Monday, December 13, 2010

Thank You, Clinton and Stacy.

This past Friday night, I happened upon the latest episode of "What Not To Wear". I have been a loyal fan of this show for years, and I've considered nominating myself about a hundred times to be on the show. Who wouldn't want to get that $5000 Visa card? Who wouldn't want to spend three days shopping in NYC? Who wouldn't want their wardrobe to be ripped apart on national television by a tiny little brunette fashionista and her super sexy fabulous partner in crime?

This episode was about a 40-something glee club teacher who was nominated by her husband and her students. This woman had a passion for Broadway in her twenties and lived out her dreams on stage. After she got married, she had a daughter and fed her creative soul by teaching, helping young teenagers to themselves be performers. And in that time, she forgot herself. Her wardrobe was too lazy, too young, too blah. And in the middle of her transformation, something that she said to Stacy made me stop dead in my tracks. She didn't think she was beautiful.

You may be saying, well, that's no surprise. And it's not, really. We are surely our worst critics as women. We are experts in contrast and compare. Even alone in our bedrooms, looking in the mirror, there are dozens of women surrounding us, who are more beautiful, sexy, put together than we are. And sometimes, we just give up. Sometimes we concede, and we pull our dirty hair back in a ponytail, throw on our husband's tee shirts and some old workout pants (that haven't seen a good sweat in months or years), and we go out into the world, hoping to be invincible. And to most of everyone else, we do go completely unnoticed. Except for perhaps a few sets of eyes, and in my case, two very little, precious, impressionable sets of eyes look at me every day. And here's where the lesson is.

This woman, standing in front of a rack of clothes with Stacy and Clinton, had a lightbulb moment. She realized how important it is for her seven year old daughter to feel absolutely beautiful, even if there are times she might have flaws. She realized that her daughter will only learn how to express confidence in her beauty by her mother's example. And as I watched her, I looked at the sleeping baby in my arms and understood that it's not about the size of your nose, or the inches in your waistline, or the dimples and ripples in your skin. It's about what those girls see in me, and how they look at themselves as they get older. It's me doing what I need to do to re-engage my self-confidence, conquering the psychological roadblocks that keep me from my ultimate happiness and healthiness. And it's about being a life teacher to my girls.

In this life, you are lucky if you have the opportunity to be an example to someone. Not everyone looks at that responsibility with fervor or enthusiasm. But I do. I'm honored to be a mother, to teach my girls the ropes, and have the responsibility of giving them all the tools in my arsenal to help them navigate through all their personal trials and joys. I'll help them see how beautiful they both are in their own right, and hope that what they learn can be passed on to their kids.

Thank you, Stacy and Clinton. You helped me remember the legacy that awaits my girls starts with me.

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

No Crying Over Silly Things.

As any mother of a two year old, past or present, knows, there is a stage in our child's lives that could be likened to "the Apocalypse". In short, anything that does not go specifically and precisely the way that said two year old wishes and desires will inevitably result in a nuclear meltdown.

Take for example my dearest love Allison. Anatomically, she lives in the body of a four year old - and even as the only person in the house that grew her inside her own uterus for 40 weeks, I sometimes forget that she is just now reaching the two and one half year mark. That being said, she's incredible intelligent, and unmistakeably independent. In other words, she's stubborn as all get-out and making my life three hundred times more difficult than I'd like it. God forbid you attempt to pop onto the internet for a second to check the weather, or your bank account - she'll accuse you of destroying her day by interrupting time on PBSkids.org. And asking her to peel herself away from coloring to eat dinner with you is absolutely, and by all accounts cruel and unusual punishment. She breaks into crocodile tears as big as Texas. She throws herself down on the floor, and the lower lip literally curls out in a semi-permanent frown. At this stage of the game, it's up to one of us to divert her out of this life-altering moment and into something a bit more productive.

Usually it is her father, who has the uncanny ability to speak to her in a calm, even tone, attempting to reason with her. On the off occasion that it's me that has to diffuse the bomb, I'm much less patient. I simply tell her this - "We don't cry over silly things." Then I tell her what's going to happen next. For example, when she's got herself thrown on the floor, I tell her, "HEY - LOOK AT ME. There's no crying over silly things. You will get off the floor and you will come to the table and eat now. Or there will be no crayons and markers after you're done."

I try, the best way that I know how, to make it my mission to raise smart, obedient, respectful little girls who trust in what I say and do and look to me for guidance. The general idea is that this will evolve into a mission to raise strong, beautiful, independent young ladies who have great senses of humor about themselves and life in general. And at the end of the day, I pray that I'm doing all the right things now so that when my daughters are in the midst of their senior years of college, they aren't crying over silly things, kicking their legs and wailing like wounded animals because they've had a bad moment in their long lives.

I remember when I was younger, and it was clear in our family who was the heavy, and was the refuge. Needless to say, history has a funny way of repeating. I knew even before we got pregnant with Allison that it just wasn't in him to be the "bad cop". And I knew that in order to keep our position of authority here in this home, that job was going to have to land squarely on my shoulders. I tease Geoff still about how easily he bends, how quickly those big green-brown eyes and cute little smile just play him like a fiddle. And then I remember that I'm not exactly the one that she's going to come to flirt with. I've told her a thousand times, it's not going to work. One way or the other I've made it clear that I'm not here to bend. I'm here to teach. And I have a strong feeling that when it comes to it, much like I appreciate what I was taught, she'll appreciate it too. And maybe her daughters will not cry over silly things.

Friday, November 5, 2010

What The.... November?

An entire month or more has passed and I'm sitting here on a Friday night, when I should be sleeping, to reflect and review the reality of the situation I call my life as of late. Our dear little girl is now approaching her tenth week of life and I cannot, for the life of me, remember or recall what this life was without her in the summertime. It seems somehow incomplete, those memories without Evelyn. Because, now she's here, and quite certainly not going anywhere. And our hearts are even fuller than they once were. And it all feels good, and right, and finally settled.

It didn't always or instantly feel good, and right, and finally settled. Perhaps that's the real explanation for the blog-less-ness for the last few weeks. Like most women, I've had a bit of a time pulling myself back into a routine, a schedule, a feeling of normalcy, post pregnancy. It's been a lack of sleep, a lack of privacy, a lack of anything that makes a woman feel like a woman, that's contributed to the feeling. All mothers know this feeling, and if they say they don't know what you speak of when you say PPD, they are LYING. Let me summarize with a recent conversation I had with myself while staring in the mirror, during a rare moment of silence and personal reflection:

- What the hell? Since when did my boobs look like THIS? My claim to fame is now little more than a set of deflated bags. And why is my husband SO behind me on the plastic surgery idea? (the answer was consequently staring back at me in the mirror.)
- Holy mother. Could the dark circles under my eyes be ANY more black?
- I need to lose forty pounds in the next ten weeks. Definitely before the New Year. I can totally do that. I just have to walk my ass off every day.
- I'm so tired right now there's no way I'm walking ANYWHERE.
- God, I want chocolate. I wonder what's in Allison's trick or treat bag still.
- If I turn on the hair dryer, will she hear it and wake up? If I dry my hair while I hear her crying her little head off, does that make me a shallow excuse for a mother?
- Oh my God, I miss my family.
- I need a nap.

And then, I'd just look at these babies. And I think to myself.... How lucky am I?

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

Evelyn Grace, and the Circadian Rhythm Debacle.


It was two weeks ago today that our newest beautiful daughter, Evelyn Grace, arrived into our world. After a lightening quick eighteen minute surgery, we heard the sweetest sounds that would ever come from her - the first breathe of life, followed immediately by the protesting cries of a once perfectly warm happy baby being flailed into a cold, sterile, blindingly white surgical room. While Geoff claims this surgery wasn't as "exciting" as the first one, I knew that the excitement was just beginning and could not wait to get my arms around that little bundle of fury.

Within an hour she was with me, and I could barely contain myself. I could also barely feel my body coming back from the paralysis of local anesthesia running through my lower half. But that didn't matter. She was happy, sleeping, and slept for the rest of the late afternoon until, night fell. And Evelyn Grace awoke. And stayed awake until the morning. Diaper changes, middle of the night bathings, tests from the night shift nurses all disturbed any chance any of us had at a decent sleep. But I didn't care. I could have stared at her all night. I held her the same way I held her sister both nights in the hospital and she was happy to sleep in my arms. And then we went home.

There's something called the Circadian Rhythm. It's basically the idea that humans naturally know that the daytime is for being awake, and the night time is for sleeping. Most people fall into this naturally; some of us have jobs or situations that mess our rhythm up, but in the end, we are not nocturnal creatures. For the last two weeks I was under the distinct impression that I had birthed a bat, or maybe an owl. Evelyn Grace sleeps, alot, during the day, but her night routine was insane. Up every three hours, without fail, and even more frequently if she had wet through the diaper, through the jammies, through the blanket. Her Circadian Rhythm clearly was not going to re-set itself.

After yesterday's two week check up, I asked her pediatrician if he knew any magic tricks. As a father of two daughters himself, he smiled and offered his advice, to which I promptly clamped onto in my memory bank. After she awoke from a long afternoon nap, every light in the house came on, all the drapes were pulled away and light filled our home. She stayed awake for about two and a half hours and then.... The witching hour came promptly at seven o'clock last night, and I let her cry. I let her cry hard. Experience tells me that this hour is filled with inconsolable wailing, and imitating billy-goat like sounds. Instead of trying to rock her to calm her and potentially put her to sleep, I cleaned the kitchen up. I took a shower, I put lotion on my legs and even brushed my hair out. At eight o'clock, Allison went to bed, and Evelyn and I settled in for a bottle and some bad reality television. She made it through the three ounces and passed out. I saw my opportunity and pounced.

Evelyn Grace might not give a repeat performance of last night's sweetest of sleeps. Sleeping from 8:30 until 3:30 for a two week old is unheard of. And continuing that sleep until 7:30 after a bottle and a changing? No way. But she'll be waking up in a little bit from that long afternoon nap. And all the lights are coming on in this house, and I'll hedge my bets that I can at least try and get things on track for good. A quiet house is a great thing, but happy wakeful baby is even better. And all the lights in the house cannot compare to the light in her eyes when she is awake during the day. :)

Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Commitment to the Cause.

It's just after four a.m., and in about 16 hours we'll be celebrating another birthday. Here I sit, awake and alert, unwilling to put my head down on a pillow. I haven't experienced a full night's continuous sleep in about 34 weeks, and I don't expect to get another one for at least that much longer. But it occurred to me, in this waking hour, how many things we as women silently (or not so silently as of late) endure through the entirety of our pregnancies, all to show what my husband referred to once as "commitment to the cause".

1. Sleeplessness - and consequent haggard appearance. It's not easy to hold my laughter in when people tell me I'm "looking good!" at this stage in the game. I feel
like I'm ready to fall over at a moment's notice. I have come to the conclusion there's not an undereye concealer in this galaxy that will make me look anywhere near my 31 years. And the worst of it all is that this is merely a warm up round for the next few months.

2. Weight gain. Nope, no one's forcing me to eat the Taco Bell. And I realize that frozen yogurt is still sweet and delicious, even if it's not served 12 - 16 ounces at a time with Reeses Pieces adorning it. Today I will step on the scale for the last time for my final number, which my body has been telling me for weeks is probably about five pounds too many. Hips stacked on top of each other wake me up more times in the night than my bladder does. The arches of my feet cry and whine, begging me to stop trying to be a superhero and just sit down. And yet, I find myself ordering or preparing and consuming equal amounts of food to my husband. I should be so ashamed to have these confessions to the world. But take one look at me before tonight, and it's hard to deny.

3. Pain. Physical pain that is not caused by the aforementioned weight gain. Physical pain that starts in a location that was once renowned only for bringing happy feelings. The initial movements of sitting down, or standing up, or walking around causes incredible pain to shoot through my pelvic bones, out of my uterus, down my knees and into my feet. At my last doctor's appointment, the nurse practitioner who measured my belly had to reach so high into my ribs I thought she would tell me Eva's feet were resting in my throat, her head directly on my cervix, pushing it to complete effacement. The words, "you have a good sized baby in there" might as well have been never spoken, her eyes said it all. I explained that Geoff was about six-foot-four. She laughed and said, "you could've chosen a smaller sperm donor."

4. Heartburn. This has become a running joke in my life. Ask any of my friends or family what's not left my side for nine months. The family size container of extra strength Tums comes with me everywhere I go. It's in my purse, on my nightstand, in the kitchen. It's my frenemy. I hate chalky medication, but the evil became necessary almost as soon as I saw the plus sign on the stick. Everyone has their proverbial crosses to bear in this lifetime; in the grand scheme of things, acid reflux is incredibly low on the totem pole. But, is there a lesson to be learned from this kind of unmistakable discomfort? You might point out my eating habits, but rest assured, I pop Tums like candy every day regardless of what I eat. I can testify that water, yep, WATER, has been known to provoke heartburn. Running low on Tums is a death sentence. I have started thinking of a stylish holster for which pregnant women with a similar affliction can go about their day with no fear of being without their antacid. The old wive's tale is that heartburn is caused by hairy babies. My first born daughter is proof positive of this, at two years old the hair on her head is nearly to the middle of her still peach-fuzzy back. We'll see if the tale rings true tonight. I guess I could've chosen a less hairy sperm donor as well.

5. Emotional instability. Of all the things that have changed in the last few months, I would say this is the one that is impossible to keep to myself. I can say with confidence that the second time around I have at least been able to recognize when I'm about to have a breakdown, and as GI Joe says, "knowing is half the battle." I know that country music gets its bread and butter from pulling at heartstrings, so I've been resorting to hip hop and classic rock for a long period of time. I know that any movie based on a Nicholas Sparks novel is kryptonite. I know that people on the road are not gunning for me specifically, especially when they ignore the yield sign as I'm getting on the freeway each morning and nearly hit me in their effort to "merge" into the onramp. And as much as I love him, I think I know that my husband's not really just sitting there, waiting for the right feeling to come over him, to get up off the couch with something that I shouldn't even be doing in the first place. I think I know that. Yeah.

Commitment to the cause. :)

Sunday, August 22, 2010

Baseboards and Ceiling Fans: A Commentary On Nesting.

Within the short period of time in my life that I've found myself preparing for the arrival of children, I've consistently been compelled to take on large home projects, or cleaning duties. My first time around the bend, I believe that my nesting lasted into the first eight months of Allison's life, when all of a sudden I declared war on my kitchen cabinets AND her nursery a mere couple of weeks before her christening. I'm feeling somehow a bit different this time around though. Be it the heat, or keeping up with a two year old already, or the fact that I'm working literally up until four days before surgery, the will is strong, but the body is weakening.

Eva is scheduled to be here in nine days. Which means we'll be bringing her back to the house in about eleven days. My window of cleaning opportunity is very, very limited. I thought about actually staying home from work instead of going this week, in order to make sure that every nook and cranny was properly Lysol'd, dusted, polished and shining. But I'm staring down the barrel of the reality that will be an official full house, and my body's lack of physical will is actually dominating over my mental anxiety about dust and disorganization.

And so, this weekend, I am rallying the troops. And by troops, I mean my husband and a 2 year old.

I hear stories all the time about women who've steam cleaned their carpets, gotten on ladders (alone of course, not to be seen) to clean ceiling fans, hand washing their cars inside and out, two days before giving birth. It seems that most of us would rather house keep our way into labor than any other way. Walking, you say? No. Sex? Are you joking?? Please hand me my Swiffer and my toilet bowl brush, and my water will break in twenty minutes. Maybe it's only a subconscious ploy at inducing labor, or the Big Man's divine design that creeps its way into our heads at the most physically inopportune time that provokes this nonsensical passion for Pine Sol and on-your-knees scrubbing. In the argument of "Is God Man or Woman?", it'd be easy to convince anyone that He rules. No woman would knowingly place this brain lock on another woman. If She were sitting at the head of the table, She'd have made it something that a pregnant woman's partner would have eating at THEM for nine plus months. We carry the fetus, you re-organize what's hiding under the bed.

I wonder why we as women care so much. Is it really important that the grout is bleached white on the kitchen counter? No, probably not. But perhaps it's the idea that we think, or feel that the opportunity to do these incredible cleaning tasks are going to be all but completely diminished once our baby is here. We may never see the mop come out again. Who would have time to run the vacuum when there's hardly time to brush your teeth? Horror stories of going days on end without a shower or a wink of sleep permeate an expectant mother's brain, be she a first timer, or a multi-birth veteran. Then we get home. And we learn that a baby will fit perfectly in a papoose across your chest, and sleep soundly through the running of the vacuum, folding of laundry. There is time somewhere between sanitizing bottles and watching Tinker Bell with your older daughter to grab a quick shower, or go to the bathroom alone. But, hey, at least you don't have to stare at those baseboards, or wonder about all that dust on the ceiling fans anymore.

I digress.

Lists are made, plans of action are formed and as Ms. O'Hara might have said under other circumstances, "as God as my witness, I will never be defeated by a water spot again!" Here is hoping that Eva will appreciate all the last minute hard work that's about to ensue today, tomorrow and for the next eight days. I know that when I'm awake for mid-night feedings, the last place I'll be compelled to look is where the wall meets the carpet. As pretty as a clean house can be, it'll never be as pretty as when a baby comes home to live in it.

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

The Big Girl Bed.

After Allison turned two, we realized quickly that she was not long for staying in the crib. At a meager thirty-eight inches long (that's three foot, two inches people, and they don't even HAVE a percentile for her at this point), the crib mattress seemed to shrink around her legs and torso. On top of this blessed physical anomaly, it also became increasingly painful to lift her up and over the rails every morning, naptime, and night. Thirdly, we were being beckoned awake each morning, long before necessary or desired, with her reaching down and flinging her door open, calling out to us - "Moooooommy.... Daaaaaaaaddy". We conceded and purchased the first big girl bed.

It arrived on a Saturday. Our trial run was Sunday, naptime. She eagerly jumped onto the massive full sized mattress, laid her head down on the pillow, and rolled into position. I had no idea how she was going to react to this change. I waited patiently for her to get out, preparing myself for what would surely be a long, drawn out afternoon of walking to and from the bed, negotiations, and pleading. I waited. I picked up things around the house, put away toys and shoes and dusted a little bit. An hour went by, then two. In the third hour I realized that we might have very well given the entire house an amazing gift. The gift of sleep. She woke, finally, after over three hours peaceful napping; she was happy, talkative, walking around laughing. I tried not to look a gift horse in the mouth, because I knew that naptime had nothing on what night-time sleep could bring. I was grateful for the experience, and wiped the expectation slate clean.

Nighttime started out much in the same manner. She didn't peer out of her room for the first three nights. On night four, however, she realized what a fun game it would be to see how long she would go unnoticed by us, playing on the tile near the fireplace in the dining room. Her dead give away? Cowgirl Jessie's feet tap, tapping on the ceramic flooring. The pull of the string on her back: "Ride like the wind! Let's yodel! Yow-dah-ly-eeee-whooooo!" that was inevitably followed by two year old giggles. Hide and go seek is clearly a new idea to her. In a matter of thirty minutes, we took turns putting her to bed a total of eight times. Finally, empty threats to keep Jessie to myself the next time she got out of bed did the trick. And she slept - hard.

Waking up is a lot more fun, and a lot more early, than it's ever been. Long before my dear slumbering husband's comatose-like state is interrupted, I hear the shift, shift of monkey pajamas walking down the short hallway to our bedroom. I don't open my eyes, but pause for the greeting. "Hey Mommy. Hey, Mommy, get up. Time to wake up Mommy. Mommy, where's the 'mote?" By this time, I've sent her to her father's side of the room to retrieve the remote control. He's mastered the ability to, with near blindness not wearing his glasses, push buttons 2 and 8, then waiting for Disney channel to provoke her to climb in bed with us to watch Imagination Movers, or Special Agent Oso, or Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, depending on what time of morning she decides to come in.

If it's especially early, and she's really not that awake yet either, I'll get up and we'll zombie-walk our way back to her bed. And some asked me why I went with a full sized mattress.... If they only knew how wonderful it is to lay next to this long-legged beautiful girl while she falls back asleep. To literally have her reach around my neck with both arms and hold onto me. To be face to face, close enough to read eachother's minds, smiling without saying a thing... a brilliant reminder that, even though she's not getting any smaller, for at least a little while longer, she'll want me to be around.

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

M&M&M's.

Our daughter's newest and likeliest obsession is peanut M&M's. I have NO idea where this came from. Each morning for the last week we have woken up, had a little chat, changed a diaper and walked to the living room, where the subject inevitably comes to light.

"Mommy, Eh-muh-ne-muh-ne-mahs." Being what feels like 48 weeks pregnant I should have an ample supply of these in the house, but I somehow have resisted stopping in the candy aisle of Vons for several weeks now. I tell that sad, sorry little disappointed girl that M&M's are not for breakfast, contrary to any tantrums (or, probably just a sweet little girl being nothing more than adorable) her dad might have caved into at the car wash the previous weekend. As that is never an acceptable answer, she goes to the other adult in the house and pleads her argument once again, hoping that he'll be at least conscious and able to understand her run-on sentence that can only be translated once she hits the word - Eh-muh-ne-muh-ne-muh. She's learned since her introduction to them that you really cannot hoard them away in your hand - the rule would ring true when her fist would unclench and have a blue-orange melt mark staring at her. Since then, she's mastered the art of popping two or even three in her cheeks to store and melt away until she's got room to chew. All the pleas in my arsenal cannot stop her from chipmunking multiple peanut M&M's. We've been taught to ration.

There's something that you have to understand. These are a staple in my parent's household. It's inevitable that if you go into the refrigerator in the bar to pull out a bottle of water, a soda, a beer, your hand will dump itself into the Costco-sized bag of peanut M&M's and grab enough to sustain you through that drink. There are also concessions for whether you're feelin' lucky, punk, because only the wiliest of sneaky people can get away with bringing those magical little pods within a thirty foot radius of a set of toddler's eyes. And most of the time there are at least four sets of eyes on "what is in your hand?" watch at their house. Grandchildren abound, those candies turn the average Joe into Santa Clause, the Easter Bunny and the favorite aunt in one fell swoop. It's like crack for two year olds and let's face it, pregnant thirty somethings as well. As the resident bad influence in the family, I am usually more than happy to oblige all four sets of blue eyes, and the one special set of hazel ones, with a few left over for myself.

My family will be coming to town here in about a week and a half. And if you think the XL Bag of these daddies aren't making their way into the house you're just wasting your time believing I'm a good, decent, health conscious person. The door to Willy Wonka's world got cracked open a while ago, and it'd be blasphemous NOT to have them here when my dad walked through the door. Let's just hope we can talk Allison out of making them her breakfast cereal.

Monday, July 5, 2010

Getting By.

In the last few weeks I've grown accustomed to getting through my day on a limited amount of sleep. Tonight's attempt rendered a solid two hours before waking up to achy, numb arms AND legs. Walking around the house helps, but as soon as I lay down to try and join the rest of the troops in slumber, the feeling - or lack thereof - shows up again. I do not recall this happening as frequently being pregnant the first time around. I remember waking up around three every morning and not being able to fall back asleep, which also happens a lot now a days. But that was from a racing mind, or a bladder that needed to empty itself three times. This is something new. And I'm going to go ahead and factor in age, the heat, my two plus hour cleaning spree today, and tending to and playing with a two year old all day.

I'm pretty sure I can also blame the fact that I slept entirely too well on Friday and Saturday night, and so, to make sure my mood is thoroughly grumpy tomorrow, well.... Three o'clock and all is well.

Eva is a particularly bouncy little womb-dweller these days. She seems to have no regard for time of day, and when the mood strikes her, she does what can only be compared to a break-dance hip hop Bollywood routine in utero. In about eighteen years I anticipate she'll be on the latest version of So You Think You Can Dance. I would like to think her rolling and kicking is an affirmation of love and adoration from my little girl to her mommy, and that somehow, even when I'm quietly thinking of her, she can feel my thoughts, and in her own way is giving me a love nudge. I just wish that her movements didn't sometimes have to result in settling herself on the nerves that control the feeling in my limbs.

I think that for the most part, in this very moment of sleeplessness, it's safe to say I'm reconsidering the idea of going through this once more. Had I remembered the discomfort and fatigue of the third trimester from the first time around better, Eva might not even have been a thought on my mind. I'll say right now that I know she's worth every waking moment I'm going through, and I know I'll live to see another day. Just imagining the first time being able to see her is enough to make my night fly by with relative ease. So I'll get by tonight, and hopefully my little family will be able to get by with me tomorrow. :)

Thursday, July 1, 2010

Put That One In The Books

It's July. Thank God. I think I'm going to find it hard to look back on this last month with any sort of fondness at all. When there's a two year old in the house who can't seem to sleep, eat, or be happy, time stands still during the day, and runs out too quickly in the night. You calculate when the last dose of Tylenol was, and see if she'll be able to handle a bit more than usual cough medication, to get her a much needed long sleep. You wake up three times a night to a sobbing, weak voice calling for you to hold her, and the need to tend to your self, your sleep, your bladder, your illness, ceases. You go to work every day, riddled with guilt, pumped full of daytime medication, hoping you can make it through with enough energy for the go-round that awaits you at home. You pray to just be able to give her water without it coming back up, leaving her for even a moment becomes physically and emotionally impossible. You pick her tired limp body up and carry her to the bathroom, and sit in front of the toilet bowl, waiting for her body to lunge. Waiting for her pleading cries to make it stop. Waiting for your heart to break for her all over again.

Thank you July, for showing up right when you did. We promise to try and enjoy the rest of the summer as much as we can. We'll play in the water table, and pick vegetables from our garden when the sun goes down. We'll take early morning walks before it gets too hot on the weekends, and go look at pretty shiny classic cars on Saturdays, because for her, the cartoon ones are nothing compared to the real deal. We'll play in the sprinklers and eat ice cream and popsicles and watch Daddy barbecue hamburgers and hot dogs for dinner. And we'll sleep. We'll put Sleeping Beauty to shame.

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

She's a Trooper.


When the conversation of Allison would come up at work, the question of day care would always be brought into play. I had no idea what other moms really meant when they said how "lucky" I was to not have to put Allison in daycare. I figured they were only speaking about the financial or emotional burden it placed on them, paying a stranger to feed, change and care for their children. No. It was not only that at all. It was the fact that we had unknowingly avoided the hazing ritual that is... childhood colds. Only one week after Allison's first part-time stint at her school did she come down with a doozy of a fever/sore throat combo that took her over to the degree where we hardly recognized her. Listless, sleepless, without an appetite for food or even water. And yet, in the moments in between, there were glimpses of sunshine in her smile. One week later, she woke from a twelve hour slumber and never looked back. Relief. I'm hoping the next cold, which I'm guessing will be in only a matter of weeks or less, will be less devastating to her.

Thursday, June 3, 2010

Thursday, May 27, 2010

Monsties, and Tars.

Yes, you heard it right. It's the first thing she asks for every morning. If the television set is not on and if Cars or Monsters is not running when she gets into the living room, it's a mad dash hunt for the remote ("'mote") and persistent repeated begging for her show. Do we watch it? Of course we do.

There's a much heated debate in the world of mothers about toddlers and television. As a new first time mom, I was adamant that my child's world would be filled every day with activities and fun play time that did not include the giant flat screen blaring. It will rot her brain! It will turn her into a zombie! A mute! An anti-social child! She'll get ADD! I stood by this credo for several months, until....

The first morning I put Sesame Street on the television. It was like taking the apple from the Tree Of Knowledge. It was forbidden fruit, but so tempting, I thought, "we'll only watch this for a little while." I think Allison was about nine months old. And she saw Elmo. She was infatuated with this red, furry, laughing, dancing little creature. She was intrigued with every word coming out of his puppet mouth. As time went by, she began laughing at things that were funny. She started mimicking dance moves and swaying to the beat. Her motor skills were improving. If other kids were around her, she'd share and play wouldn't scream with worry and possessiveness if she didn't get her toy back right away. And I didn't feel so badly that she was enjoying her time and soaking up all the things that Elmo, Big Bird, Bert and Ernie were saying.

Soon after followed Baby Einstein, Little Einstein, Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, Handy Manny, and Special Agent Oso. It was an unstoppable force. As adults we find ourselves singing the theme songs, dancing along as we brushed our teeth in the morning, or brewing the coffee, or reading the paper. And Allison is learning. She's not just mimicking. She's taking it all in and running with it.

Allison doesn't watch television all day, every day. She'd rather be outside playing in the yard, watering plants or in her playhouse. She comes with me to run errands every day we have together. When we're together, she points out planes, cars, buses, dogs, birds, bicycles. She counts items in the shopping basket. We practice our ABC's and our 123's. She knows colors and shapes. Her brain is a sponge, and somewhere along the line she's soaked up all this information, and now she's able to use it and be proud to contribute to the conversation effectively.

I'm not sure if letting her watch television is the reason that she knows all these things or not. When we were growing up, the morning cartoons consisted of a rabbit being chased by a coyote or an old grumpy miner, both of whom were trying to kill the rabbit. And we watched. We watched a lot. And we grew up (mostly) just fine. Now the children's shows are all about helping eachother and learning about what's in a neighborhood, what classical music and art is, and how to say hello and good bye in different languages. I don't think it's harmful to allow kids to sit and soak all that up.

So, when she wakes up and stands in front of the television and says "Tahhhhrs?" I know that she's asking for more than just to be able to tune out. She's asking for music to dance to, for an exciting moment, for me to sit with her during the parts she's not so sure about. And I do. Because I could use a little fun too. :)

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

Not In A Million Years.

Pregnancy dreams. Are. The. Worst.

Last night, I slept through one of the most mind-boggling dreams I think I might have ever endured. Usually when they get too emotional to bear, I wake up, either crying or startled or both, and either get up and walk around the house or find a way, somehow, to fall back asleep. But the only thing that woke me up at 5:45 this morning was the peering light coming through the crack between the window ledge and the blackout drapes.

At first I blamed too much chocolate before bed as the culprit for such emotionally charged dreams. But as the pregnancy wares on, I realize it's much less to do with what my mouth is consuming, as what my brain is consuming and digesting every day. What's on television; what I read; what I sit and think about when I'm alone, or at work while I should be working. This information and these thoughts manifest themselves in my psyche, and all these extra female hormones rear their ugly heads in my dreams. They practically never, ever have anything to do with what's really happening in my life at the time.

I woke up this morning facing my husband's broad shoulders staring back at me. I shot up like a dart to see what the time was, thinking we'd once again slept through several snooze buttons. But, no, the alarm hadn't even gone off yet. And there I was, just twenty minutes from the sound of the same obnoxious radio station that he needs to jolt him out of bed each day, unable and unwilling to close my eyes again. I lay there, staring at his broad shoulders, the back of his head, his right ear. Telling myself, he'd never, ever do that. In a million years it'd never happen. That's not him. That's. Not. Him. When he finally turned over to face me - after what felt like thirty minutes but was really probably two - he didn't even bother to open his eyes before I started telling him.

"I had a bad dream; a really bad one."

"What happened this time?"

"I was pregnant, and you went to dinner with someone but you wouldn't say who; you ended up leaving me for her. You broke up with me at my parents house, in their backyard. You were so calm, and I was so heartbroken, and I didn't understand how it could be that easy. I threw a rod iron chair at you and it landed in the pool."

He smiled at the thought of my physical retaliation. "That would never happen. Not in a million years." And the strong arms that are connected to the broad shoulders on his back reached around me, held me, for the rest of the quietness that we had this morning.

Tomorrow we'll be married for four years. It took him a little while to learn me, and what I needed to hear to feel better about what my mind puts me through from time to time. But I know that I'm lucky to have a man in my life who cares enough to make sure that my bad dreams - or as I refer to it, my crazy pregnancy woman brain - stay in check. He'd never do anything to make me feel like I'm less than what he needs or wants. He's the man that men want to be friends with, that women want to have children with, and sleep next to at night, every night for the rest of their lives. And I'm the woman who's been with him for nearly six years now. From almost the first date, we've been attached, and I've never felt more at home or more myself than when I'm with him. He's made me a mother, a wife, and has given me the very good feeling of having both feet firmly on the ground, even when my head is in the clouds.

A good man makes a good woman want to be better. Not for him. For her. And that's what he does for me. I strive because he sees that I can and believes in me. I stand behind my conviction even when I have to choose my battles, and he's the only man I've ever had in my life that I know won't turn away from me when I can't contain my frustration. He'd rather see it the same day, than watch it come out after a year's worth of pain reaches the pinnacle, and becomes an uncontrollable mass.

I love him, because I know nothing like that would happen in a million years. And I believe him when he says it, even though he doesn't have to say it at all. And it makes it easier to fall asleep the next night, knowing that when I wake up there will be a set of broad shoulders always laying next to me, with strong arms to hold me, for the rest of our lives.

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

Beebee Eh-buh.

We're in the depths of week twenty-two of my second pregnancy. Last week we announced that Miss Eva Grace will be arriving in the beginning of September this year, and we couldn't be happier. Judging by her recent lively activity in utero, she really couldn't be happier either.




Allison doesn't really understand much of what's happening right now. I tell her, "Baby Eva will be here soon" and a blank look is the only response I get. What can you expect from someone who themselves hasn't even been on the planet for a full 24 months? So I say, "Alli, can you say 'Baby Eva'?" and the sweetest voice mutters out "Beebee Eh-buh".

This weekend only proved to me what a great big sister Eva will have on her hands, and what a great little helper for us. We visited my cousin, who's six-month old daughter thought Allison was a very appropriate teething ring for a good part of the visit. Instead of running in the other direction, Allison sidled up and positioned herself in just the appropriate place for Sarah to bend down and drool all over her hair and forehead. Instead of waiting for it all to be over, Allison laughed the entire time, going back for more. When Sarah fell over and bumped her head, Allison made a beeline for diapers, a paci, stuffed animals, anything that would help soothe the crying little baby. Needless to say, I left with a relieved heart. I knew there wasn't much room in Allison for being possessive or jealous. I didn't know that there was so much room for love and helpfulness.

It makes you wonder how Eva will be as a big sister. But that's a blog for another day, much further down the line I suppose.

Monday, May 3, 2010

Okay, Someone Tell Me Where The Time Went.

It's May. Yep, May, and as a dear old friend reminded me this weekend, I haven't been here to post anything in about three months. Highly unlike me, but for good reason I suppose. Everyone's heard the phrase, "if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all." I've had a LOT to say in the last three months, but posting it into the blogosphere might not have been the most appropriate thing to do.

Being honest is like being a professional waxer. You have to calmly and clearly prepare your victim for what they're about to endure, and in one fell swoop, rip, pull and remove the bullshit from their lives. It's a dirty painful service, and whether or not we believe it, it's a necessary evil. Everyone can see when you have, or have not, seen a waxer. Just like people can smell the bullshit from a hundred yards away.

It's interesting to me how people feel so safe at times behind their keyboards. Posting mean things, saying how they "really feel", taking off the kid gloves and going for the jugular. The double-edged sword of the internet.... It makes you wonder what our children will do, what they'll say, when they're faced with situations they feel passionately about. Being broken-hearted, feeling betrayed, or lied to; wanting to lash out without actually seeing the other person's face. It's the biggest passive-aggressive movement that there seems to be. It's cruelty without consequences, it's like kicking a blind man. What ever happened to the back to basics phone call? Or conversation over coffee? The victim and the accused eye-to-eye, working things out as two human beings and not two robots. I think there's something distinctly, well, human about that. We don't all have to be friends, and we all aren't going to like eachother. But there should at least be a call for attempting a respectful conversation, not over some cable communication.

I was raised by two loving, wonderful parents. These two people gave me the most mixed messages about communication I could possibly receive growing up. I couldn't decide how I was supposed to not rock the boat, so to speak, while still getting my voice heard and my point across. As I've gotten older, I've come to the conclusion that it's nearly impossible - yes, mentally, spiritually, even physically impossible to hold my tongue. It's mostly when I'm being lied to, or when I hear something come out of someone's mouth that is so preposterous I can barely hold my breath in. Cutting words, back-handed compliments, and sarcastic delivery isn't heard at all as well as a straight-forward, non-elevated "you're full of shit", "you are acting crazy", or "what in the world is your problem?", and waiting for the response. I believe it's the reason that my marriage and any relationship worthwhile having will likely last for the rest of my life. I'd rather people know they can get the cold hard truth from me, like it or not, than to have an ample supply of smoke blown up their asses.

One would at this juncture, point out that I, myself, have been holding my tongue, doing what I've called physically impossible, for a few months now. How can I possibly stand up on my feet and walk around? I think that there's also something to be said for waiting for the opportunity to present itself. It's clearly one thing to blast your honest, uncensored opinion to whoever you feel needs to hear it. It's quite another to wait until the moment arises when it'll make the most impact, and sear itself into the brain of whoever you're pointing your position to. Because we don't always remember what is being said to us as much as we can recall where we were, how it felt to hear it in the moment it was being said, and knowing that there was no where to run and hide away from the truth.

Let the waxing commence.

Sunday, February 14, 2010

Plain. Simple. Beautiful Girl.



And that's a real smile, people. She really is that happy about 95% of the time.

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

A New Thing, That Is An Old Thing.

When Allison was first born, most of her naps were spent laying on me. For the first six weeks of her life, she did not settle down anywhere but in my arms, or safe in the baby sling around my body. It seemed as though she would never grow out of it, and I didn't know what to do but hold her. I told my mother about my predicament and all she could say was, "you'll spoil that baby"; and all I could say was, "nothing wrong with spoiling her with love."

After that point however, she happily was able to sleep nearly all day, and all the time, in her bassinet, then in her crib. Up until her eighteen months, she was taking two very long naps a day and sleeping about twelve hours in the night. Until.... she reverted. I find myself being beckoned exactly one hour after her only nap begins, and the only remedy to a nearly hysterical little girl is being laid on my chest, legs sprawled out over mine, just to fall asleep for another two hours. I am immobilized for the afternoon, and I love it.

I realize that I may never have this opportunity to be this close to her again in my life. Before I know it she'll be doing everything she can to get away from me. So, I'll take as much of this as I can get my hands on.

Friday, January 22, 2010

On the Chopping Block...

It's 4:17 in the morning and I've been up for an hour. The vivid dreams I'm having wake me up in the middle of the night and send my mind racing. Mostly about Allison. Mostly about all the things I could've done so much better with her already. I grind myself into the ground with each and every moment I've failed. There probably aren't even as many as I've conjured up in my head. But, this early in the morning, it's impossible to go back to sleep when you put yourself on the parenting chopping block.

I think of every time I begged the big man upstairs to forgive me for losing my cool, for stepping away, for not listening to my instincts, for not paying attention. I think of how my every action, my every inaction, impacts her history and her future. I wake up, think I just have to use the bathroom, and trying to fall back asleep is impossible. So I walk into her room, pick her up, and rock her. I put my head next to hers, and I silently tell her that I'm sorry for that spill off the couch when she was so tiny I didn't think she could roll over yet. For the moment that my frustrated cry out loud scared her. For every time her independent spirit conflicted with my hand keeping her arm; for a squeezed arm is far better than a breakaway into the street, or down a stairwell, or out a doorway.

A woman can and will drive herself crazy re-thinking every step she ever took in her life. And I don't know of anything that brings that about more than pregnancy. You want to do it different, do it better, do it right the first time. But like anything else in life, you don't really understand what the right way is until you sometimes do it wrong. It certainly doesn't help that at this point of my newest journey I'm experiencing those seat-of-your-pants emotions that make my guilt and worry feel like a ten pound lead weight in my gut.

So I make promises I hope I can keep - to do it right, better, different this second time around. Because the last thing I want is for the big guy upstairs thinking I'm not ready for this second chance to start again. I feel a little bit better knowing that tomorrow, my first chance will wake up just the way she always does - smiling and happy and ready to start the day. I'm sure I'll revisit the chopping block again a hundred, thousand times before my life is through. But the day is almost here. And I'm going to be ready for the new chance it's going to bring me.

Saturday, January 2, 2010

Please :)


We, quite possibly, have won a battle of the wills this evening. It all began on the way home from California the Sunday after Thanksgiving, when we discovered in the car that Allison could say "please". Of course it sounded much more like "peeeeeahs", but her repeating me in such a sweet way made my heart melt. We have a polite child! She will say "peeeeahs" and "thex" (<--thanks, obviously) and she will curtsy and get up for little old ladies who are waiting for their tables at restaurants and be a shining example for her peers and....

Then the battle began. Clearly I overstepped her boundaries at some point, or did not follow the rules. Rule #1 about Polite Club is, you do not ask to be apart of Polite Club. So when our dearest lovely girl would point to something and say "I tyyyyyy dit" (I Try It, OBVIOUSLY), and we would respond with, "can you say please?" and she would rightfully respond with a throw-yourself-to-the-floor fit. It was like we were asking her for those teeth she just grew in her head. This went on for a month, until tonight.

Tonight, a light bulb went on for her. As I sat on the couch, watching her play, she decided it was time to play with her letters puzzle. She brought the box of letters to me and said, ever so sweetly, "peeeeahs". To which I promptly obliged her, praised her, and nearly cried when she followed up the performance with a quick "thex". After she tired of her puzzle, she climbed onto my shins - which any mom knows is a built in ride for an 18 month old - looked up to me with those big beautiful eyes and again said "peeeahs". I proceeded to ware my legs into limp noodles, lifting nearly 30 pounds up and down, up and down, just to get her to squeal and laugh, until my knees told me it was high time to get back to my walking routine.

I know that tomorrow, there's a real chance that she'll revert back to throwing those ever-so-special tantrums at the mere mention of saying that magical word. But tonight made me realize, that the real magic in that word lies in a person's willingness to say it on their own. So I'll stop asking her to say please and thank you. She knows what they are, and one day she'll know just how much they really mean to people.