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. :)

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.

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.

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.

Plain. Simple. Beautiful Girl.

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

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.

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.