to see that I am among many other homebodies who just can’t be bothered — especially in the winter, and especially in the winter with a packload of small children with a tendency to spread out in a dozen different directions at once. I was happy to see that I’m not the only one who not-so-secretly DREADS the five whole minutes of human interaction and small talk I endure at preschool pick-up and at the neighborhood bus stop with a couple other cheery, chatty adults. I don’t want to talk about the weather! Can’t I just check the Internet on my phone in peace?

THE INTERNET GETS ME.

After several date-night-free weeks, I was lucky enough to book a babysitter for tonight. (I’m sorry babies, I love you all to death but I WAS BARFED ON THIS WEEK. REPEATEDLY. MOMMY NEEDS A LITTLE BREAK FROM YOUR HEADS.) My husband asked what I felt like doing during our wee hours of freedom, and I basically went blank and started mouth-breathing at the wall. Doing? Like, things? Outside things? Bwuh?

That’s when I realized that I have not left the house in a very long time. The last time I ventured further than Noah’s bus stop (one block away) or Ezra’s preschool (six blocks) was last Saturday. And even that outing consisted of 1) buying Ezra sneakers, 2) getting the boys haircuts. Then we stopped on the way home for a quick dinner out, which was really nice except for the fact that it took place at 4:30 pm, in order to minimize the number of diners we’d likely bother.

Even the senior citizens didn’t start rolling in until at least 4:45.

And that’s it. The rest of the week was a weird confluence of school district professional days, weather closings, illness, work deadlines and just…well, having no life. No playgrounds, no walks, no coffee runs or drinks with a girlfriend. I didn’t even drive to any afterschool activities — Jason did, since whenever he works from home he’s basically chomping at the bit to go ANYWHERE, ANYPLACE, JUST GIVE HIM AN ERRAND AND HE’LL DO IT, AS LONG AS IT INVOLVES LEAVING THE COUCH.

Ezra only went to school two days all week — both days when the babysitter picks him up so I did not even get two minutes of small talk with his teachers. I canceled Noah’s OT appointment since Ezra was so sick — there went my 40 minutes in a crowded waiting room chatting with other special-needs moms.

I don’t think this is actually unusual for me…and it’s probably not even close to my personal not-leaving-the-house-at-all record, but I feel like it should…bother me? A little? Don’t I feel isolated or stifled? Shouldn’t I be making more of an effort to get up and out more often? Why are the only all-by-myself outings I can remember in recent months just the couple times I went and got my hair cut, and nothing else? (Not to mention my bangs are currently hanging down past my nose, too.) The baby isn’t a newborn and it’s not like I’m threatening the older boys with leashes on a regular basis (ANYMORE) when I’m out in public with them. I have a long list of wonderful friends I could email and finally, FINALLY make concrete plans with after months of procrastination (all on my part). What’s with this slide into antisocial mom-hermititude? Or am I just…you know…too tired to give much of a crap right now?

Sorry to write an entire post comprised of 75% rhetorical questions to myself, but I guess I am curious: How often do you leave the house, on a weekly basis? Especially for reasons that are NOT directly kid-related (even if they’re with you)? Or, if you do work outside of the home, how often do you do other, non-kid/non-work things? Do you have a regular standing coffee date with a girlfriend or pedicure appointment to force you up and out, or does your sanity depend on getting out your front door at least once every day?

Or should I stop worrying about this and focus on congratulating myself for at least getting out of BED most days?

While we’re on the subject of siblings and whether they are 1) terribly pointless, or 2) the most important gift you can EVER give your child (because those are the only two options, you know), let’s talk about the wonderful, magical moment when you introduce existing children to their new sibling. And how wonderful and magical it is.

Wait. No. I meant the opposite of that.

This is the photo I used — after cropping and tweaking and edge-blurring and etc. — to commemorate the moment when my three boys came together for the first time:

Gorgeous, right? The perfect mix of curiosity, suspicion and tenderness. Also, the baby appears to be in no danger of getting dropped or sat on and is not crying.

In other words, what a load of crap.

A few seconds later, after Noah’s hand actually made contact with Ike’s head and startled the bejezus out of him, Ike let out a howl. Noah fled to the opposite side of the room and refused to go near the baby again. And Ezra was like, “Yeah, I’m out too. YOU deal with this.”

I just can’t even right now, you guys.

They spent the next 45 minutes or so jumping off the hospital room’s furniture and windowsills, screeching and squawking like Angry Birds while I stayed in bed, grinning stupidly and basking in the chaos of my new-and-improved life.

By the time I saw them again, my post-c-section IV had been removed so I was no longer under the influence of the kickass painkillers.

This is what happened next. (And…a lot of times after that. Up to and including THIS MORNING, ACTUALLY.)

HI FISHY FISHY FISHY

First, the boys circled him like a fish in a waiting room aquarium. We removed the baby before they started pounding on the plexiglass.

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