The New Girl

Remember That One Kid I Had? Almost Two Years Ago?

He is, in most ways, the opposite of his sister. This is more common than not, I know. The second one is looking for a place to fit, after all. Where my daughter is...full of 90 degree angles, let's say, The Boy is round. And squooshy. He fits...anywhere. Snuggly.

We laugh that he is The Mayor everywhere he goes. Everyone loves The Boy. He is so, so easy to love.

He's also just easy. Period.

He's recently started to talk with real enthusiasm for the sport. Stringing three, four, even five word sentences together, with this adorable little two-beat pause in between words.

"Tank you----Mommy."

He's showing the first signs of potty interest (OH PLEASE) which culminated in him SITTING IN THE TOILET WHILE FULLY CLOTHED at the gym's kid's club. He's also started to require "Poo-pate" for his tooth brush, which, I gotta tell you, mature as I am, makes me snicker. He's car-obsessed. OBSESSED. One day, The Man and I were saying how, at his age, TLNG was crazy about Elmo. (Remember that shit?) And how The Boy has no interests and what the hell is wrong with him and what are we going to have for 2nd party decorations? And the next day, it's like some kind of little boy switch got fucking FLIPPED up in here and it's all, "START YOUR ENGINES! RACE-RACE-RACE-MOMMY-I-WINNNNNN!"

He's coordinated and swings a baseball bat like he MEANS IT. He has a little lean-to-the-side stance and EVERYTHING. Crazy. He climbs and runs and jumps and not a single person who knows us in real life can believe TLNG ended up with stitches before he did. We got a [giant monstrosity] swing set in the back yard. It's huge and I imagined that The Boy would be able to navigate it independently by next summer. At a year-and-a-half, that kid climbed the ladder, went down the slide and was able to sit straight-backed enough for a big-kid swing. He uses a scooter. He's just...pretty cool.

And here's the thing: he melts my heart. Completely.

The connection that I've had with my girl, since the minute she came out, has been crystalline--amazing. Sparkly and intense. Rock hard and indestructible. As she's gotten older, she's gotten easier in some ways and way more challenging in other ways. I fully expect this trajectory to continue. Ahem. (Send help. Or chocolate.) But there is an intensity to her, to us. Our relationship is rife--fraught--with strong emotion, with a degree of struggle. Part of it is stage. Part of it is personality style. And while I love her and really LIKE her, even admire her spirit, sometimes it's kind of hard to be her Mommy.

But my boy. Oh, my boy. I don't know how to explain it, really. If it's the product of age and stage or gender or birth order or temperamental style. Or, most likely, all of the above. He sneaked up on me. He came into the world sleeping in four hour chunks and self soothing and before I knew it, he was walking and eating and playing and snuggling. He was easy. So easy and quiet, I could all of a sudden understand how someone might forget they had a kid in the car. Started to believe people who said their kids slept through the night at 3 months, because omfg, he DID.

It took a while to feel like I really know him, I think. The volume of his personality is a little lower and it was a while before my ears could adjust to hear it. But he seeped into my bones along the way and it seems that, like his car obsession, my intense maternal love for him got flipped and all of a sudden I'm crying because one day, he's going to have whiskers and be taller than me. Our connection is there. But it's so different than that to which I was accustomed. Softer and more pliable. Looping and elastic and comfortable. And beautiful, too.

VROOOOOOOM!

Birth Story.

I had just taken my last dose of [voodoo medicine] homeopathic remedy to induce labor.  You have to take, like, six doses over 12 hours and at 9pm on September 26th, I'd finished it, told my husband (with my tongue in my cheek) that my labor was going to start aaaaaaany minute and went to curl up in the basement and watch some tv.  For the life of me I can't remember what I had on but about 5 minutes in I felt a strange, *popping* kind of kick.

And then I felt a slow, spreading warmth and thought, 'Oh, holy shit.'

Even though I was officially overdue, I hadn't packed a hospital bag.  (I had a feeling that I was going to be significantly overdue...don't ask me why.)  My daughter was in bed asleep.  My husband was upstairs on the computer.  I walked up the steps, into the bathroom, sat down on the toilet and had a fucking panic attack. 

'Um. I think my water just broke,' I yelled out to my husband, effectively passing my panic right along.

After what seemed like an hour of bumbling around, trying to figure out what to do, my brain took over and I directed The Man to call his mom while I called my midwife and started to pack a bag. 

I had yet to have a contraction.  

My midwife advised me to go to the hospital, since I was GBS positive and they needed to start the anti-biotics.  I was happy to go, as the labor with my first progressed pretty rapidly and I had some fear that I wouldn't make it on time.  (My sister had given birth to my niece and her labor was so fast that the midwife almost missed it. It, uh, was a home-birth ANYWAY but I was glad that *I* didn't have to deliver the baby.) 

Anyway.

The Man and I got into the car when my MIL got there and off we rode.  My sister was meeting me there.  (The Doula was out of town and in retrospect, it was so, SO great to have The Little Sister there. SO.)  All the way to the hospital, I thought of my daughter.  I wept for her, a little, knowing that when she woke up, her whole world would be different.  We had prepared her as well as we could, of course, but I already ached for what she was about to go through.

About a minute away from the hospital, I had my first taste of memory.  The contraction was slight and easily managed but it brought back a visceral, physical memory from deep inside my body.

'Oh yeeeeah, I remember this shit,' my body said, 'this shit huuurts.'

We got settled into the room and my sister came and the nurse was asking me questions and talking about the iv antibiotics and blah blah.  Then she asked if I'd saved the pad because she had to see if my membrane 'had really ruptured.'  She said this in a way that made me worry about whether or not I'd misinterpreted the event.  Like maybe I'd just been peeing my pants for the last 15 minutes.  She got the long ass q-tip and lo, the water had broken.  She checked me and told me that I was 2cm dilated. 

'It's going to be a LONG night for you guys,' she said, 'we're not going to see that baby until tomorrow morning.'

This was the first time that I tried to tell her that my last labor had progressed quickly.  I also tried to communicate the feedback I'd gotten from the nurses last time.  They were all, without exception, shocked at my behavior during labor.  Quiet but joking almost throughout.  I wanted both the staff and my midwife to know these things, in case it was the same this time.  The only reason that I hadn't had my daughter within 6 hours, start to finish, was because I pushed for OVER THREE HOURS (and I was still joking then, em effers.)

The nurse asked me if I wanted something for pain and I declined, telling her that unless the labor was long and unproductive, I didn't want medication.  The contractions weren't really difficult at that point.  I asked when she was going to call my midwife.  She smiled at me like I'd said something endearing.

'Oh,' she said, 'I won't be calling her for a WHILE yet.  When it gets closer I'll give her a call.'

This was about 11pm.

They came in and hung the antibiotics and I found out that my blood pressure was elevated (AGAIN) and so, I had to wear the fetal monitor OF DOOM constantly instead of intermittently and I was PISSED but RESIGNED and so I just moved whenever I felt the need to and the nurses had to come in and rearrange it and they weren't as sweet about it as the nurses at the last hospital but oh WELL, right?  SORRY, thems the BREAKS, OB nurses. She also asked me about 1229489 more times if I wanted anything for pain.  Something that doesn't bother me at all right now but at the time, made me inexplicably annoyed.  It was almost as if she'd never seen anyone like me before.  Like she thought she knew me better than I knew my own self. Like she just knew better.

My sister considered going home and then coming back later (since it was going to be so long and all) but she had a feeling that it wasn't going to be as long as the nurse thought and so she stayed.  I felt the same way but since I'm the sort who's inclined to 'Not Get My Hopes Up,' I tend toward the, 'Well, it COULD take all night, I suppose.'  

I was still joking, even though the contractions were getting more intense.  I looked around the room and I was Tweeting, my sister was texting and The Man was updating his Facebook status. Ah, technology.  At one point, the two of them (neither one a doula, obv.) were trying to time my contractions.  As the pain set in, I'd let them know and then while I'm 'Going Inside' trying to 'Breathe Deep The Giving Of Life' and all that shit, I hear them whispering to each other. Talking out the sides of their mouths, quiet-like, thinking that I can't hear them while LOST IN THE PAIN OF LABOR.

The Man: 'Are you supposed to start timing from the beginning of the contraction to the end?'

The Little Sister: 'I think so. Or. I don't know. I'm timing from the beginning until the end, you're supposed to time how long in between.'

TM: 'So, should I time from the end of one to the beginning of the next? To find out how far apart they are?'

[pause]

TLS: 'Hmm. I think so.'

Me: 'You both KNOW I can HEAR you, right?'

About 1:00 am or so, the contractions started to get more intense. I told my [crack-pot] cracker-jack team, who sat, one with a book, the other with a smart-phone, continuing to joke and loaf about, despite the dramatic increase in crampiness in my uteral region. It is a weird thing about a big experience like that, maybe, but I was shocked on a couple occasions that they couldn't, like, read my mind or intuit the change in my internal state. I know that's ridiculous, really, but it's kind of when a little kid presses on her bruise and says, 'Doesn't that hurt?' I had to actually speak. Out loud.

'Hey. I could use a little...you know, labor support over here.'

They both jumped up and it was about this point that The Man started to resemble one of those life-sized, movie house cut-outs of himself. He stood at one side of the bed, ashen-faced, and tried not to panic. My sister leaned in, comforted and did what a doula would do. The pain was still managable with that support and I recall that hour or so passing pretty quickly, despite the jump in intensity.

I wanted to sit upright and since it had been hours since I'd seen ANY medical professional, I got out of bed and planted myself in a rocking chair, monitors in place. The intensity of the contractions steadily increased and I distinctly remember thinking that if I wasn't progressing, if these contractions weren't productive, I'd skip the epidural and go straight for the cyanide.

Ahem.

Anyway.

For whatever reason, when each contraction would roll through, I would grip The Man's hand in mine, put my forehead on his forearm and push my head against it, like I was trying to snap that fucker in half. I'm so not kidding. I'm chuckling as I write this but at the time, it seemed like a completely logical pain reliever. So, there you are.

The contractions were getting longer and longer with shorter rest in between and at about 2:50 am, I looked at my sister and asked, 'Dude. Am I going through transition in this fucking rocking chair?'

About that time, the nurse came in. I don't remember if she asked me how I was doing or whatever. I just remember asking if she called my midwife yet.

'No, not yet. I'll call her when you get closer,' she said.

'Yeah, but..'

'We'll hang the second bag of anti-biotics at around 4.'

'Yeah, but...these contractions are getting pretty strong,' I said, 'Are you going to check me?'

'We don't like to check too much if you're GBS positive. I see that your contractions are getting more intense on the monitor. When we hang the next bag of anti-biotics, I'll check you. So, unless you tell me that you have to push, I'll see you in a little bit.'

And then, she left.

My sister said, 'She's not making it until 4. She's going to have this baby before then.'

I was starting to believe her and abandoned all thoughts of a cyanide capsule.

Around 10 minutes after 3:00, I felt like I had to pee. I'd felt that way after each contraction and I decided to go. My sister went to get the nurse and while the details are muddied, I recall being half-in and half-out of the bed, the nurse at my side, helping me to the bathroom. And then she said, 'Now, don't you go having that baby in the toilet.'

And.

And I.

What?!

'That doesn't happen,' I said, but it was a question.

'Oh, yes it does, more than you'd think,' was her answer and then I realized that I was having another one of those moments when I thought others should be able to know my thoughts. Because suddenly, I wasn't going anywhere and I wasn't going to do anything.

Besides push out a baby.

The next few minutes were full of flurry and panic and flashes of motion and sounds. I was fully in the bed and gripped by such a fierce urge to push that I have no words to describe it. At some point, the nurse checked me and said something I didn't get, followed by, '...you are a 9, though,' along with some kind of injunction not to push. They were waking the on-call doctor, who was sleeping down the hall.

My mind and my body were in a battle, for sure, I was full of worry and panic, trying to hold in the urge to push and cheating--I couldn't help it--bearing down even though I was afraid I was hurting myself in the process. Not to mention, you know, no doctor, no midwife. I remembered my sister having to dance around in her bathroom and fight her own urge to push while we waited for her midwife--it was a home birth and it was the midwife or me and I remember hissing, 'You better cross your legs and keep them together because I am NOT delivering this baby!'

I had a true appreciation for her at that moment because as I laid on my side, trying not to push and failing, I couldn't believe she held out. I could feel my baby trying to get out of my body. I was  freaked out that I was only dilated 9cm and was afraid of rupturing myself and then, from somewhere, I heard one of the nurses say that if my urge to push was so great, I was probably a 10.

Okie Dokie.

Just the lack of the doctor, then. I looked at my husband and thought he might fall over. I was on my side, trying not to push but feeling my son's head descend, I could feel him coming out.

'He's coming!' I yelled, 'he's coming!'

And then, you'll never believe what my sister said.

She said, 'He's coming! They went to go get him, he's just down the hall!'

It was straight out of a movie, I swear, especially when I'm all: 'I'M NOT TALKING ABOUT THE DOCTOR!! I'M TALKING ABOUT THE BABY! HE'S! COMING! NOWWWWW!!'

Two seconds later, the doctor walked in and pulling on his gloves, he said, 'Uh. Can we--break the bed down, please?'

The rest took another minute, at the most.

One big, long, push and he was out.

Sigh.

The Little sister went with The Boy to the little grow-light table. The Man was still a cardboard cut-out, holding my hand. I looked at him, misty-eyed and worried. And the first words out of my mouth were these:

'I am SO GLAD I never have to do that again.'

 

 

Do You Like Onions In Things?

There are a few things that are absolutely GRATING ON MY FUCKING NERVES right now. Would you like to hear about them? [Too Bad.] Oh, good! Here we go.

The first thing is that every single morning for the past, oh, week or so, my son has been waking up at 4 in the morning, weeping and wailing, without stopping until I go in there, armed with a bottle, medicine and [my revenge] some saline nose spray and the nose frida. Even the time change did not disrupt his schedule and he seemed totally oblivious that the 4:00 was really 3:00. He just skipped right over that adjustment and kept on rocking the 4am wake up. As soon as the door opens and I present myself, grumbly and pissed off, the crying magically ceases and he says, 'Mama. Mama.' And then my irritation leaves and the dull resignation-slash-warm-sappiness-AKA-he's-only-little-for-a-little-while-feeling sets in and I hug him up and change his diaper and give him medicine and chuckle at how much he HATES the nose frida. I sit on that fucking exercise ball and give him a bottle and he is SO DROWSY. Then I go to put him in the crib and he twists his little bendy ass around so that he goes in STANDING UP.

Standing.

At 4:30am.

What the fuck is up with that, I ask you?

Anyhow, usually the crying part is over then and either he's up talking and laughing to himself or he is pretty quiet and falls back to sleep. I am, as you could probably guess, completely awake by that time and so, you know. I wake up grouchy and irritable and ill-prepared to handle the rigors of my days. And when I say rigors, I mean my daughter.

Which brings me to the second thing: she is making me nuts. Nuts! With the (intensified and inexplicable) baby-talking! And the (renewed after a long, lovely absence) Crazy-Ass Temper Fits! And the (brand new) Ignoring Me-Slash-Selective Mutism! Where she refuses to answer the simplest question! At all! I don't have to provide you with an illustration of how all three of these behaviors combine to create the MOST ANNOYING SITUATIONS IN HISTORY, do I? I didn't think so. You can trust that they DO. Every day, multiple times a day.

I am threadbare and due mostly to the sleep deprivation, my patience is thiiiiiiin. I find that I have an annoyed edge to my voice whenever I'm talking to my daughter and today it started at 7:03am, when she refused to say good-morning or give me our customary Morning Hug and insistently said the baby word, 'Powwnnyyyy,' over and over, to indicate, I suppose, that she wanted me to find her lost pony.

Can you hear that clicking? It's my MARBLES. I'm losing them one by one.

Anyway.

If it wasn't for my promise to myself that I was going to post more regularly, I'd be suffering in silence [and you wouldn't have had to suffer through this post.]

Before I go back to drinking coffee and breathing deeply before tackling the giant job of unloading the diswasher, I'll tell you the story behind the title of this post.

After my mom died, The Little Sister and I went back to my hometown to have Thanksgiving with my dad and my grandfather. We were making all the family favorites in our own way, really, and worked our aaaaasses off. We included my grandmother's mac and cheese. My sister, however, omitted the grated raw onion on top, since none of us liked it anyway. The crunchy texture just didn't suit us. This was our first-ever time making a Thanksgiving dinner. And we were without my mom. It was tough.

If you've never read about my grand-dad, this might not make too much sense but you have to know that he's sort of...er...difficult. Kind of obsessive and nit-picky and before and during dinner he made a series of remarks and comments that I'm SURE he thought were benign but were actually most annoying.

So.

After dinner, my grandfather was telling The Little Sister how good everything was. Then he said, 'Do you like onions in things?' And my sister was all, 'Huh?' And he said, 'Do you like onions in things?' And my sister was all, 'Uh. Yeah, sure.' And he said, 'You know what's good? For the Macaroni and Cheese, you take an onion and you just grraaaaate that onion right on top.'

And I had to suppress my deep, deep, laughter when my sister leaned in and muttered, 'You mean like how you're grrrraaaatting my nerves right now?'

I Only Have 40 Seconds To Post. In Other Words, It's a 19 Second Video.

Well. HERE'S why I haven't had any time to blog.

Not really.

But kind of.

Forgive my totally trashed house. 

But Look!

(I have no idea where the sound went. I was, as per my usual, annoying and loud.)

Mr. Walker.

I'm thiiiiiiinking, maybe Baby Frankenstein for Halloween?

The Glory Of A Boy.

Hey, you know what?

My Boy is ALMOST ONE.  Can you believe that?

I can't.

Really.

Lookit:

 

 

The sparkly little eyes. The little baby mouth. CAN YOU STAND IT?

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Forget the breast pad in the background. Look at the new-awkward-heart rending sibling relationship in the foreground.

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I swear, I think he was watching TV but the wide eyes and the baby hair line? omfg.

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Happy.

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Happy. Even at the doctor's office. Ding dong, whaaa?

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I LOVE the look on his face.  It's all, 'OMFG! DO YOU SEE ME?!'

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Oh, man.

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 Just Crazy Baby.

 

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Not so new, less awkward, still heart-rending, and a little more...er...Cage-Matchy?

Because 'I Think I Can,' Won't Fucking Cut It & 'You Can't Give Them Away' Just Depresses Me More.

So, I don't know if we are deep into some kind of heinous sleep regression or if there's a general sucky sleep formula brought on by two back-to-back trips away, weaning, learning to walk and talk (for the baby) and impending preschool and learning to run and climb somewhat fearlessly and scream exceptionally loudly for TLNG.

Whatever the cause, the result is the same.

A level of heartbreak and angst that is unexplainable, for the sheer number of superlatives involved.

In other words: Oh My Holy Fucking Hell.

It's one thing to bring a newborn home, into an already established family with a well-functioning sleep routine.  You just KNOW that shit is going to get harshed. And good.  But when that newborn grows and sleeps SLEEPS! Through the night!  And your toddler-slash-preschooler (is she REALLY a preschooler? Holy Shit,) is also a champion sleeper! Well, this kind of thing can come right out of left field to simultaneously bite you on the ass and run you over like a truck.

Part of it is that, with my son, I find myself losing track of those Sleep Regressions/Wonder Weeks/Whatever the hell reasons that you can find to explain the fucking insanity of early childhood behavior switch-ups.  I'm saying that next month (NEXT MONTH!) he's going to be a year old.  He's standing and cruising and balancing all by himself.  He's babbling and playing games and eating me out of house and home.  But because there's twice the motion and keeping track with two kids, I just..well, let's just say that a few nights ago I realized that I was going to have to plan a first birthday party and it took me..totally off guard. WTH?

I'm sure that the sleep deprivation is at least partially to blame.

I find myself slogging through, trying to force myself to work, to clean, to write, to address the frigging package to Jess already, because, DAMN.  The lack of sleep works on me, though.  It's one of the things that I most hate about parenting.  (One of the others is Mr. Potato Head.  Just saying.)

I know that I will sleep again.

I know that my son will start walking (send help when he does, cause, omfg) and talking and sleeeeeping again.  I know that my daughter will start preschool and will work through whatever the hell is making her scream her head off at 2:48 in the morning because she can't get her hair to go the right way.

It's temporary.  That's my mantra whenever we are in a 'bad spot,' sleep or behavior wise.  It's temporary.

The thing is: we're four weeks in already and there's no end in sight.

*sigh*

I think I might need a new mantra.

 

 

 

I Should Just Title This Post: Can't Skate On Any Of These Ponds Cause These Bitches Ain't Frozen Yet. Or, Alternately: If You Follow Me On Twitter, You Prolly Know All This Shit Already.

I feel wrung out. 

Like over the past two weeks, I've been full to bursting and then squeezed empty and then refilled and then squeezed again.  It's hard to imagine that only a short time ago, I was in NYC, staying at the Hilton and communing with some of the funniest, smartest, prettiest women (plus, like, two guys) on the planet.  There were lots of highlights for me, too many to link when I'm feeling so bleary-eyed and do you really want to read The Internet's Most-Delayed BlogHer Recap?  Honestly, in Internet Time, BlogHer was like, 10 years ago. So, it's like I'm sitting behind my word-processor, suited up in my Member's Only jacket, writing about something that happened before you were BORN.

I'll say that I got to see so many of my good friends and introduce myself and express my [writer's crushes] genuine affection for the work of most everyone on my 'I want to meet them and gush about their work' list.  I got to talk about things that really matter with a few awesome women.  I got to meet lots of people that I have wanted to meet. Plus, if you follow me on Twitter, you undoubtedly saw the CUPCAKE that I got to eat because I CRASHED the birthday celebration of a very sweet, tutu-making maven.

Of course there are 70 quadrillion people that I forgot to link and so, just know if it was you I forgot to link, I already understand that I suck. Prophylactically. 

And, if you are the ball-less motherfucker who stole the bag I got for [air-quote] running [air-quote] the Tutus-for-Tanner 5K? You know, the one with the autographed, sure-it's-awesome Dread Crew in it? YOU CAN SUCK IT. (I hope you liked the book, though, even though it WASN'T ADDRESSED TO YOU.)

Anyway.

I got home and it was official that The Boy was weaned.  Fully weaned at 10.5 months.  Hard to describe how I feel about it, really.  The fact that I went without nursing for 4 days and never ONCE leaked or felt full/tingly led me to believe that he hadn't been getting that much anyway.  My production was a challenge for months and months and man.  I really just don't want to totally get into it.

A couple days later, I had to turn around and leave my kids for ANOTHER four days to go to my childhood home to pack up my dad's stuff and move him close to The Little Sister and I.  It's hard for me to articulate what that experience was like but I'm sure that you can imagine it.  On Twitter I posted all the reeeeediculous things that we unearthed there (plus, the world's WORST EVER wallpaper which NO ONE commented on because by the time it made an appearance, they were all immersed in the crazy and didn't EVEN NOTICE,) partly because it was funny as hell and partly because I deal with the not-funny by turning it into the funny.

Then I came back to two kids who were crazy out of their minds, testing like motherfuckers, trying to adjust to Mommy being away-coming back-being away. Not to mention that they both had some bug that manifested in horrible napalm-poo explosions of the 'Requires A Morning Bath' kind.  When those cleared up, there came a baby who refused to sleep at all (AT ALL!) confusing the shit out of us before it became apparent that he was suffering from a cold, that he gave to his sister.

So, I had my first Total-Without-Sleep night since my son was 2 months old.  It was as sucky as I remember.

Anyway. So, now you're caught up.

Geezuz.

What's new with you?

Technically, It's Not About BlogHer.

Hey there!

Long time no posting. As per what appears to be my new(ish) usual. *sigh* I'm trying to post more but it appears to be only manifesting in my mind.  Much like I'm trying to lose 30 pounds. That's also manifesting in my mind (even though it shows on my ass) and so, there you have it.

Anyway.

I have an urge to complain-slash-explore-slash-panic about going to BlogHer and about all the shit I have to do before going to BlogHer but who really wants to hear all that, am I right?  The way I figure it, is, if you're going, you have the same shit to think about for your own self and if you're not going but want to go, the last thing you probably want to hear is some horse's ass bitching-slash-exploring-slash-panicking about it and if you're not going and you don't want to, then, well, you've probably already clicked out.

So let me just say these things: I have been shopping [for BlogHer] and I got a haircut [for BlogHer] and nothing has quite the pick-me-up effect as realizing that you 1) have to buy Giant Pants and 2) your new haircut is the shape of a bell.  I swear.  It's like newscaster hair. Only less cool.  I'm hoping it doesn't qualify as Midwestern Hair but I think it might be a close scrape.

*sigh*

I don't mind telling you that the week after BlogHer, I am going to my hometown (with my BIL and my dad) to get my dad's shit together to move here.  He settled on a house last week and now, we've got to go and get the stuff he needs to move in.  I am not looking forward to it, really.  A long trip with shit-loads of work involved.  A quick turn-around time. And another four days without my kids.  Which, on this end of it, with the day I've had so far, doesn't sound all that bad. I know enough, though, to know that two trips on two consecutive weeks is going to be hard. Ish. Maybe. Probably.

No, it will.  I know it will.

Speaking of my kids...

I just had the weirdest interaction at the library.  For this summer reading thingie, the kids have to do an activity each week and then bring in this sheet of paper to show the librarian (to collect a toxic-plastic prize).  One of the tasks for kids 2-4 was that they learn and tell a joke. 

It was TLNG's first time learning an ACTUAL joke to tell and we've been practicing that son-of-a-bitch for two weeks (since we missed going last week), so she was excited to go and tell her joke today.

And here was the interaction:

TLNG: 'I have a joke to tell you!'

Librarian: ??

TLNG: 'What kind of alley do I run from?'

[Note: It is supposed to be, 'What kind of alley do you run from?' but that use of the pronoun eludes her. She's 3.]

Librarian: 'What kind?'

TLNG: 'An Alley-GATOR!!'

Librarian: [straight-face. NO laugh. At all.] 'Okaaaay, then.'

WTF?

Seriously, Librarian? SERIOUSLY?  It was her first joke, for fuck's sake and I gotta tell you, she had some damn good comedic timing (for a 3 year old.) I mean, I KNOW it ain't Chris Rock but she's still a little young to be dropping N-words and F-bombs for her summer reading library jokes. 

Who knew there was such a tough crowd at the public library? Fucking A.

A much more receptive audience for her comedic skills. AKA: He laughs at EVERYTHING SHE DOES.

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Most of the time.

 
[Edited to add: THE JOKE!]

It's A Shame, Shame, Shame. It's A Damn, Damn, Shame.

I could make that shit into a song, you know?  I was looking back at the holes where the posts about my boy should be and whoa, it's a DAMNED SHAME. There is an EMPTY VOID looking back at me.  I fail at record keeping in all it's forms, obviously.

Anyway.

Wanna take a guess at how old my baby is now?

...

He's NINE MONTHS OLD. Nine.

(Can you hear the angels singing sweet, sweet music?)

(I can.)

At nine months old, we have officially exited the DREADED MONTHS of infancy, at least for me.  At nine months old, I think babies hit some weird peak of cuteness.  They are Adorable and still so...Innocent.  No ulterior motives, no real Knowing-Better when they are doing something naughty.  They look at you like you are the SUN RISING when you come into their rooms in the morning.  Plus, they start doing all kinds of cool things.  For me, this is when it starts to get good.

 

It's funny to me, because somewhere I have pictures of TLNG doing almost all of this same stuff.  When she was nine months old, the [bitter, horrendous screaming] colic/reflux hell was mostly over, so she was pretty sweet, too. 

It's so hard not to compare them.

I try not to.

He's generally a super-happy boy, with an incredible disposition.  Meaning, I can go almost anywhere and do almost anything.  Provided that he has enough 1) food and 2) sleep. (In that order.)

He says, 'mmmmmmm' anytime he's in the presence of food or drink or anyone eating or drinking.

You could die from the cute of that alone, trust me.

He's curious and once he figured out how to crawl [omfg, I'm so dead, yo] he was on that shit like it was his JOB.

I guess it is his job, though. So, GOOD WORK, KID.

He's also clapping and waving.

And smiling. A lot.

Oh. And he found the dog.

Just for kicks, here's a picture of my daughter at this age:

And the dog says:

'Oh, what the fuck. Here we go AGAIN.'

In case you're [still reading] interested in a comparison, here's my girl at nine months. Holy hell, it seems like yesterday.

In a way.

If yesterday was also forever ago.

Like Sands Through The Hourglass.

I hate getting mad at my kid The First Thing In The Morning or The Last Thing At Night.  It's not like I love getting angry at any other time during the day, but it seems especially heinous to get angry and/or deal with a red-faced, screaming three year old before my tea is even done steeping.  And, well, when my girl is going to bed...who wants to be mad then?  I don't want to be impatient, counting the seconds until I leave the room to go and finish what's waiting for me in the kitchen.  I want to send her to sleep with warmth. With love. And some measure of comfort.

***

Sometimes, the baby gets overtired and wired and has a hard time settling down to sleep.  And by hard time, I mean it takes more than the usual 2-3 minutes (literally, I KNOW) of bouncing on the yoga ball to put him out.  On those occasions, he doesn't fuss, he just wiggles, blows raspberries on my boobs, makes constant eye contact and busts into a huge-ass grin when I look back at him.  It's hard to be irritated at that, you know.  Even though the hard nights are still rarely, RARELY, more than ten minutes of bouncing and humming, I still feel restless, a little. Itchy for him to relax. Itchy to end my day.

***

These days, with my daughter, it seems that I am a Mostly-Full Cup of Irritation and it doesn't take but a little bit extra to have me brimming, threatening to overflow and make a giant mess all over the place.  There have been tantrums.  And hostility.  And tantrums.  And acting out.  And difficulty coping.  And...tantrums.  It's not totally clear to you which one of us I'm talking about right now, is it?  That's deliberate.  In my brain, my logical, intelligent, knowledgeable brain, I understand what she's going through, being three.  My brain understands the hard work of this difficult stage.  The pushing, pushing, [fucking nightmare] pushing against the boundaries has to happen.  The trying everything despite massive evidence that should dissuade, the freshness, the goofiness, the exploring emotions and options and alternatives--all of these are necessary. These are things that my brain knows.  But somehow, for some reason, my brain seems somewhat...detached from the process that usually begins with my daughter's ridiculous (and totally doomed) request and ends with me cleaning up the Irritation-Overflow Mess with a mop of my own regret.

***

When my son is wriggly and wiggly and can't get to sleep, I hold him extra tight.  I wrap him in my arms, like a human swaddle blanket, holding his head and chest snug against my body.  I hold him and bounce and hum 'Lullaby and Goodnight.'  He struggles at first and I hold, I contain.  I surround him, support him, make him snug.  When he strains against me, I hold extra firm.  And in about 35 seconds, his eyes close. And his muscles relax.  I feel the weight of him. The heft.  I hold his entire body in my arms. I bounce him for a minute or two more, looking at his sleeping form.  I realize that these days are numbered.  One day, he will be taller than I am.  He'll have whiskers and smelly shoes.  I look at him, quiet and peaceful, snuggled up against me and I ache for the day that he won't fit there anymore.  I try slow down and soak it in. 

***

When my girl goes to bed, she dismisses her father first and asks me to sit on the floor so we can 'Talk About Our Day.' I reach through the bars of her crib and stroke her hair or her soft, soft cheeks.  She sticks her arm through and we hold hands.  Lately, we talk a lot about the time outs or the times I felt angry during the day.  The things she did that set me off.  We talk about the other stuff, too.  The good stuff.  The fun stuff.  She wants me to stay a little longer.  I have to go and clean the kitchen, I tell her, when our time is up.  And when I close the door, in a hurry to get the rest of my work done, I think about how these days are numbered too.  The days of tantrums and irrational requests meant only to provoke and test, the days of three will give way to preschool at four and then movies in the theater with popcorn at nine, and then, before I know it, to driving her friends around at seventeen.

***

When I'm all the way done and the kids are both asleep, I think about them.  I miss them.  The idea of them has a spectacularly lush quality that can sometimes be lost in the day to day life that is caring for them.  But these days, one after the other, are gone.  Past.  So, I try to remember that.  I try not to be so itchy.  I try to empty my cup and do my best to slow down.  To relax against the snug restraints of this day to day life.