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.

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. :)

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.

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.

When You Turn Two...

Life is good....

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.