Dada Mama

Movin' On Up

2005-09-30T12:46:00.000-04:00

Sorry for the lack of updates. I'm in the process of getting a new version of this site up here. So wander on over and check it out!

Photo albums are password protected. Email me if you want to look at them. If I know you, no problem. If I don't, you'd better have a good reason for wanting to view them.

Happy Anniversary To Us!!

2005-09-28T14:35:00.000-04:00

It's been three years--here's to at least fifty more. (Isn't he gorgeous?)

Dear Anonymous (Hi Luke!)

2005-09-26T13:01:00.000-04:00

Since you asked, here is how we make poop at our house:

1. Eat
2. Wait.
3. Head for the bathroom, and bring a magazine (this could take a while).
4. Do your business.
5. Flush.
6. If you're Gus, celebrate and flush again. Say, "Bye, poop!" and wave.

It's a simple, no-frills recipe, but it works for us.

Two Going on Thirteen

2005-09-20T13:31:00.000-04:00

Today is one of those days when I am sure that Gus is going to turn out to be a juvenile delinquent. Everything today has been a struggle, from what he will eat for lunch to whether or not he will be quiet for three minutes while I watch the headlines on the Today Show.

Me: Gus, please be quiet, I just want to hear the headlines. Three minutes.

Gus: No. I'm talking. [insert unintelligible singing noises, screeches, babbling, etc.]

Me: If you can't be quiet, you need to leave the room. This will be over in two minutes.

Gus: I'm talking. [more unintelligible noise, echoed by Will who now thinks his big brother is trying to communicate with him]

Me: [sigh] (the noise magically stops when I flip the channel back to PBSKids, where DragonTales is on in all it's inane glory.)

Somewhere along the line, between his first birthday and now, Gus has found all my hot buttons--and knows just when to jam his thumb. To date, I have not found a consistent, effective form of discipline. We've tried time-out (in his room and in a corner), we've tried depriving him of treats (bad attitude=no trips to the park, or whatever), we've tried explaining things, we've tried raising our voices sternly--I've even taken a swat or two at the boy (yesterday he pushed me away from him and said "get away from me!" when I put him in the time-out chair, so I slapped his hand. Without thinking, I said at the same moment, "Don't hit!" Well played, Mommy.).

But it's as if he doesn't care. He is so headstrong, so willful and articulate--and he's apparently decided that he's in charge. Time out? Bring it on, oh parents of mine! Go ahead, take the toy I'm throwing, there are plenty more!

When given a choice between helping to clean up a mess or losing a toy, he will (nine times out of ten) choose to give up the toy. Time-outs are a battle of wills--it's me vs. him, how badly I want to hold him in place vs. how long he feels like dangling limp from my hands (dangling is one of Gus's best moves, absolutely guaranteed to make parents insane).

The boy can send me into a blind rage in a matter of seconds. My mother-in-law suggested I ignore some of his behaviour, which I would be happy to do. Except that the things he's most often in trouble for are pulling the cat's tail or the dog's eyelids. Or for knocking over glasses of water onto the floor or flinging his snack from one end of the room to the other.

And Lord, he is smart. Gus knows when I am indisposed (nursing Will or laying him down for a nap), and chooses to act out at those times. He talks back. When told to go to time-out, Gus's response is generally "no" followed by a "you go to time-out." I know that testing boundaries is something children do, but never in my life did I imagine that a two-year-old would look me in the face and dare me to make him [insert whatever it is I'm trying to get accomplished].

A book I read recently said that a strong-willed child will only respect a person who is up to taking him on. When the gauntlet is thrown, it's up to the parent to regain control and make the child understand who's in charge. That's a wonderful thing to strive for, I think, except that I don't want my child to be afraid of me, nor do I want him to obey me without question in every detail. Yes, I want him to stay out of the street and away from electrical outlets, but does it really matter if he wears the socks I pick out? Does it matter if the sandwich he eats for lunch is ham-and-cheese or peanut-butter-and-jelly?

And I don't mean that I am not up to the challenge of fighting--I'd just like to keep the struggle to a minimum because Christ, it's exhausting. Sometimes when it's all over, I can't help but think that I'm the one causing most of the problems in the first place. If I was more patient, if I was more creative in my solutions, if conflict didn't stress me out so damn much--if this mothering thing wasn't so f---ing important.

Because that's what this is really all about. At the end of the day, I want my son to be happy, well-fed, and one step closer to becoming the man I hope he will someday be. I'd rather teach him to work with the qualities and characteristics he was born with than spend this time trying to change him.

Gallery of Regrettable "Fashion"

2005-09-19T12:55:00.000-04:00

Boy, I bet she's glad she decided to go without the pasties after all, huh?

What is up with Hobbit Boy's hair? Is it blonde? Is it brown? Is he going for some kind of light-to-dark gradient effect into his facial hair? And Maggie, girl, that pile on your head looks like, well, a pile. If you know what I mean.

Get this girl some fried chicken, STAT.

Patricia, Patricia. You know I love you as the classy, intelligent, witty crime solver on Medium, right? But this Old West Saloon Girl thing--NOT A GOOD IDEA. I'm embarrassed for you.

And you, Tess, I don't know who you are. But please, let's leave the bedsheets at home next time. It would have been better to simply leave your house in the nude.

The View From My Back Porch (We Do Everything Naked Around Here)

2005-09-17T13:23:00.000-04:00

Gus

2005-09-14T13:13:00.000-04:00

Will

2005-09-14T13:11:00.000-04:00

Purgatory

2005-09-11T21:02:00.000-04:00

The other day, Dashing Husband and I had the following conversation:

DH: We need to finish the laundry this weekend.

Me: Finish?

DH: Yes, you know, fold it, put it away ...

Me: By finished, you imply that it will eventually come to some sort of end.

Who Ordered the Poo-Poo Platter?

2005-09-10T21:25:00.000-04:00

Today, Dashing Husband cooked up some veggie sausage links I'd bought for us to try. We put one on Gus's plate, next to his cheesy eggs, and urged him to try it.

"Mommy, I don't want poop," he said.

Because I serve that ALL THE TIME.

How Are They Gonna Learn How to Read If They Can't Even Fit in the Building?

2005-09-10T20:22:00.000-04:00

Here is Gus perfecting his look, "Blue Steel."

Why Can't Every Day Be Saturday?

2005-09-10T14:48:00.000-04:00

This morning we took advantage of the beautiful weather and headed out to the nature center, where there is a Living History Farm. Here is the view in and around Hogan's Cabin:

Gus got to try pumping water into a wooden bucket. It turns out he was born to be a farm boy.

Here are the boys outside the chicken coop. Is it just me, or is Will starting to really look like his big brother?

And special bonus shots of Will playing in his Bumbo seat. He can now successfully grab a toy and get it into his mouth. Oh, the possibilities!

In Which That Mess in the Kitchen Turns Out To Be Dinner

2005-09-08T19:40:00.000-04:00

Last week I alluded to my grocery budget and the fact that I choose recipes ahead of time in order to plan a menu we can afford. I also might have claimed to be a fabulous chef in the manner of Emeril or Julia. Maybe.

As it happens, pride does indeed go before the fall (a.k.a. steer clear of culinary hyperbole).

Tonight I made something that was supposed to be sesame noodles, but instead ended up tasting--according to Dashing Husband--like a combination of "peanut butter and ass." I found the recipe in my Parents magazine and it sounded interesting. Also, Parents has not steered me wrong in the past. It called for some peanut butter, but there were other ingredients included so I assumed the taste would be well-masked. Blended, as it were.

As we now know, peanut butter on noodles is NOT A GOOD IDEA. I tossed the entire thirteen pounds of food the recipe yields (honestly, what kind of recipe calls for an entire box of pasta anyway?) into the trash. Wasteful? Yes. That's the first time I've ever done that. But it was that or let it grow hairy and evil in the back of my refrigerator. Imagine, waking up to thirteen pounds of slimy, nefarious, peanut-butter covered spaghetti standing next to your bed, holding your innocent boy hostage until you GIVE IT WHAT IT WANTS, DAMMIT--would you or would you not wet your pants and scream like a little girl?

We shall now and ever after refer to this incident as the Slimy Sesame Noodles of Doom*. We will also now and ever after leave room in the grocery budget for the Emergency Back-Up Pizza from Five Star.

*Interestingly, Gus rather enjoyed the Slimy Sesame Noodles of Doom. He gleefully had a generous helping of them, which he followed up with a big fat slice of pepperoni pizza. It's not often that the whole meal revolves around the preferences of a two-year-old. Dashing Husband observed that the noodles must have tasted like "spicy peanut butter" to Gus, and as gross as it is, that flavor is right up his toddler alley.

Two of My Favorite Butts in the World

2005-09-08T13:59:00.000-04:00

This--THIS--Is What Makes Life on the Internet Worth Living

2005-09-08T12:31:00.000-04:00

I love this man.

Thanks to my sister over at Airborne Momma for the link!

Fun with Bodily Functions and a Lesson in Table Manners from A Chimp Learning to Use a Fork

2005-09-07T14:46:00.000-04:00

Me: Don't spit, Gus. That's gross.

Gus: I tried to burp.

Me: Don't do that either.

Gus: Burping is useful. I tried to burp last night.

___________________________________________________

A couple of days ago we were all eating dinner at our little table. Gus was doing the usual, smearing food across the tablecloth and stacking small pieces of cheese.

"Use your fork, Gus," I said.

"Get your elbows off the table, Mommy. That's bad manners," he replied. Because he's two, he could say that without batting an eyelash, with applesauce in his hair and two handfuls of food poised for stuffing into his cheek pouches.

And then his father backed him up.

"That's right, Gus. Good catch, buddy," he said.

I am surrounded by men.

Don't Do Drugs

2005-09-07T14:37:00.000-04:00

Do ice cream.

The nature of today made it imperative for me to eat a bowl of Bear Claw ice cream and top it with whipped cream, caramel, chocolate syrup, sprinkles, and THREE maraschino cherries. You see, Will is not feeling well. He had his four-month shots yesterday and has been feverish, cranky, and prone to puking ever since. His brother, Gus, ever the helpful two-year-old, has gone on a nap strike in support.

I went into his room this afternoon to see why he hadn't yet fallen asleep, and he was soaking wet. He'd also torn a page out of one of his large picture books.

"I spit milk, Mom," Gus said, adding, "I'm peed on."

I've been up since four am, and these children will not cut me a break so I can get some much-needed sleep. They're like tiny, evil warlords, and just because Will doesn't talk doesn't mean they aren't working together. Trust me.

So it was ice cream or crack.

Pressure

2005-09-06T20:30:00.000-04:00

Since childhood I have struggled with anxiety and fear. I remember being ten or twelve years old, absolutely terrified that someone was coming through my bedroom window at night to take me away. I used to crawl into my parents' room and sleep on the floor. I never fell asleep easily or quickly.

The problem got so serious at one point that I had to go see a counselor. I don't remember his name, but I do remember him telling me that being abducted through my bedroom window was about as likely as a tree falling on me while I was walking down the sidewalk. For some reason that helped. My fear never really went away, but it had been couched in tangible terms.

I have never been able to watch the news without wincing. Whenever another murder, rape, abduction, horrible car accident, etc. is reported, I have a physical reaction. It's as if my stomach drops out of my body through my feet. My head throbs a little and I start to imagine [insert horrible scenario] has happened to me or someone I love.

Before I had children, I would deal with this by simply not watching the news. If I didn't hear about it, I wouldn't have to think about it. But recently it seems to me that the world has become a terrible place in which to live. Terrorists, tsunamis, hurricanes--I cannot escape the images, the information, the reality of what people do to each other for no reason at all. My fear and anxiety have returned in a big way, but I no longer worry so much about myself. Instead, I project all of these things onto my boys.

I cannot sleep at night. Tired though I may be, I lie awake wondering how I would feed my children in a starving city. I promise myself that no matter how big the tidal wave or how high the flood waters or how big the bomb, I would somehow never lose them. In my dreams I am hysterical, desperate, willing to do anything to protect the people and places I love.

In the wake of Hurrican Katrina, especially, I have imagined some pretty crazy things. Babies died of dehydration; in my imagined scenario, I somehow manage to save both of my boys with breastmilk, though I am dehydrated and starving myself. I imagine all the liquid in my body going to the production of the life-giving milk, until my veins collapse and I have no tears left to cry.

Crazy scenario? Absolutely. The problem is that I love my children more than I love myself, and my heart breaks to think of EVER being in a position that leaves me unable to save them. Staying up all night fighting the knot in my stomach is not helpful, but it's as if my imagined happy endings are the only thing that keeps me from screaming and tearing out my hair some days.

I hate this about myself, that underneath my good humor and generally unruffled facade I am actually terrified of almost everything. The counseling helped when I was a child--I think maybe it's time to find another counselor. Someone who will come up with another tangible quantifier for me to hold on to when the night gets long and my thoughts get dark.

Barry Manilow Rules!

2005-09-03T22:32:00.000-04:00

No, really.

If you donate to his Relief Fund, your donation will be matched twice (once by Barry himself and once by the fund) and all money will be sent to the Red Cross to help hurricane victims.

So go donate--we did!

Lord, Help Us All

2005-09-02T21:06:00.000-04:00

I absolutely cannot believe what has happened on the Gulf Coast. I watched a small snippet of news this evening, and I am unable to get the images out of my head. Bodies, rubble, and water. The floor of the Super Dome oozing urine. Exhausted children and desperate parents. People dying in a hospital without electricity. The basement of the very same hospital filled with twelve feet of water.

Did you know that the New Orleans police are living in a WalMart? With no outside aid, they've been forced to become looters themselves. Many have simply handed in their badges and walked off the job.

And oh God, the children. I looked at my boys this afternoon and realized just how clean, well-fed and comfortably dressed they are. My heart breaks for the mothers and fathers that have had to tell their children that there is no food, there is no water, and there is nothing they can do. How do you explain such things to a two-year-old? An infant?

I have gathered what I have to offer, and will drop it off tomorrow. But I can't help feeling as if it isn't enough.

The Love of My Life is Short, Fat, and Bald

2005-09-01T13:48:00.000-04:00

Tomorrow Will turns four months old. I cannot believe how big he's gotten, and how much he's changed. He smiles all the time, though he's still stingy with the giggles. His head has turned from an unpredictable rolling melon into a thing he can control.

He can grab toys, hair, and clothing with ease; everything goes straight into his mouth, except the pacifier which I think he will always hate. The good news is that little Will can (and does!) consistently get his thumb when he needs a little soothing.

All I have to do to get him to sleep is roll him on his tummy and leave the room. This never--NEVER--happened with his brother. Husband and I used to rock Gus until we were sure he was asleep and then ease him into his crib in slow motion, silently, sneakily. Then we'd run out of the room and say a Hail Mary in the hallway, hoping against hope that we wouldn't have to start all over.

Will loves his big brother, and Gus is finally starting to show some interest in this. We bathe them together every night and Gus likes to help wash Will. He brings him toys and says, "it's okay" whenever Will seems upset. Sometimes Gus tickles Will's tummy or toes, and the baby grins humongously. Whenever Gus crosses his line of sight, Will shines.

I have never met such a happy-go-lucky little boy. Will is happy to sleep, to eat, to bathe, to get his diapers changed. He switches easily from breast to bottle, and most nights he doesn't wake up at all. And oh my god, is he ever cute. I can't get enough of his cheeks and his little fat thighs. When he wakes up next to me in the morning he greets me with his biggest smile and reaches out to touch my face. When he's nursing, he holds onto my shirt koala-style, a small, sweet gesture that breaks my heart into a thousand unintentional pieces.

Often he'll come off the breast and just smile at me while milk runs down his cheek, which is another one of those achingly sweet baby things that I know I'm going to miss. He's such a fat, delicious baby! I can't stop smelling his head and kissing his belly. I thought Gus was a miraculous child (I still do), but there is something sweeter and calmer about second babies, something I can't put my finger on.

Maybe it's that I have some experience and don't spend every minute freaking out, or maybe it's just because I'm a little older, a little more mature. Maybe it's because with Will I don't have to go to battle-stations over things like I do with Gus. Will and I are still in that first wonderful place in our relationship where we're free to be hopelessly in love and not notice the annoying or less desirable traits we each possess.

Because--SWEET JESUS!--I am smitten.

My Boobs are Rock Stars!

2005-08-30T19:04:00.000-04:00

Thanks, Mrs. Kennedy!

Football Fun

2005-08-30T08:57:00.000-04:00

Watch as Husband carefully explains the game to Gus, the boy that makes his own rules.

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August Review: Busy,Busy Boys!

2005-08-29T20:50:00.000-04:00

The Great Breastfeeding Debate

2005-08-25T22:02:00.000-04:00

In the August 2005 issue of Glamour magazine (I know, I know, what was I doing reading it anyway?) the "Glamour news, great debate" section was titled, "Should this be taboo?" The taboo? Public breastfeeding.

Two opinions are presented--one for and one against. Now, if you know me personally, you know I support--and often participate in--public breastfeeding. The lucky among you have probably seen one or both of my nipples during my attempts to get a hungry boy to latch on.

You lucky, lucky dogs. Right? Because aren't breasts primarily sexual organs? Were you not all turned on and titillated by the spraying milk and the screaming child?

But I digress.

Let's forget for a moment that Glamour magazine is a generally useless waste of glossy paper, and speak about the issue at hand. I think that the Taboo?YES! woman is, well, ridiculous. Her name is Carrie Lukas, and she is the 31-year-old director of policy at the Independent Women's Forum. The stylishly-dressed, well-manicured employee of a conservative think tank.

Her opinion?

Ms. Lukas believes that public places should be "kept comfortable." To her, a mother nursing an infant in public is...uncomfortable. As she points out, "people can't walk down the street naked or have sex or even drink from an open container of alcohol...female breasts are considered private in our society, and we're expected to keep them covered for the purpose of modesty."

But the statement that really capped her argument for me was this:

"Of course infants should be fed when they are hungry, but nursing mothers should compromise by using the ladies' room. I'm pregnant with my first and that's what I plan to do." Can't you just hear the emphasis on the "I" and all the self-righteous imperiousness it carries?

I am here to tell you that our friend Ms. Lukas is either going to have to give up her modesty or give up her autonomy. It is impossible to always find a clean bathroom with a comfortable chair. In fact, I know of only one clean bathroom with a comfortable chair in the whole of my town. In a pinch one can always slip into a bathroom stall and sit on a toilet, but that comes with a whole other set of hygiene issues, not to mention the fact that many stalls are narrow and there is nowhere for a small head or your elbows.

Also, breastfeeding is difficult at first. Now that I'm on my second child, I can do it with relative ease, in almost any position. But when I was learning? I needed five or six pillows and three or four tries to latch on the baby. By the time it was over we would both be covered in milk (mind the overspray!). And don't even get me started on nursing bras. They're supposed to be easy to clip shut with one hand, but I have yet to accomplish that. Merely closing my bra involves laying the baby across my lap and then twisting my entire body into a position that will prevent the boy from falling while I use TWO hands; most times I have to leave my breast bare while I do this.

And the sheer number of hours it takes to feed a baby around the clock is staggering. Ms. Lukas is going to get awfully lonely if she has to leave the room every time her baby wants to nurse. For the first three months, I guarantee you it's going to be every couple of hours. And a feeding can take anywhere from twenty minutes to an hour.

You do the math.

So why not pump and give the baby a bottle when she's out? Well, for me, pumping was at least as difficult as nursing. You still have to shuck your shirt, and then it generally takes both hands to operate the pump. And there are issues associated with the let-down of milk and stress and whether or not you're producing enough.

Because nursing is designed to really work best with the baby. No pump can perfectly reproduce the force generated by a baby on the nipple. Besides, I think pumping is drudgery; regularly giving a breast-fed baby a bottle is about as convenient as tying your shoelaces before you put on your shoes.

Which brings me to my last and most important point. Breastfeeding is awesome. Seriously. And to approach something so natural as "taboo" is to deny yourself one of life's greatest experiences. There is nothing like looking down at your baby happily nursing away, little hand resting on your breast, milk overflow running down his chin. Nothing, and I do mean nothing, gives me more satisfaction than knowing that my son's healthy appearance and steady rate of growth are both due to my success at producing the perfect food.

It is not sexual, it is not dirty, and it is certainly not offensive. And I would like to invite anyone who thinks it is to enjoy THEIR meal in the ladies' room.

Am Fabulous, Gourmet Chef in the Manner of Emeril or Julia

2005-08-24T12:03:00.000-04:00

The top half of my bundt cake is almost solid chocolate. My gazpacho is pleasantly kicky and full of vegetables. My quiche will leave you begging for more of its cheese-and-eggy-in-a-delicate-crust goodness. You will want to marry my rotisserie chicken. My grilled cheese sandwiches will make you feel all toasty and dipped in butter. And my apple pie, oh wondrous food of the Gods, is capable of making even Donny and Marie Osmond singing "A Little Bit Country, A Little Bit Rock n' Roll" seem okay.

It's true (well, except the part about the Osmonds, I don't think anything will ever make that seem normal). Just ask my husband.

You see, I decided a while ago that if I was going to do the stay-at-home-mom thing, then I was going to do it as if Martha Stewart was watching. I wake up every morning and I say, WWMD? What would Martha do? Would Martha spend the morning in her jammies watching Clifford the Big Red Dog and eating dry cereal?

You can bet your bippy she would not.

Martha would have pristine white sheets drying in the sun by her perfectly manicured rosebushes while she harvested herbs from her garden and prepared to make lavender sachets for her underwear drawer. The drawer itself would be organized by style and color, and the underwear would be folded precisely three times and oriented North to keep moths away. And all before 9 am!

No, really.

You may want to step back now, lest you get hit with the big bolt of lightning God is sending this way because I AM LYING. The only truth in this post is that my cooking has improved markedly since the birth of our children, because (a) I want them to eat vegetables and (b) any disposable income we might have had is now buying diapers and baby wipes and hundreds of itty bitty socks that I can never find the match for.

So every week I plan a menu, and then shop specifically for the things I will need to prepare it. I get a lot of satisfaction out of picking new recipes and then making an incredibly organized list with RecipeZaar. I am getting better at remembering to buy all the things on my list (I command you to be impressed! I shop with two children as fast as I can so that Gus doesn't get bored and Will doesn't get hungry! I shop with one arm because I have to carry the littlest boy!), and our meals have been getting healthier. We've mostly cut red meat out of our diets, and eat as little other meat as possible.

My arteries recently wrote me a lovely thank-you note--so did my ass and our grocery bill. And it's very June Cleaver of me, but I really enjoy having dinner on the table when Husband comes home from work. It means a nice family dinner (ha! have you seen Gus eat? Because I know some monkeys at the zoo who can show you how he does it!) and an evening free to build bridges out of wooden blocks, or take a ride in our spaceship box.

The Ice Cream, It Didn't Stand a Chance

2005-08-20T22:21:00.000-04:00

This--THIS--Is Why I Have Grey Hair

2005-08-17T19:56:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, our regularly scheduled playgroup decided to meet at the Natural History Museum. Gus and Will and I were bored and looking for some excitement, so naturally the museum sounded like a good idea.

Me: Gus, would you like to go to the museum? Your friends will be there and we can go in the cave!

Gus: Yeeeaaahhh! Let's go to the museum!

Me: Okay, we'll go after you take your nap!

But then the dreaded Nap Time arrived, and it did not go well. Gus decided, though his eyelids were droopy and his mood sour, that he was not tired. Three times I tucked him in and kissed him, and three times he did rise from his bed to beat his head against the wall and scream and gnash his teeth. He even attempted the old spit-water-from-your-cup-into-your-bed-and-maybe-Mommy-will-think-it's-pee trick.

Finally he fell asleep. When he woke up two hours later, it was 3:15, and Gus was in his usual post-nap state of misguided toddler angst, complete with sweat-matted hair and pee-loaded diaper.

Me: How was your nap? Are you ready to go to the museum?

Gus: (dramatically throws his body to the floor) Nooooooooo. I don't waaannnaaa go to the museum.

Me: Your friends will be there, and we will go in the cave!

Gus: I don't like my friends.

Me: Well, Will and I want to go, so you'd better get ready. I have to feed Will first, but then we're going.

This is the part where Gus followed me into my bedroom and threw himself to the floor again when he realized I really did have to feed his brother.

Gus: Mommy, I want to go to the museum. Get up!

Me: (breast bared, Will latched on and sucking with enough force to take the chrome off a tailpipe) I have to feed your brother.

Gus: (response unintelligible, because of the whining and snot)

Ten minutes later, after a whirlwind of diapers, snacks, drinks, and diaper-bag packing, we were in the car and stuck in a school zone. And from the back seat I heard a small voice say,

"Mommy, I want to go home."

Sign of the Apocalypse #256

2005-08-16T23:15:00.000-04:00

Riigghhht.
Is everyone else just seeing a doll stuck in a cake?

I have to go stab my eyes out now.

Cleaning House

2005-08-16T21:47:00.000-04:00

I've been cleaning house and playing with the new look. What do you think? The archives are going to be down until I finish.

I have some posts in the works, so stay tuned!

Drew Loves Will

2005-08-15T15:50:00.000-04:00

And speaks to him in a key only audible to dogs and bats.

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Live in the Now!

2005-08-13T21:26:00.000-04:00

Today, my husband and I got cell phones. I have personally never owned one, and it was with some glee that I picked out rings and programmed numbers and set an alarm to go off at 9 am to remind me to take my birth control pill. The medicine that we've told Gus is to keep Mommy from presenting him with "any more brothers." Now I can call Husband when he's out playing disc golf to remind him to bring home more milk or bread or a pizza!

Also, today marked the first official day of our cat's diet. Fatty, as Gus and I like to call him behind his fat orange back, needs to lose two pounds. So diet food it is! And in limited quantities! The Shoney's all-you-can-eat buffet is closed!

Lastly, my official favorite Gus quote ever:

Linsey: Gus, is that your little brother?! (pointing to Will)

Gus: Yeah. But the pirate movie was awesome.

There you have it, people. Little brothers pale in comparison to Pirates of the Caribbean.

Dadaist-in-Training and Little Brother: A Photo Collage

2005-08-12T13:17:00.000-04:00

Three Years

2005-08-09T07:48:00.000-04:00

Yesterday was our third wedding anniversary. Did you know we have two? Very lucky, I think.

On August 8 three years ago, my husband and I went to the courthouse where we were married by a clerk with an enormous walrus mustache. My husband wore a Hawaiian shirt, I wore a hippie peasant top. M. and A., dear friends of mine, came to be our witnesses.

Afterwards, Husband and I went to a little Cuban restaurant downtown and had seafood paella. It was a glorious day.

Let the Games Begin

2005-08-03T09:45:00.000-04:00

It would appear that Gus is ready to start potty training. Lord, help us all. Over the last couple of weeks, he's started to show real distress when he wets his diaper.

Gus: Did I pee?

Me: Did you?

Gus: I did! Get this thing off!

So today we went to Wal-mart and bought some Bob the Builder underoos, as well as some of those Gerber padded underwear. According to a friend of mine, we're going to need lots of Carpet Fresh and patience.

I foresee a lot of conversations about poop in my future.

***************UPDATE*****************

Things About Potty Training I Have Learned So Far:

1. Underwear are a hit.

2. After the boy has worn the underwear, putting a diaper on for naptime will be a wrestling match.

3. The boy will not volunteer any information concerning whether or not he has to pee. You will have to guess, or catch him too late.

4. The boy will not be able to control that wild and wacky fire-hose action when he sits down on the toilet.

5. Six pairs of underwear is not enough.

6. Pee will run down legs and onto socks, which will then need to be changed.

7. The carpet is indeed going to suffer.

8. The boy has no discernible Schedule of Bodily Functions.

9. Mind the overspray.

10. For extra fun, the boy will, when wearing underwear and having a tantrum, pee on the floor to show you JUST HOW ANGRY HE IS.

Also, I have officially become my mother. A couple of days ago, I said these words to my son: "We do not go outside in our socks."

My mom was always saying that. She doesn't remember this, of course, but I promise you it was a phrase uttered several times a week during my childhood.

When I pointed out to my husband that this shocking event had happened, that I had in fact become my mother, he responded that I was actually far behind in my observation and that me becoming my mother had already happened a long time ago. Bad, bad husband! It would appear that the man WANTS to sleep alone on the couch without a blanket.

Gus and Icky on Vacation

2005-08-01T21:15:00.000-04:00

Vacation Photos

2005-08-01T20:46:00.000-04:00

Fun on Nanny and Grandpop's deck.

Fun at the Hanna Park water playground.

Fun at the Museum of Science and History. Gus got to try his hand at moving a robotic dinosaur.

This is Gus and his wingman (wingdog?)Ichabod, preparing to engage in a watergun battle royale. My husband and I had a massive waterfight later the same evening. He'd been squirting me with his water pistol all day, so I got a bucket, and then he got the hose, and before we knew it we were soaking wet and laughing hysterically.

This is Will in the Bumbo seat on Nanny's counter. I think he'd make a lovely (albeit shocked) centerpiece, don't you?

This is me and my husband, sunning ourselves on the deck. Apparently Will has my cheeks, for which he can thank me later.

My husband's beautiful eyes. And vacation stubble.

My Vacation is Over, Dammit!

2005-07-31T21:48:00.000-04:00

And it was lovely. I slept more at my in-laws' house than I've slept in nearly two years. This was mostly due to my mother-in-law's willingness to be up at the crack of dawn with a small child.

I also caught up on some movie watching. Here's a short review: Anchorman? Hilarious. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind? Brilliant. Girl with a Pearl Earring? So-so. Elf? Oh God, kill me now.

Also, we (by accident) discovered that Gus's favorite movie is Pirates of the Caribbean. I thought it would scare the hell out of him, but it turns out he's into swordfights and ships. And three-cornered hats and looting.

Most amazingly, I started sewing myself a dress from a Simplicity pattern, and it looks great. It even fits! This has never happened to me before! Check back, I may soon be addicted to sewing!

I love vacations. It was nice to have my husband around, and it was nice to eat as many sandwiches as we wanted and have giant breakfasts with lots of bacon. It was nice to visit family and to forget about cleaning my house for a week.

We even got some adult time, which we used to go to the beach and sit on a lifeguard chair looking at the moon. The beach has always been our special place, the tall red chairs a place to talk openly while the wind whips our hair around and the waves come up on the sand. We walked in the surf and carried our shoes, and it was nice to be just us again, if only for a little while.

More vacation stories tomorrow, I promise.

Nothing Says Summer Like Watermelon

2005-07-23T22:41:00.000-04:00

I'm on Vacation, Dammit!

2005-07-23T22:05:00.000-04:00

So from now on, I will no longer be checking Voldemort's hateful website. I've been keeping tabs on it, but the things he's putting out about me are just too hurtful. It's some sort of sick fascination, like a train wreck or something, a kind of desire to see how low he will sink next.

But in checking, I've allowed him to drag me down. And you know what? I deserve better from myself. I know I'm a better person than the woman he's made me out to be. Whatever he thinks of me, whatever I once told him in confidence that he's now publishing (along with my full name) on the internet--doesn't matter.

My mother told me to just categorize it as I would any other lame blog I would never read. It's drivel, and as such, it will remain below my notice. Well below.

That being said--let the vacation begin!

My husband and I are headed to see various and sundry members of our extended family tomorrow. I'm looking forward to hitting the beach and the water park, eating big meals and lots of cookies, and taking naps whenever I want. I'm also looking forward to getting my mother-in-law to help me make some fabulous fabrics I have into peasant skirts. I may also start a quilt top while I'm there.

Today was a glorious day. We had breakfast with our neighbors--our friend O. made some real Bolivian food for us to try, including mashed plantains. Did I mention that I love plantains? I first had them in El Salvador, and have loved them ever since. I should really learn how to make them.

After that we attended a birthday party. Gus's friend E. turned three today. The party was a bunch of little boys shooting squirt guns and eating watermelon. Awesome.

The afternoon was spent napping. My wonderful husband let me sleep as long as I wanted. Will slept with me. I don't think we moved for nearly three hours.

I've Figured It Out!

2005-07-22T21:12:00.000-04:00

Harry Potter is really Peter Parker. Remember the end of SpiderMan (the first one) where he leaves MJ at the cemetery, striding purposefully off to rid the world of evil?

Yeah.

Harry breaks up with Ginny, his one true love (or so it would seem), so that Voldemort won't hurt her. I could almost hear the determined, inspirational music when I read it.

Just Add Sugar

2005-07-22T20:44:00.000-04:00

Pictures I've Been Meaning to Share

2005-07-22T20:19:00.000-04:00

Before Voldemort ruined my blogging week. But I digress. This is the fabulous lemon cake.

This is Gus and his Daddy blowing out the candles on the fabulous lemon cake.

This is Will holding his head quite straight, despite the considerable weight of his cheeks.

Here he is refusing to smile at me because the camera is just so darn fascinating.

Portrait, almost twelve weeks. After I took this picture I dipped his cheeks in chocolate and ate them.

This is Gus, showing off his happy face after eating his sandwich Cookie-monster style. Gross.

Happy Friday!

Daisy for President

2005-07-21T16:12:00.000-04:00

Wow. Amazing what one nasty person can do to your desire to write. I've almost completely lost interest in this blog, at least for now.

The best revenge, however, is to keep right on doing what I do whilst pretending that He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named no longer exists. In fact, let's just refer to him as Voldemort from now on. Just for fun--and also because we all know Voldemort is going to lose in the end.

I was really angry about the whole incident today, but not because my feelings are hurt. You know what really makes me angry? That our friend Voldemort would even dare to hint that my Gus was conceived out of anything other than the love I share with my husband. My gorgeous, bright boy does not deserve the title of "Mistake," because he is anything but.

He is not the product of a desperate woman trying to hold onto a man by bringing a child into the equation. I cannot even properly express how angry I am that V. is trying to paint me as such. As if he knows what has transpired in the time that has passed since we were together. As if he could even hazard a guess, and as if it's any of his damn business.

But, onward and upward. Blogger refuses to do anything, but I have contacted another organization that I hope might be of some service. He will not ruin this for me.

------------->Official Change of Subject<--------------

Bedtime appears to be in flux these days, and no one around here (well except me and my husband) goes to sleep without much crying and gnashing of teeth. But we're working on it, and with a little luck Gus will stop falling asleep on a pillow wet with tears. Or with his little body prostrate behind the bedroom door.

I am more than halfway through Harry Potter 6, and I can't say that I'm as thoroughly engrossed as I have been with the other books. Maybe this is because I am the mother of two small children, or maybe it's because Rowling just isn't stringing me along as effectively this time. Only the end will tell, I suppose.

I leave you now with a dialogue I am vowing to share with Gus when he's thirteen:

The scene: the potty, just after bath time.

Husband: Are you done, Gus?

Gus: No, I'm trying to poop.

(Some straining, and then a plunk. Gus looks satisfied.)

Husband: Good job!

Gus: I pooped! I love pooping!

The Bumbo Seat

2005-07-12T09:23:00.000-04:00

2005-07-12T09:22:00.000-04:00

Why I Love My Son

2005-07-11T20:37:00.000-04:00

The scene: Sunday afternoon. Gus has just awoken from his nap.

Gus: Mommy, I'm awake!

Me: You are! Did you sleep well?

Gus: Yeah. I only eat fish.

Me: Fish? Are you a penguin?

Gus: No. I only eat socks.

By the Seat of My Pants

2005-07-11T19:45:00.000-04:00

The asshat has brought it to my attention that I am not where I planned to be at this time in my life. You know, because being a stay-at-home mom is a waste of my time and talents and also the flushing of my dreams down the proverbial toilet.

When I was 20, I had this idea that when I graduated from college, I'd then get into a fabulous graduate program in NY city. You know, for art. And then I would get this neat boho apartment in Greenwich Village and decorate it with stuff I found on the side of the road (shabby chic!) and wear patchwork apron skirts and possibly even dread my hair. There would be love beads and tie-dye!

Man, it was gonna be awesome. Just as awesome as when I was eleven and I thought I'd get into vet school because I loved animals and my mom let me give the dog pills! I had five cockatiels, three cats, an untold number of guinea pigs, and a fishtank--I was SO in.

Until I arrived at college in 1998 and quickly discovered that not only was science no longer fun, but it was HARD. One day in Biology 101 I had an epiphany--I didn't love science, I loved gifted science. Which means I loved the kind of stuff Mr. Wizard did on TV. Where were all the vinegar and baking soda volcanoes? The shoebox ovens lined with tinfoil, for making cookies on the roof (actually did that in middle school)?

Why didn't we play Name That Organism or make up pneumonic devices such as this one: King Phylum Came Over For Green Spaghetti? It stands for kingdom, phylum, class, order, family, genus, species--in case you were wondering why I would need a sentence as bizarre as that.

Childish? Maybe. Useful information to have in the real world? Yes.

So I packed my butt on out of those classes, and it's a good thing because I was going to have to take calculus more than once, that I know for sure. Which is how I ended up in the art program. Art has always been my first love. I've been drawing since I could hold a crayon. And sculpture? My high school pottery teacher loved me, so intricate and realistic were my creations. Please don't take this for bragging, it's just that art is a skill I somehow come by naturally.

And I loved my art classes. For the first time in my life I felt as if I fit in. I was as crazy and creative as all the people around me. I found new ways to express myself--photography, painting, installations, performance. In the world of art, there is room for the absurd and the unusual. There was room for me.

I spent hours looking at paintings and architecture in books, trying to decipher the secrets of those who have come before me. I fell in love with Andy Warhol and The Art Guys and even Jackson Pollack. Picasso, Van Gogh, Monet, Kahlo--I began to know what they were after, and I wanted it too.

I was creating on a level equal to or better than people I had always admired. I could hang. So of course I wanted to go to NY city. Who the hell doesn't?

I left my college art program when it became apparent that I was never going to graduate. While I am as much in favor of being a career student as the next guy, there comes a point when they put you on probation and give you a time limit in which to finish or leave quietly of your own accord. Also, the money begins to run out.

And so you realize you've been kicked in the pants and suck it up and change your major so you can move on. Which is how I found out that not only can I write poetry and prose, I can write excellent poetry and prose.

So yeah, I'm 26 years old and this is not what I had planned. But that's life, baby, and I choose to live it by the seat of my pants. I am open to the possibilities and am waiting to see where I end up next. It would be foolish of me to think that everything is going to work out the way I had it planned.

It would also be foolish for anyone to accuse me of giving up my dreams. Things change, shit happens, and you live with it. And most times you realize that the way things have worked out is better than what you were planning anyway.

Look Mommy! I'm an Octopus!

2005-07-11T13:54:00.000-04:00

Why He Can Totally Keep Me Up All Night Long and I Still Love Him in the Morning

2005-07-11T12:34:00.000-04:00

Fun with Karaoke

2005-07-10T12:59:00.000-04:00

A few years ago I spent two weeks in Japan. I was there for a military exercise called Operation Yama Sakura, which is Japanese for "try the sake warm, we swear it's better that way." Ostensibly I was working--but what I actually did was sit on my ass in a tent part-time and then go see the sights.

While I was there I kept a journal. One of the things that strikes me about the journal now is how much I missed the guy I was dating at the time. But that's not what this post is about. It's really about karaoke, and raw fish, and discovering wasabe.

I tried wasabe before I ever reached Tokyo. This is because on international flights, the meals are based on the principle that if you're going to another country, you'll want to eat like they eat before the landing gear ever hits the runway. Which is how I came to be eating Belgian cheese on the way back from Egypt--we didn't stop in Belgium, but we flew over it on our way to Sigonella, Italy, which totally counts. Right?

Anyway, I don't remember what the actual meal was, only that there was a small dollop of something green. It was so artfully arranged on my plastic tray that it looked like frosting. I stuck my chopstick in and tasted it with the very tip of my tongue. It was then that I realized I wouldn't be tasting anything else for the rest of the trip. I still had no name for the frosting-turned-hellfire, so I left it alone and finished my meal.

The trip to Tokyo took 28 hours. To this day, the flight to Tokyo remains the longest flight of my life. A highlight of the trip was crossing the international dateline. According to myself, I'd "never done that before, not even in my imagination."
What?* At least, that's what I wrote in my journal.

I had my first (and last) sake in Japan. It smelled like paint thinner and tasted slightly better than exhaust fumes. I felt it burn a path down my esophagus, through my stomach and into my kidneys.

My liver is still recovering, even though it's been five-and-a-half years. I also had my first sushi and sashimi in Japan. Since that time I have loved sushi, but raw, naked chunks of salmon still fail to make me drool in anticipation.**

I did some karaoke in Japan. And when I say some, I mean, that's pretty much how I spent all my free time on the economy, because there is nothing else to do in Japan. One night SPC Anderson and I went to have dinner with a local Japanese soldier's family (some kind of American-Japanese let's-forget-the-whole-atomic-bomb-and-just-be-friends-again thing). The following excerpt is from my journal:

I ended up eating with SGT Haywood and SPC Anderson. Anderson was invited to the home of one of the Japanese SGT Majors, and asked me if I would like to go with him.

Nothing else to do, I thought.

It turned out that the man who opened the door was a soldier friend of the SGT Major. He seemed very pleased to see us. We went inside and took off our shoes. There was a rack with several pairs of slippers on the left side of the door, but Anderson and I just went in wearing our socks.

We were taken to a small living room, where we sat down on the rug around a table. On the table was beer and two platters of sushi. While we ate, Anderson and I tried to make conversation with the soldiers. It was difficult, since we don't speak Japanese and they barely speak any English.

The man's wife asked if Anderson was my boyfriend , and pointed suggestively at the two of us. I tried to tell her he wasn't, and so did he, but it took her a while to understand.

I'll never know why, but she left the room and came back with her wedding kimono. Then she put it on me--I thought she was giving it to me, and am very glad she didn't. She insisted that I try it on and take a picture. It was gorgeous, a blazing orange with ornate embroidered scenes all over it.

Not long after that she asked if we liked karaoke. I wasn't too excited about the prospect, but what could I do? So we all piled into the car and went to the karaoke place. It was the upstairs half of a concrete building and looked like nothing special from the outside.

Inside, though, you can rent a room. Then you go into your room and never have to leave again. I think it's paid by the hour. Each room has a couch, a TV, two microphones, a karaoke machine, and a phone.

Our hostess passed a book over and told us to pick out something to sing. Then she picked up the phone and ordered beer and coke. Less than two minutes later the man who had checked us in at the front desk appeared with a tray--our drinks plus some french fries.

They made me sing first and I did a really bad rendition of Billy Joel. Strangely, karaoke songs don't seem to be produced in any known key. I fared much better with Madonna's songs later. In fact, I sang them well enough that I earned the nickname Madonna for the evening. Of course, I could just as easily have earned the nickname Sheryl Crow or Shania Twain or Joni Mitchell--it's just that Madonna's were some of the only songs written in English. Too bad I don't know Japanese.

The evening didn't really get interesting until Anderson got up and did a heartfelt version of James Brown's "Sex Machine." Obviously he's spent hours perfecting this routine in front of a mirror somewhere, because he had it nailed down to the last drop of sweat. He gyrated, he grimaced, he squinted his eyes--and for that three minutes, he was the hardest working man in karaoke.

Our Japanese friends loved it, especially the soldier's wife. When Anderson sat back down, she giggled, held up one finger, and in broken English said, "Sex machine, number one." I guess some things never get lost in translation, because she did that periodically for the rest of the evening.

I'm telling you, you've never heard funny until you've heard a demure little Japanese lady say "sex machine number one!" and laugh until she has no breath.

*The international dateline was that exciting? Sometimes, I imagine life to be like smoking and non-smoking sections in restaurants. Except in my world, it's sequitur or non sequitur.

"I'd like non sequitur for four, and we'll need a highchair. Thanks."

**Other things in Japan that left my tastebuds high and dry: the tiny dried fish in an otherwise normal-looking Chex-mix type snack and the dried circles of fish scales with spices on them. Like some kind of weird fish-skin potato chip. Scout's honor, Japanese people love it. Possibly this is because they have no taste buds left from all the wasabe and sake they consume on a regular basis.

Today's Tantrum

2005-06-23T13:57:00.000-04:00

Just before nap time, if you'd driven by my house, you'd have heard a two-year-old shrieking at a pitch high enough to shatter glass. Why? Because I wouldn't let him pee in the living room.

Oh, cursed rules!

And the Universe Laughed

2005-06-18T21:26:00.000-04:00

A double stroller, people. We bought a DOUBLE STROLLER. And it's enormous. But at least I won't have to carry a boy to go for a walk now. Plus, if we decide to have a third child, there's a roomy basket underneath.

And now, for your reading enjoyment, I'd like to tell you about last Wednesday.

Last Wednesday started with a tantrum of mammoth proportions. A tantrum so big that it ended with me tossing Gus on his bed and slamming the door on my way out of his room. Not my shining Mommy Moment, I admit, but how was I supposed to know that making the kid wear his bathing suit was going to be such a big deal?

You see, I was going to take the boy to the park. And since it was only 8:30 in the morning, everything at the park was going to be wet. So I reasoned that a bathing suit would a be a good apparel choice for a child who was going to be sliding on dewy playground equipment--it would dry quickly and therefore not be as uncomfortable as say, wet blue jeans or cotton shorts.

But Gus did not agree. He flailed, he screamed, he kicked and clawed.

"I don't want to wear those pants! NO! NO! NO! NO!" I managed to hold it together until we got to the shoes, at which point Gus kicked me and I lost my temper. Mind you, we'd been wrestling for about ten minutes at this point. I was tired and pissed and my son was hysterical, sobbing, and incoherent.

So I left and went out to the living room, where I paced and breathed and tried not to cry as Gus was losing it in his bedroom.

But the fun didn't end there! (In case you were wondering, we did make it to the park after we both apologized to each other...Gus had a less-than-spectacular time, probably because he was already worn out from his screaming fit)

Fast-forward to the afternoon, just after naps. I am laying on the bed with Will when Gus wakes up and comes into the room. He climbs on the bed and we snuggle. Then I begin to feel queasy. I gather up the baby and we all head into the bathroom, where Will decides he's suddenly! hungry! and must! eat! now!

So, I begin to breastfeed him as I'm sitting on the toilet. Yes, motherhood is as glamorous as it looks on TV! As Will is nursing, Gus is playing in the shower, pretending the old (disconnected) showerhead is a telephone. All of the sudden, I feel as if I'm going to be quite ill.

I unlatch the baby and lay him on the bathroom floor (luckily, Gus had tossed his blanket there) and proceed to throw up the left-over tacos I'd had for lunch. Gus watches and looks slightly concerned for a nanosecond, but then quickly forgets about me when he discovers that look! Mommy's toothbrush fits perfectly in the sink drain! And, he can get the cap off the toothpaste!

When I pull my head out of the toilet, Gus is smearing toothpaste on his cheeks, and my toothbrush is firmly lodged in the drain. Even though all I wanted to do was crawl into my bed and die, I picked up Will and shooed Gus out of the bathroom, though not before he'd stopped in front of the toilet and pretended to vomit. Just like Mommy! Preschool is nothing compared to what you can learn at home!

So I call my husband and beg him to come home from work. He says he'll be home as soon as possible. Because my stomach is still a roiling pit of acid and tacos, we switch bathrooms to wait for Daddy, moving to the kids' bathroom where Gus can't reach the sink as easily. I put Will in his bouncy seat as I sit on the edge of the tub. Gus comes in and flushes the toilet, which is a hobby of his. I know this, but because I'm knocking on Death's door, I don't care what the kid is doing as long as he isn't in immediate danger.

He quickly realizes that Mommy is ignoring him, so he flushes the toilet again. And this time, it overflows! I watch as the toilet fills and water begins to spill out onto the floor. But I don't care. Gus is giggling and splashing in toilet water, and I'm thinking about giving him a snorkel because at least he's not bothering me.

I hear someone laughing, and then I realize it's me. Because if I don't laugh, I'm going to cry. "What the hell?!" I wonder out loud, and Gus picks up the cry.

"What the hell, what the hell," he says, giggling, while he splashes in the toilet water. Clearly, he can't remember a day as awesome as this one. In the middle of all of this, Will is sitting quietly wide-eyed in his chair, a little stranded baby in the spreading sea under my feet. Somehow I remembered that there's a handy little knob under the toilet that stops the water, so I turn it and the deluge tapers off. I shoo Gus out and rescue the baby, and then grab some big towels to throw on the puddle. Towels in place, I quietly close the door and head to my bed.

Gus is now roaming free, soaking wet and delighted. Life is good! I can do whatever I want!

When my husband finally walks through the door, he is greeted by Gus, who is so! stoked! to see Daddy in the middle of the day!

"Welcome to hell, honey." I say to him, when he finally makes it past the wet towels in the hallway to the bedroom, where I am dying with my head under the pillows.

Anything is possible when you have children.

To My Son

2005-06-12T20:48:00.000-04:00

Gus, when did you get to be so crazy and creative? Today you put your bucket on your head and goggles on your face and told me that you were going to ride your motorcycle. Last week, you ran off into the far corner of the backyard, waving goodbye as you prepared to blast off into space.

"I'm going to count the stars, Mommy," you said.

And you know what? I believed you, because I think you're here to do great things. The world was waiting for you, Gus. I know I was, even though finding out I was pregnant with you was a surprise, possibly the biggest shock my system has ever received.

And that doesn't mean that I don't love you, because I do. I love you to the moon and back, Gus, and there is nothing I wouldn't do for you. It's just that everything about you has been a surprise, from the color of your hair to the way you insist on picking out your clothes each morning. You are very much your own man and that makes me proud.

It also presents me with moments where I'm sure you're finally going to make me crazy for good. On Thursday you made me so mad that if I'd been able to clock out and leave this job forever, I would have at least seriously considered it. I told you to lay down and you said, "NO. You lay down."

Four times--FOUR TIMES--we walked to the time-out corner and back to your bed. Once you threw yourself backwards onto the floor and hit your head. The second time you kicked the door hard enough to hurt your bare toe. You were defiant, and I was hoping you didn't sense my aura of desperate determination. Honestly, I was taken aback.

You're two. When did you start acting like a teenager? Every idea I have is met with a resounding no. Park? No. Pool? No. Movie? No. Library? No. Noodles for lunch? No. Maybe someday you'll get to spend the day with someone who thinks all your ideas suck, and then you will get a tiny inkling of how frustrating it sometimes is to be your mother.

And Gus, I only say this because I love you: choose your battles wisely, because I WILL win each and every one of them.

You spend more and more of your time in time-out, considering your transgressions (and the particular shade of blue the wall is painted, I suspect) and offering forced apologies when you've done your two minutes. I don't know if you fully understand time-out yet, but I do know it makes you angry. You get so mad that you bang your head on the wall and cry.

Please know that I dislike time-out as much as you do. Someday you'll read this and understand that disciplining you was my least favorite part of this motherhood thing--but it's important you learn the ways of the world. It sucks, but you will not always get your way, and you will wish for a lot of things you may never have.

But I'm hoping Daddy and I can make up the difference so that you're not left wanting for much.

Sport Utility Baby

2005-06-11T20:45:00.000-04:00

Will is the Lincoln Navigator of babies: very large tank, very low gas mileage.

That, or we've hit the six-week growth spurt. Either way, I've spent most of the day with one breast or the other IN HIS MOUTH. Not that I mind.

2005-06-09T13:12:00.000-04:00

Gus and his cousin Drew.

2005-06-09T13:11:00.000-04:00

Will playing in his bouncy chair.

To Will at One Month

2005-06-07T13:32:00.000-04:00

Will, you turned one month old last week, and I can't believe how big you've gotten already. You weigh 11 lbs! You are a solid, sturdy boy, already as big as your brother was at three months. Gus was so small I was afraid of him, but you--Will, picking you up is like hefting a sack of potatoes over my shoulder. I love your Buddha belly, and the fat rolls at your wrists and ankles. I love that when we prop you up your chubby cheeks sink into your chest--and don't even get me started on your enormous thighs!

We were sitting in the sun today watching Gus play, and Lord help us Will, I think your hair is going to be red. I've been told you look like me, but if your hair comes in red and curly you will be every inch your father's child, just like your brother.

You are so mellow. The only time I've heard you come unglued it was because you were in your carseat and your hat fell over your eyes. The pediatrician had to suction your nose when you were only a few days old, and you acted as if you barely noticed. I was impressed.

But Will, why do you insist on being carried everywhere, even when you're asleep? What difference does it make if you have your nap in the stroller, or the bouncy chair, or the swing? Not you, little man--for you, only the sling will do. Ironically, the more tightly your nose is wedged into my cleavage, the better you sleep.

And what is this nonsense with the pacifier? When I mildly suggest that maybe my breast is sucked dry and my nipple is going to fall off if you don't disengage your lips, you look askance. And when I dare make an attempt at slipping the binky into your little gaping maw, you make this horrible face, a face so horrible and contorted that it makes me wonder if the thing is turd-flavored or something.

But I forgive you because on Sunday morning you woke up and looked me straight in the eye and smiled at me. Which not only means that you like me the best, but that you're a genius. I love you more than I can say, Will, and I'm looking forward to watching you grow.

Breakfast with Gus

2005-06-07T13:15:00.000-04:00

Yesterday Gus served up some good home cookin' to his animals: Leopard (a leopard), Oscar (an elephant), Fox (a fox), and Kiwi (a flightless bird just off the boat from New Zealand). They are the animals he sleeps with each night. He's been known to give them a big group hug while telling them, "I love you guys."

He fried up some eggs, over easy, and paired them with some succulent plastic sausage fresh out of his toybox. They were elegantly presented on hot pink glitter plates set on cardboard boxes.

Leopard, Oscar, Fox and Kiwi appeared to enjoy themselves.

Here we see Leopard and Fox enjoying some eggs, as well as a little snuggle.

And here is Kiwi about to take his first bite of sausage.

Here's Gus, ever the gracious host. In this picture, he's asking Kiwi with concern, "Are you okay?"

Oscar apparently enjoyed himself a little too much (those "coffee" mugs were actually full of mimosas, I suspect). I found him in what appeared to be a drunken stupor, trunk and appendages all askew, sleeping it off where he landed.

And finally, here's a shot of Gus and Leopard hanging out at the box tables, sharing some eggs and conversation.

2005-06-07T12:38:00.000-04:00

Will, one month.

I Should Have Opened That Can of Whoop-Ass

2005-05-31T16:09:00.000-04:00

What follows is an actual conversation I had with a telemarketer not more than fifteen minutes ago:

Me: Hello?

Her: Hello?

Me: Hello?

Her: Hello ma'am, I'm calling to tell you about a great new offer from the NY Times--Sundays only for a very reduced price.

Me: We're not interested. Thank you.

[This is the part where I expected her to back the hell off and hang up the phone. Not this woman. I suspect she may be the same pushy saleswoman who visited friends of mine a few months ago...she must have picked up telemarketing because no one can run you off with their giant baying dog over the phone.]

Her: It's a greatly reduced price, just $4.03 for Sundays and the first two weeks are free. It's an eight-week trial, you can cancel after the first two free weeks, or you can do nothing and we'll continue to bill you.

Me: We're not interested.

Her: Do you read the NY Times?

Me: My husband reads it online. We're really not interested.

Her: Reading the paper online seriously diminishes the appearance of the paper's stunning digital photos, and there's not as much content. The first two weeks are free, you can call to cancel after that. [Her is where I imagine her diving to hang up the phone before I can tell her I'm not interested.]

Me: I'm telling you now, WE ARE NOT INTERESTED. If. We're. Going. To. Be. Billed. We. Are. Not. Interested.

Her: Well, it's your responsibility to cancel after the first two weeks, that's true of many businesses. Just food for thought, if you ever plan on doing business in life again.

Me: We're not interested. Click [insert dial tone]

Seriously. That's what she told me. IF I EVER PLAN ON DOING BUSINESS IN LIFE AGAIN. I wonder how long she plans on keeping her job? And also, I'm thinking, it was the woman's lucky day, because God help her if my husband had answered the phone. She'd be packing up the knick-knacks and family photos on her desk RIGHT NOW.

And God help her if the NY Times shows up on my doorstep this Sunday.

2005-05-25T13:21:00.000-04:00

Gus hulks out.

2005-05-25T13:18:00.000-04:00

Will, three weeks old.

2005-05-23T15:58:00.000-04:00

Will has eyes! Of course, we still hardly ever see them because he sleeps incessantly...

2005-05-23T15:56:00.000-04:00

I cut Gus's hair today--look, he has ears!

I Keep Meaning to Blog

2005-05-23T13:26:00.000-04:00

But then I fall asleep. Will has decided that he'd much rather sleep when the sun is up and party 'til the break of dawn.

So. I'm exhausted.

And have I mentioned how good Gus is at being two? He's damn good at it. Which means I spend a lot of my time watching him stand in the time-out corner. I'm told this is just a phase, and I'm okay with that--but does it have to last an entire year? That just doesn't seem fair.

Of course, parenting isn't about fair, unless you count warfare. Every morning Gus gets up and draws a line in the sand. Sometimes it's because he wants to wear different pants, or doesn't want his diaper changed. Often it's for no reason at all. So I have to throw down. The day he figures out that MOMMY ALWAYS WINS is a day I'm looking forward to.

There are no spankings at our house, but I can see now why one might possibly want to strike one's child. (or sell him to a passing band of vagrants ... or pack him off to be an indentured servant in a mine ... or simply stand him on the curb with his suitcase and a sign that says "free")

Of course, the moments when I think I'm going to have to run shrieking out the front door are tempered by moments of extraordinary cuteness and break-your-heart lovable-ness.

Like when Gus climbs into my lap and lays his little head on my chest while we watch cartoons. Or when he frets over his fussy three-week-old brother, and asks him with concern, "Are you okay, Will? Do you need a binky?"

Or when he shares his snack, unbidden, with everyone in the room. And how excited he is to see the people he loves. These little things, I hope, are glimpses of the man I want Gus to become.

Will's Birth and First Week

2005-05-13T16:35:00.001-04:00

Dreaming of breastmilk.

2005-05-13T16:35:00.000-04:00

One week old.

2005-05-13T16:34:00.000-04:00

Daddy and the boys.

2005-05-13T16:33:00.001-04:00

Look at those cheeks!

2005-05-13T16:33:00.000-04:00

A blurry family photo.

2005-05-13T16:32:00.001-04:00

"I promise, Will, it doesn't suck out here."

2005-05-13T16:32:00.000-04:00

My first look at my boy.

2005-05-13T16:31:00.000-04:00

Will joins the world.

2005-05-13T16:30:00.000-04:00

Look! Tiny feet emerging from my abdomen!

Will!

2005-05-08T11:22:00.000-04:00

He's here...and he's enormous! The planned cesarean was really wonderful, barring the one moment after my spinal when I thought I was going to pass out. I heard Will's first cry and was able to see him seconds after he was born.

He's gorgeous. Darker and fatter than his brother, he hardly ever cries. He has a fuzzy little head and long, elegant fingers. His eyes are blue but will not stay that way.

I wish I had pictures to post, but our house is still in massive disarray and the only working computer is our laptop. The printer is hiding somewhere in a pile of boxes (we use the printer to download digital pics off the camera's memory card).

My one thought now is--how am I going to handle two boys when my husband goes back to work? I'm worried about the exhaustion factor, which is admittedly looking up because Will went two three-hour stretches between feedings last night. But still, I had surgery and am finding out how easily I can overdo things, even though the most I've done all week (other than breastfeed) is fold laundry and make Gus a sandwich.

I Got Nothin'

2005-04-24T00:17:00.000-04:00

It's past midnight and I'm still awake. I was in bed a while ago, nicely settled and praying I'd fall asleep quickly, when Will kicked a nerve that made my right leg twitch. And then I was hungry.

So now I'm here on the couch, lamenting the fact that SNL is not really that funny and that we only get 22 crappity channels. I ate a bagel and had some apple juice, and am now contemplating the giant stack of boxes in front of the fireplace. Will is arriving in 8 days, and we're moving out of this tiny condo forever in just over 24 hours.

I'm a little sad. This is the first home that my husband and I have ever owned together. Gus's first days were spent in the tiny little room just at the top of the stairs. He took his first steps in this living room and had his first Christmas and Easter and Halloween here.

I'll never forget him jumping off the bottom stair and shouting "TA-DA!" Or running into the kitchen and getting a straw or his Play-Doh. My husband and Gus have played chase back and forth between the kitchen and the living room, and sometimes around and around the coffee table.

On Fridays, Gus stands on a chair to watch the garbage truck through the big picture window. He learned to love stars and moons in his bedroom by looking at the glow-in-the-dark ones on his ceiling. My husband and I have both rocked him to sleep in this house more times than we can count or even remember.

I wonder if Gus will remember any of these things?

Will he remember our neighbor Omar, or the kids next door that used to let him follow them around? Will he remember the first time he got to help wash the car and how funny he thought it was to squirt Daddy and me with the hose? Will he remember walking the dogs or getting the mail? Will he remember looking for bugs in the grass outside our door, or watering the plants with Daddy? The sandbox we kept on the back porch, or drawing on the cement with sidewalk chalk?

I know there are also plenty of things about this condo that I won't miss--for instance, our lovely Dominican neighbors who can't speak to each other without yelling in furious Spanish (we often hear them through the walls). Or the woman who would pull up in front of her door and honk at her children at seven am, I suppose to get them to rush out the door to school. And have I mentioned the guy who "walks" his un-neutered male chow by letting the dog roam the neighborhood and empty his bowels and bladder where he will?

But by and large, my memories of this place will be good ones. We've been happy here. We became a family here.

In Which I Admit to Being Overly Dramatic

2005-04-22T21:30:00.000-04:00

This morning things looked much less bleak. I realized that much of my drama is related to the fact that I am a raging ball of hormones who gets very little sleep.

This afternoon, the sun was again shining at our house. The house is, by all reports, going to be done in time for the walk-through on Monday morning. So things are going ahead as planned. Move, unpack, wedding, BABY! Obviously, I'm most excited about the BABY!

The lovely women from the mommies' group I belong to have offered to help me unpack, to watch my dogs, and to chase Gus around. Food has been volunteered. Others are coming to haul our furniture so I don't have to.

I love my friends.

Someday We're Going to Laugh About This

2005-04-21T22:17:00.000-04:00

And laugh and laugh and laugh...

When my husband and I went by our new house today to see how things are coming along, we were amazed that almost nothing has changed since last weekend. We're closing on Monday, and there's no dishwasher, no kitchen sink, no bathroom fixtures, no doorknobs, and no carpet. The two windows that needed to have their broken panes replaced are still broken. The phone jacks are not wired. (Oh yeah, and the kitchen is ridiculously tiny. There are only TWO DRAWERS, people.)

I could go on, but I think you know where I'm going with this. Unless a miracle occurs between tomorrow morning and Monday at closing, the chances of us being able to move in as planned are looking very slim.

Isn't that funny? I laughed so hard I cried when I realized what's going on.

This whole closing and moving thing are all part of a delicate balancing act that we've been working on for months. The plan is to move in on Monday (the 25th), unpack like maniacs (26th-29th), and then attend C and S's wedding from Friday until late Saturday night (29th-30th).

On Sunday (May 1st), we were going to unpack some more and try to relax and enjoy our last day as a family of three. I've been promising Gus for weeks that we'd plant flowers before his brother is born (on May 2nd! by c-section, which means I will be nearly incapable of doing anything more useful than breastfeeding Will for about six weeks!)--plant them at our new blue house, that is.

And have I mentioned how excited the girl that bought this place is about moving in? I'm sure she's already loaded a truck and sent out change-of-address cards.

Our phone, cable, and electricity are due to be shut off on Monday. We've rented a U-haul and practically everything we own is in boxes. I have ABSOLUTELY NOTHING together for little Will, except the cloth diapers I bought this morning.

Are you laughing yet?

I'm feeling slightly manic. I envision us living in a hotel room we can park a U-haul in front of. It sure will be fun to tell Will how we were homeless when he was born because the local slum lord realtor couldn't stay on top of his contractors.

The good news is (there is some good news) that our mortgage broker can stick it to Mr.Bigg for us so we don't lose the house or our 5.85% financing rate. Also in our favor is my husband's Scotch/Irish temper, which will be unleashed in what I imagine will be a very ugly scene if someone doesn't solve this house problem quickly.

Check back tomorrow for an exciting update on what shall henceforth be known as The House Chronicles.

Things Keeping Me Awake Tonight

2005-04-18T23:04:00.000-04:00

1. We're having a baby in 13 days!

2. We're moving in 6 days!

3. Will Gus wake up before dawn again tomorrow?

4. What does Will look like?

5. Is it possible to unpack all of these boxes in just five days?

6. What kind of flowers should we let Gus plant at the new house?

7. Who's going to win American Idol? And why why why did they vote Nadia off?

8. Does Will have hair?

9. Can I handle two children? Based on how things went today, I'm thinking it's going to be touch-and-go for a while. I had to call Charlie and ask him to come home from work--it was that, or sell Gus on Ebay. Seriously. It's frightening how quickly Gus can make me feel like screaming and tearing out my hair. I was, for the first time, afraid that I would hurt him if I didn't get someone in to relieve me for a while. Being a Mommy has been less than spectacular these last few weeks because I'm stressed out and exhausted. I think the key is to keep busy and make sure we get out of the house at least once a day. Also, it helps to remember that being two is hard, and that Gus really is a lovely child underneath all the no's and acting out. He also picks up on my stress.

10. Will the cardinals' secret conclave ever end? And how devoted do you have to be to stand in St. Peter's square while they work it out?

11. What on earth am I going to make for dinner tomorrow night?

12. How come there's never any shortage of laundry?

13. How long is it going to take to recover from my c-section?

14. Where would I be without Sleepytime Tea?

15. Am I brave enough to be awake during surgery? Because it creeps me out a little.

16. Is it ever going to warm up enough to take Gus to the Y to swim?

17. Why did we have to change our phone number again? We're only moving a few miles away.

18. Am I ever going to get enough sleep? Why can't I sleep?

19. Should I keep my wedding dress? It's not as if I'm ever going to wear it again. But I love it so much. But my boys will never need it.

20. What color should I paint Gus's new room? Will's room? My room?

21. Would I sleep better if I slept on the couch?

22. Is there a place for our pot rack in the new kitchen? Because I really love that pot rack.

23. What should I plant in my new vegetable garden?

24. Are my orchids and my miniature rose going to die when we move? Because they really love their window.

25. Do I remember how to breastfeed a baby?

26. How big will the new baby be?

Yeah. So you can see why I'm having difficulty sleeping. I CAN'T TURN OFF MY BRAIN.

Sleepytime Tea

2005-04-17T23:21:00.000-04:00

I didn't think I was going to write anything else, but it turns out I can't sleep. Because all the pens are packed, my journal is officially sidelined until further notice. Which leaves me with this blog.

I fell off the toilet this evening. Before you start to laugh, know that I was standing on it to take down our shower curtain. Because I'm 37 weeks pregnant and about as graceful (though much better looking) as your average elephant seal, when I finished and went to step down onto the floor, I fell instead. And bruised the heck out of my right thigh.

Gravity 1, Daisy 0.

I'm waiting for my Sleepytime Tea (now with valerian!) to steep. Does it get any worse than The Wedding Planner on TBS at 11:27 pm? I thought not.

My head is a jumble when I lay down to sleep. I can't stop wondering how everything is going to make it out of boxes in time for Will to be born. I'm wondering if Gus will be okay with all of this. I'm wondering how the birth will go. I make lists in my head of the things I still need to feel ready for a new baby.

Diapers, cloth (and disposable in case I'm unable to do laundry right away).
Pacifiers.
Baby washcloths.
Breast pads.
Something to wear until my regular clothes fit again.
A baby swing.
A bouncy seat.

Laundry must be done. There is no furniture for Will's room. We need a new dining room table and window coverings and everything has to be cleaned and where are we going to put our clothes? (the last question would make a whole lot more sense if you could see the master bedroom closet)

On the upside, May 2nd is starting to feel like Christmas. I'm so ready to see our boy's face. I want to hold him and introduce him to his older brother. I'm looking forward to the moment I can hear him crying in the delivery room, a moment that will be made all the more precious simply because I missed out on it with Gus. Does Will have hair? Will he be bigger than Gus was? More laid back? Fussier? I'm dying to know.

2005-04-17T21:16:00.000-04:00

Gratuitous nudity.

2005-04-17T21:15:00.000-04:00

Surprise!

2005-04-17T20:33:00.000-04:00

Super Robot!

That's One Round Head

2005-04-14T23:22:00.000-04:00

Today I had my 36-week OB appointment. It was mostly routine--I peed in the cup, stood on the scale, and then heard Will's heartbeat--until we got to the part where the doctor discovered via ultrasound that the boy has his head in my ribcage.

Such a lovely round head.

It turns out that my darling boy is in the footling breech position, which is (according to the Internets) rare among breech babies, who are themselves unusual (only 3-4% of all babies end up in this position in the last stages of pregnancy). For those of you keeping score at home, this means that the baby will have to be delivered by c-section.

After all my planning and hoping and rocking on a birth ball, it appears that once again the stars are not aligned in my favor. And yet, I feel strangely calm about the whole thing. We're scheduled to go to the hospital on May 2nd at 10 am, and just like that, we'll have a baby.

In the chaos that has lately been my life (did I mention that we're moving in just over a week? and that five days later we're attending a wedding in which my husband is the best man?), knowing when Will is coming is refreshing. I've spent the last two weeks wondering if a VBAC was the right decision, if I have what it takes to make it through labor and delivery. The sheer great unknown-ness of going into labor has been keeping me awake at night. When will it happen? How long will it take? How badly will it hurt?

I have also been fretting because it's counter-intuitive to be packing boxes when what I really want to be doing is arranging the nursery furniture and folding baby things. I worry constantly about Gus and how he will handle all of this. Does he really want a little brother? Based on his recent clinginess and bouts of toddler angst, I would say the answer is definitely not. He's taken to hitting me (or doing things he knows will get him in trouble) when he thinks I'm not paying enough attention to him. What's really fun about this is that he totally breaks down when I put him in time out for misbehaving.

I've tried to be extra kind and extra understanding, but sometimes I just don't know what to do for the kid. It's not his fault he has no idea what the hell is going on--I hardly know myself.

A scheduled c-section means that Nana can get here before I head to the hospital, which hopefully means less trauma for Gus. It means that I know exactly how much time I have left to prepare Will's room and do his laundry. I can gather the last few necessary baby items with a clear conscience, and tell friends and family when they can visit. I can head to the hospital and remain completely lucid for the birth, hopefully after a good night's rest. Heck, I even have time to freeze a few dinners for when I won't be able to cook.

All of these things make me feel as if I finally have some control. In the midst of all the stress, I have a date--and that means I can have a plan. And that makes me feel just a little less crazy.

Good Weekend, Bad Haircut

2005-04-05T20:07:00.000-04:00

1. Gus turned two on Sunday. TWO. I can't believe it. We had a small party on Saturday for which I made a football cake. The boy could talk about nothing else. When we pulled up to the park to start the party he said, "Yay, Big Park! Have football cake!"

And when the presents came out, Gus was pretty sure he'd died and gone to heaven. The look on his face clearly said, "I ask for no more in life than this." He got new Matchbox cars, a pirate ship, a Thomas the Tank Engine (which is a large toddler cult I've been meaning to post about for a while) train, and a small replica of a Dodge truck (just like Daddy's) with doors and a tailgate that open. He came home dirty and exhausted.

We're still talking about the football cake.

2. On Saturday, I got a bad haircut. Well, I think it's bad. My husband swears that he likes it, but I know if my sister were here she'd be calling me "Shroomie." As in mushroom. The part of the haircut I dislike the most is the back. If I had known what the hairstylist was thinking, how short she was going to cut it, I would have stopped her before she started. But because I can't see the back of my head and rarely spend time thinking about it, it doesn't matter.

Out of sight, out of mind. Besides, we're moving in less than three weeks, and Will will be here (hopefully) in just about five. My hair is not high on my list, though maybe it should be. Whatever, newborns can't see well anyway, and Gus doesn't seem to mind.

3. We met our doula (labor assistant) this weekend. Do you know, before she came to my house, I was ready to hang it all up and schedule a c-section. Even after all my big talk. Of course, last week stunk on so many levels. Gus was a snot-nosed no beast, I was sick, and no one was sleeping well. And then my doctor mentioned that the baby might be breech (butt down, instead of his head, which is supposed to come out first). So I thought, what the hell, at least with a c-section I wouldn't have to wait to go into labor. No waiting, no stress.

But then J came over and made me feel so much better. We talked about my birth experience with Gus, and what I expect to get out of this second birth. We talked about ways I could be kinder to myself, and she suggested things that would help lower my stress level. I don't know if it's because she was another woman listening to me, or because she's also the mother of a young child--I just felt better after talking with her. I felt stronger, more sure of myself, ready to give labor and natural childbirth a chance again.

So that was good.

4. My parents were in town this weekend for Gus's birthday, and while talking with my mother, I had a revelation. As I mentioned before, last week was crappity. I was starting to doubt my ability to be an adequate parent. Everything was making me crazy, especially Gus. I was telling my mom how frustrating it is to hear him answer every question with "nooo" and how much I hate having to repeat myself.

She asked me what part of mothering I do enjoy, and just then I didn't have an answer.

"But didn't you hate telling me 1,000 times not to climb on the table?" I whined. My mom replied that it never bothered her, and that it was just part of raising children, and also that it means Gus is developmentally on track. Simply put, little kids don't learn by hearing things one time. Repetition is the key. So really, the problem with Gus is not his problem. It's mine. He's relatively new here--how can I expect him to know the rules?

The revelation came when my mother gently reminded me about one of my least favorite characteristics: when things don't come easily to me, I just quit doing them (sports and algebra being the examples that come to mind first). I think this is because so many things do come easily to me. I kind of figure (and I think this is largely subconscious), what's the point? The problem I was having last week was that Gus wasn't being "easy." So I was ready to quit. Of course, being the boy's mother, quitting was not really a viable option, so I chose to whine and burst into tears instead (to my credit, some of that was due to sleep deprivation, a thing I have never handled well). The good news is that maybe next time I can catch myself shrinking away from the harder parts of motherhood and stop before I'm wallowing too deeply in self pity.

I also realized which part of motherhood I do enjoy. I love watching Gus come into himself. Every day he says something new, has some crazy thought that has never been thought before (like when he told me he was a fire monkey and he had to put out the fire). He's so creative, so imaginative, so funny. I love coloring with him, helping him build sand castles, and just sitting with him and talking about whatever he happens to be thinking. I love to watch him pick out his clothes in the morning, because ten-to-one they won't match and he won't care.

I'm not always good at negotiating tantrums with grace, and it's difficult not to scream and tear out my hair when he throws food at the dinner table. I hate, hate, hate to repeat myself and I always get frustrated by Gus's zealous over-use of "no." The thing to remember is that none of those things make me a bad mother. Just normal. Like any job, motherhood has its perks; it also has its drawbacks.

So overall, a good weekend with a bad haircut.

Jelly Bean Hangover and American Idol

2005-03-23T21:04:00.000-05:00

Does anyone else love those cheap, sugar-laden jelly beans as much as I do? My teeth are coated in sugar. I think I've eaten close to an entire bag while sitting here waiting for American Idol to come on. It's a LIVE! DO-OVER! SHOW! because some underpaid guy in the back messed up the voting numbers.

By the by, if I could finish the remaining six weeks of this pregnancy eating nothing but donuts, cheeseburgers, pizza, and rootbeer, I would be a very happy girl. I'd probably give birth to a giant baby, but all my cravings would be satisfied.

And has anyone else noticed how useless Paula Abdul is as a judge? She always says something like this: "Not your best performance, a little pitchy, but I still love you. I'm rooting for you."

She's rooting for EVERYBODY. There is no one she dislikes because she's happy! and upbeat! and trying not to crush fragile egos! Personally, I much prefer Simon's tell-it-like-it-is style of judging. He reminds me of my favorite poetry professor, who never hesitated to let you know when your writing sucked. On the other hand, when he praised you, it meant that much more because you knew you'd earned it.

Marriage

2005-03-22T21:46:00.000-05:00

Today in Time magazine, I read this:

"I have to tell the maid to buy diapers and get the pool boy to walk the dog? Can't I just make out with Kevin all the time? Being married sucks."

Now, guess who said that? C'mon, I'll give you three chances.

Give up?

Britney Spears, quoted from a recent interview with Allure magazine. It made me think so many things.

1. My God! She's right! Being married DOES suck. There's never any time to just sit around and make out, even with the pool boy and the maid around to pick up all the slack. And the diapers! Such a headache, trying to remember what size the maid is supposed to buy for the nanny to use. Just think how little time there would be for hanky panky if Britney had to actually diaper a child.

2. The fact that all she wants to do is sit around and make out with her sleazy husband (a la Pamela Anderson and Tommy Lee or Angelina Jolie and Billy Bob Thornton) proves what I've long suspected: Britney is a skank masquerading as an innocent young woman from Louisiana. Which explains the deep and abiding love a certain base ex-boyfriend of mine had for her (he even owned her CD--and if you try to tell me that 24-year-old men buy a Britney Spears CD because they think she can sing, then I will ask you to say it with a straight face and your hand resting on a Bible).

3. The pool boy has to walk the dog? Because it's this little, ridiculous Chihuahua that could just as easily pass for a rat wearing diamonds. I think Britney used it as an accessory--think cowering, furry purse with bulging eyes--at some recent awards show. And worse, Britney has to remind him to walk it. That must take a whole thirty seconds every time she does it, which must add up to something like an astounding five minutes out of her entire day! Honestly, how much waste could a three-pound dog really be producing?

4. Has anyone taken a good look at her beloved Kevin ? Because, my god he is attractive. I like the Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean thing, except I'm pretty sure Johnny Depp doesn't think he's a pirate in real life.

I hope they live happily every after.

Daisy and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Weekend

2005-03-19T21:11:00.000-05:00

Thursday morning, my husband left for four days of rest and relaxation in the forest with one of his buddies. Hiking, sleeping in, listening to the lovely birds chirping in the beautiful trees, and oh yeah, no boys or dogs.

It's been, to put it mildly, one of the worst weekends of my life. You see, when he asked me three months ago if he could go camping in March, I said, "SURE! Why not? It's not as if you'll be able to go after the new baby comes--you go enjoy yourself."

Really, I said that.

Of course, how could I have known that Gus would have another sinus infection, that the dogs would crap on the floor, that I would be getting way less than enough sleep (due to my uncomfortably large belly and the fact that I never sleep well by myself in the house at night), and that I would have about as much patience as a tiger with a toothache?

I reached maxed out my stress level about five minutes after my husband walked out the front door. The tears have been free-flowing these last three days (Gus's and mine), and I'm sure the poor boy thinks his mother has lost her mind. But put yourself in my situation.

Most days, my husband walks through the door at five or so. I make dinner while he plays with Gus, which is a physical and mental break for me. So I'm used to hanging out with Gus all day, and I can handle pretty much anything as long as I know that soon my dear husband will be home to relieve me. Trust me, we have days where I count the hours until naptime and then again until husband time. This weekend has been an extended version of that kind of day, only without the husband time.

Gus is sick. His nose is a font of green snot, which can only mean that his head is pounding because of the pressure in his sinuses. He coughs like a miner with black lung disease, which is making it hard for him to sleep. He also wants his Mommy ALL THE TIME. Thursday afternoon he woke up from his nap and proceeded to throw a tantrum when I pulled him out of his crib.

And it was no ordinary tantrum. It was the kind where he screams and screams and then throws himself out of my arms onto the floor where he hits his head and then writhes because it hurts. The kind of tantrum where I have to leave the room in order to keep my cool. The kind that only stops when you, the mother, haul the screaming boy into your bedroom and lay him on the bed (where he again flings himself backward, employing his head as a battering ram) and turn on PBS in a last desperate attempt to regain some--any--kind of control.

Friday morning Gus was up at 5:30. Since it had taken me a couple of hours to fall asleep Thursday night (after I spent an hour trying to get Gus to sleep, a routine that involves fifty bedtime stories, gallons of milk, and naming everyone in the whole world who has gone to sleep because it's dark outside), I changed his diaper and put him in my bed. Where he decided he wanted to talk to me until he fell back to sleep for a whole forty-five minutes. I never did get back to sleep.

And at 7:15, Gus climbed on top of me and bashed his head into mine. Good morning, Mommy--have a concussion! Needless to say, head-butting makes me see red, and I believe I spoke to the boy in a tone of voice I've never used before. He started to cry. So did I.

Fast-forward to this evening. Gus and I spent a lovely day in Tampa with my friend Alli. We went to the aquarium, we went out to lunch. Gus cried all the way home because he was miserable in his car seat. When we finally walked through our front door, the whole house stunk of crap. Dog crap. On the entry-way rug. When I went to discipline the dog--because I was pissed, he knows better, and I did not get home that late--he tried to bite me. So I literally kicked his ass. He began to yelp. I started to cry. So did Gus.

I thought we'd be fine without my husband. I was wrong. The way I see it, he owes me. I'm 33 weeks into my second pregnancy, sleeping poorly, and caring for a sick little boy and two dogs I sometimes wish would disappear (the dogs, not the boy). The weather has been crap all weekend, which means we got to spend even more time in our tiny condo than I was planning.

I'm thinking an all-expenses-paid vacation to Hawaii. But I'd settle for him doing the grocery shopping, making me a nice dinner, and then letting me sleep until ten all next weekend.

If I Only Had a Brain

2005-03-17T20:26:00.000-05:00

You've probably noticed that I haven't been posting as frequently. This is because I am in the latter stages of pregnancy, and my brains are sliding out of my ears at an alarming rate. Not to mention the fact that by seven pm every night I'm so tired my eyeballs feel as if they're no longer firmly stuck in their sockets.

And let's not forget the nearly two-year-old boy who has decided that sleeping is no longer his "thing." My former good sleeper, the child who would lay down in his bed after a story without making a sound and then quietly play until he fell asleep, is gone. He's been replaced by a monster who begs to sleep in my bed and cries and cries when he's denied the privilege.

"No Gus," we explain, "you have your own bed." And then, as his father carries him off to his room for the nightly story, cuddle, giggle, and last drink of milk routine, Gus stretches out his arms to me and starts to cry tears the size of golf balls.

"Moooommmmyyyy," he shrieks, in heart-wrenching tones. I flee the scene and try to drown the cries, but inevitably end up going into his bedroom and sitting with him in the rocking chair until he falls asleep. I know he's almost two, but I can only take so much my-heart-is-broken-and-I'm-going-to-need-therapy-because-of-YOU crying.

When I enter Gus's room, it's as if there's a switch that magically stops the crying.

"Do you want to sit in the rocking chair, buddy?" I ask.

"Yes, ok." Gus grabs his blanket and leaps into a standing position. I lift him over the side of the crib and we settle in the rocking chair, where the boy begins to talk. And talk. It's as if he hasn't gotten to say a word to me all day and he's only just remembered everything he wanted to tell me.

"Mr. Topham Hat went bed. Percy went bed. Daddy up in sky. Moon come out. Maybe come out. It's dark. Drew takin' nap. Daddy drove truck away. Park closed. Yeah."

I listen as patiently as I can and then ask Gus to close his eyes.

"It's dark outside. When the moon comes out, everyone goes to bed, even Mommy and Daddy," I tell him.

Gus squeezes his eyes shut and keeps them closed. Eventually he stops looking as if he's concentrating on his eyes so much; his face relaxes and he falls asleep. Then--and only then--can I lay him down without more crying.

This whole I-want-Mommy-and-only-Mommy thing started about five days ago and I can't figure it out. My only guess is that maybe, on some toddler level, Gus has started to realize that things here are about to change. I look different to him. We've spent a lot of time talking about his new baby brother. So maybe all this craziness is because he's anxious and afraid and trying hard to sort it all out. I'm hoping that my reassuring him now will make him feel better when the baby actually arrives.

I'm also hoping that he figures it out soon because I am so very, very tired.

The Great Diaper Experiment

2005-03-10T20:02:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, I spent $177 on cloth diapers.

Today, I road tested them on Gus.

He hates them with a passion I have rarely seen him display in his two (almost) short years of life. When I put the first diaper on him this morning he started to cry. By the third diaper, he was head-butting me and screaming.

Interestingly enough, I've been able to remain calm. I didn't even consider hurling the boy through the window of his bedroom like I usually do when he head-butts me. Instead, I simply got up and left the room. And rather than throw my hands in the air and let out a primal scream when he attempted to remove his diaper cover, I gently replaced it and put a pair of pants on over it.

"Gus," I said, "if this is how you want to act about every diaper, it's going to be a very long day. You might as well get used to these diapers. We bought them--and we're using them."

As of this evening, things are looking up. The boy still despises the cloth, but he seems to have decided that it's no longer worth the effort to throw a tantrum. Of course, he's still walking like a greenhorn riddled with saddle sores--and you should see him freak out when he realizes he's just peed himself and OH MY GOD BEING WET SUCKS.

But. We're sticking with it for two reasons: 1) I hate leaky disposable diapers and 2) I started this war and now I have to win. Reason #2 may sound petty, but it's actually one of parenting's cardinal rules. Never, ever lose the war (which is why it's wise to choose your battles).

And hey, maybe, just maybe, Gus will decide he hates these cloth diapers enough to start using the potty.

If You Don't Think This Is Cute, You Have No Soul

2005-03-08T19:38:00.000-05:00

Jack at the zoo.

Thanks a Pantload

2005-03-07T12:00:00.000-05:00

No, I haven’t died. I also didn’t give birth to Finn while no one was looking, though that would certainly explain my recent absence.

See, the thing is, we’re still trying to buy a house and it’s becoming increasingly painful. The deal on the first house fell through, which is okay because, honestly, it was turning into The Money Pit. The sellers actually offered us money to fix it up, if we sold our condo in four days. Let me just say that the measly $4,000 they had offered to give us would not begin to touch the $15,000 or so worth of repairs that the house actually needed.

Thanks a pantload, people.

I will not name names because I’m trying to be civil, but there is a certain realtor--we’ll call him Mr. Big--in town who owns what seems like hundreds of houses. He was selling The Money Pit, as well as another house we made an offer on last week. You see, Mr. Big buys houses, fixes them up, and sells them in order to make a profit. He’s been doing this for years. In fact, we looked at a few of his places before we bought our condo just over two years ago.

So Mr. Big is fixing up this little house on the NW side of town--a little three bedroom in a pleasant older neighborhood. Nothing spectacular, but it would serve our little family nicely. Charlie and I decided to make an offer on it. Not a full price one, but also not so far off the mark that any reasonable person would be offended.

Mr. Big refused--because we have not yet sold our condo. Mind you, this house he’s fixing up is in the very early stages of being refurbished. The kitchen is gutted. Nothing is painted. There’s a giant pile of insulation sitting in the living room. It’s not as if our trying to sell our condo while his workers fix up this house is going to cost him anything. The man didn’t even counter our offer.

That’s the third offer Charlie and I have made Mr. Big in our lives. I don’t know, but it just doesn’t seem to be working out. I’m putting my foot down. There’s something shady about the man, and as far as I’m concerned, he can keep his crappity houses.

Thanks a pantload, Mr. Big.

The good news is that we have since found a house we like very much--a house Mr. Big is not selling. We’re making an offer on it today and that’s all I can tell you because I don’t want to jinx it. If it works out, I’ll let you know.

In the meantime, does anyone want a condo? Very nice, relatively cheap...

Human for Sale

2005-02-15T20:04:00.000-05:00

Selling things has been on my mind lately, mostly because we're trying to sell our condo. So, for fun, I googled "for sale." Look what I found!

Humans for Sale , where a simple questionnaire "will attempt to place a value on your life using a variety of criteria in four basic facets of life (physical, mental, lifestyle, personality)."

Currently, there are more than 2.5 million humans for sale! After taking the test, it turns out that I am worth exactly $2,130,288.00.

I'll keep that in mind next time I'm about to sell myself short. (HA! The jokes are so good here!) But I digress.

Our condo has been on the market for two weeks and it hasn't sold. Not that two weeks is a long time--it's just that last summer these condos were hotter than an Englishman on Cocoa Beach, and now ... not so much. A few people have come to look, but we've only gotten one offer. An offer so low that it wasn't even worth counter-offering.

And have I told you about the place we want to buy? It's a nice little concrete block house from the fifties with an enormous yard. It's yellow and white, has a converted carport, and is on a pleasant little street next to a Presbyterian church. So far so good, right?

The people who currently own the house are, to put it mildly, dirty. The carpet is moldy because the roof leaks. The washing machine drains into the backyard, which, according to at least one city ordinance, is not allowed. A couple of windows are broken. The addition is not insulated--nope, it's just paneling nailed onto the frame. The shower pan in the master bedroom leaks, which has led to water damage in the hallway linen closet and (if I'm not mistaken) the bedroom door frame. Every screen on the screened porch is flapping in the breeze. There is no dishwasher.

The bathroom is going to have to be gutted. The roof is going to have to be replaced. So are all the windows. Every stitch of carpeting is going to have to be torn out. Every wall is going to have to be painted with Killz. So is the whole floor. The paneling in the addition has to be removed and replaced with insulation and drywall. There are a few live wires hanging around that need to be addressed (frankly, I don't know why they haven't been fixed already, the homeowners have three small children).

It's a fixer-upper. Still, we like the place and really want to buy it. It's in town, it's in our price range, and can you say "instant equity?" Even with all its problems, I can see our family there. It would be a good place to raise my boys. It's close to all the things I love about Gainesville--Ward's, the downtown library, Westside Park, the University.

I'll let you know what happens. Buying a place while selling another is sort of like running a three-ring circus with your hands tied behind your back. There are several things that still need to happen, but with any luck we'll be closing at the end of March or the beginning of April. Perhaps we can unveil the new house the same day we unveil the new baby.

Today on Dr. Phil...

2005-02-15T15:38:00.000-05:00

Parents living vicariously through their children! J.J.'s parents are adamant that he be an athlete. The catch? He's 8 MONTHS OLD. 8 months. I'm sure all those sports outfits are going to inspire him, though. I mean, what 8-month-old doesn't know what he wants to be when he grows up? In fact, they named him J.J. because it "sounds athletic."

I would just like to note that neither parent is an athlete--but they go to a lot of games, have a sports bar in their house, and own lots of sports memoribilia! That poor child. I'll bet he wants to be a ballet dancer, or better, a poet. And as far as I'm concerned, he ought to have that choice.

One of the neatest things about having a little boy around the house is that I'm getting to know who he is--not who I want him to be. Gus loves trucks, his sandbox, and spaghetti. He runs everywhere and likes to pick out which shirt he's going to wear every morning. His most favorite posession is his blanket. Playing outside makes him unbelievably happy and he's a big fan of "Bob the Builder."

If I got up every morning and said to myself, "What do I want Gus to do today?" I wouldn't know any of those things. I don't believe children come into our lives so we can make them into adults. I believe they grow into adults whether we like it or not, and that my job as a parent is to make sure my son knows the ways of the world. Play nice, no hitting, share everything. The shirt he's wearing or the job he chooses make no difference, as long as he's responsible, thoughtful, and kind.

When Will is born, we'll treat him just the same. We'll love him because he's Will, and help him find what makes him who he is. I am more concerned about teaching my boys to appreciate what they have than I am about making them into Baby Einsteins. I want them to feel love and acceptance. I want them to find their passions in life, not mine. Trucks and cars and running don't make me nearly as happy as they make Gus--but I'm not Gus. I'm his mother.

Baby Pending

2005-02-14T21:09:00.000-05:00

Will is due in just about three months!

Nothing Says I Love You Like A Meatloaf

2005-02-14T15:12:00.000-05:00

Happy Valentine's Day! Since we're broke, I'm making a fancy dinner. Meatloaf, baked potatoes, green beans, and buttered bread. By candlelight. It's not filet mignon, but we really like meatloaf at our house and I haven't made it in ages.

Romantic, no?

Oh, and did I mention the dark chocolate cake with triple fudge chocolate icing and strawberries? I'm the reason pregnant women shouldn't be allowed in the baking aisle at Publix.

Not much else going on. In a few years, Valentine's Day is going to be a whirlwind of filling out tiny cards festooned with cartoon characters. I'm guessing it will be my job to make sure that Jack and Finn don't leave out any of the kids in their classes, even the "dorks." But for now, we're keeping it simple.

This is for Sharon

2005-02-13T19:35:00.000-05:00

Get a job, cat.

Let's Get a Few Things Straight, People

2005-02-13T12:38:00.000-05:00

First of all, a person with five children is not necessarily dependent on public assistance to keep their "baby factory" going. There's a good chance that said person receives none of your tax dollars for WIC, Medicaid, food stamps, and/or welfare. Perhaps our epidural-using friend is independently wealthy, or a stay-at-home-mom keeping a miser's eye on her small budget. Maybe she's a working mother. I would bet she actually wanted each and every one of her five children.

Since she commented anonymously and said not a word about her financial situation or her reproductive choices (other than suggesting that an epidural made her birth experiences enjoyable), I think it's only fair that we give her the benefit of the doubt without subscribing to ignorant stereotypes.

I'm just saying, is all. Let's keep the comments civil from now on, mmkay?

That being said, I am choosing natural childbirth because I think it's my best choice for having a vaginal delivery, as opposed to a c-section. Having an epidural only opens a laboring woman up to more medical interventions. These interventions can include (but are not limited to): the laboring woman needing intravenous pitocin to speed up a stalled labor, more constant fetal monitoring, an operative delivery (forceps or vacuum), and episiotomy. (You can read about the possible complications of having an epidural here .)

I have been researching VBACs for quite a few months now, and as I understand it, a uterus that has previously been operated on cannot withstand the kind of unnatural contractions that pitocin causes. So here's my scenario:

I get to the hospital, I'm in pain, I ask for the epidural. I am now confined to my bed, unable to feel my legs. Sure, the contractions are a distant memory, but I am now a helpless woman at the mercy of her obstetrician. I am strapped to a fetal monitor. Let's say that for some reason, after the epidural, labor stalls.

I'm stuck at five or six centimeters, still not in pain, but unable to walk, change position, or receive pitocin. They break my water and put a fetal electrode on the baby's scalp for more accurate monitoring of his condition. Soon I find myself on the way to the OR to have another c-section for failure to progress.

The only positive thing about this whole hypothetical experience is that I will be awake for Will's birth. (Which I personally think is creepy--numb me from the waist down and cut me open behind a sheet to deliver the baby? No thank you.)

But please, don't misunderstand me. I am not judging any woman who chooses to deliver her baby either with an epidural or by scheduling a c-section. I just know that neither of those things is the correct choice for me. I've had enough surgery in my life to know that it's not a road I want to walk again anytime soon. Especially unecessarily.

I've been in labor before. I realize it's not the most fun I will ever have, but work is not often fun. It's work. My job as Will's mother is to give him the best start in life that I can. For me, that means not scheduling a cesarean and not relying on pain medication to bring him into the world. It means being present for each contraction and welcoming the pain as the natural consequence of him exiting my body. It means physically trusting that I was made to do this, that there is nothing about birth that isn't natural.

Midwives believe that there are no complications in birth until proven otherwise--sort of an innocent-until-proven-guilty approach. And I honestly think they're right. Sure, there is a higher infant mortality rate in third-world countries where all the "mud-squatting earth mothers" are birthing their babies, but very little of that has to do with their chosen method of birth. I would be more inclined to blame poverty, poor sanitation, lack of vaccines and poor nutrition.

Natural birth is safer for babies for myriad reasons. There is nothing natural about sticking a needle into your spine and then pushing when you're told. I am not a masochist. I am simply a woman whose first birth experience was so over-medicalized that it's been difficult to come to terms with. I am choosing something different for my second try. I am prepared to deal with the pain. I trust my body and my baby to do what is necessary.

Trust me, I can do this.

Stupid Uterus Tricks

2005-02-10T20:26:00.000-05:00

I've officially reached the point in my pregnancy where, if you're paying attention, you can watch my belly move ALL BY ITSELF. Seriously. When I'm sitting on the couch watching Dr. Phil (because that's what stay-at-home-moms do, for the love of God) my entire abdomen will suddenly twitch. Or squirm. Or takes on the shape of a tiny human hand pressing on my uterus from the inside out.

(Please note: I found this picture on the Internets. It's not Will.)

I think it's fascinating, but also slightly creepy. Sometimes it even hurts a little, such as when Will decides to perform the opening number from Singin' in the Rain on my cervix (lots of tap dancing, but probably without the umbrella).

Is this too much information?

On Tuesday night, my husband and I started practicing for the baby's birth. My husband is going to be my "coach," though, for me, that title conjures up some unpleasant images of a large man in a sweatsuit blowing a whistle in my ear and screaming at me to "PUSH HARDER!" I prefer to think of him as my "birth attendant" or "labor aid." Does anyone else think "labor aid" sounds like a vaguely salty, electrolyte-laden drink?

I practiced squatting* while my husband supported me, and then we did something the Bradley Method book refers to as the "legs apart exercise." Mostly that consisted of my husband trying to hold my legs together while I resisted him with my SUPERHUMAN STRENGTH. There was a lot of giggling.

Later we practiced developing a controlled, natural breathing rhythm, which was very relaxing. Soon we're going to start practicing pain management techniques. Contractions are simulated by holding an ice cube in your hand for one minute--not because that's what it really feels like, but because holding ice that long does actually hurt.

If you can hold an ice cube and also breathe normally, remain relaxed, and not freak out, you're well on your way to doing well in childbirth. It's an idea that we explored in the birth class I took before Gus was born, but not one that my husband and I put into practice at home. The hope is that this time, more practice will equal a more controlled response to actual pain in the moment.

*Did you know that squatting while giving birth increases the size of the pelvic opening by almost 28%? Now ponder this: most hospitals require women to give birth on their backs with their legs in stirrups (the lithotomy position ), a position which actually decreases the size of the pelvic opening and also increases the possibility of the birthing mother receiving an episiotomy .