Tag Archives: Parenting

Black Market Kidneys: A Post About Whining

Okay, internet, let’s talk about whining.

I hate whining. I hate it more than I hate tomatoes. And I REALLY hate tomatoes. And, while I know that kids have to LEARN to use their words (or learn their words before they can USE them), I am not a fan of this stage that Baby L is going through.

Seriously, you guys. I have seriously considered running away from home.

She whines when I hold Baby O because, OHMYGOD, NO ONE IS PAYING ATTENTION TO ME! And she whines when she drops something. You know because OHMYGOD, HOWEVER WILL I RETRIEVE IT!? DAMN GRAVITY! And she whines when she is tired. Because OHMYGOD, SLEEPING IS AWFUL BUT I CAN BARELY KEEP MY EYES OPEN! And she whines when she is hungry. Or someone leaves the room (which is not limited to myself or her father, by the way.) Or when something is on TV that she does not approve of (which includes anything that does not involve a tall, bumpy red guy). Or when I won’t let her stick things in the toilet. Or when the toilet lid is closed, therefore preventing her from putting items in said toilet. She whines about EVERYTHING. And, while she does this for small portions of the day and for the rest of the day is cute and cuddly and so effing hilarious, I am sort of tempted to whine back. Like, “I don’t WAAAAAAANNA make you lunch!” or “I don’t WAAAAAAANNA give you a bath!” but I feel that somehow this would be lost on her. She’d probably think it was the funniest thing I have ever done. Much like the other day when I accidentally inhaled my coffee instead of drinking it (because it is just as essential as air and I got confused) and then choked and almost died while she laughed hysterically because her mommy is hilarious when she is choking to death.

Baby L is a “troubled sleeper”. And by “troubled sleeper”, I mean a tiny monster who does not need to sleep but survives off of the sleep deprivation of her parents. Sometimes I believe she must be overtired. And I can’t imagine how she wouldn’t be. I mean, lately (and I blame molars) she has been taking one nap a day, and this nap lasts less than two hours and then she is a little ball of crazy energy for the rest of the day. And then she fights me at bed time. (Why do kids hate sleeping, you guys? I love sleeping. I love sleeping so much that I am inching closer to selling a kidney on the black market for one blissful day with no kids and nothing but slumber. Craigslist ad would read: Will exchange kidney for 24 hours of babysitting for tiny cyclone and three-month-old meatloaf. Blood type – O positive. Will exchange both kidneys for one week. Dialysis is no joke but I won’t need kidneys if I die of exhaustion, anyway.)

The sleeping thing is all normal. But the whining? That’s new. I am not really sure what to do about it. At about 13 months, she started throwing little temper tantrums (not like, hurling herself onto the ground and flailing like a maniac) but I could tell that she was testing me to see if it was easier for her to get what she wanted if she acted like a little lunatic. Those passed, for the most part, fairly quickly. But now, she is just living up to her title “Princess Cranky Pants” and making me wonder how old she has to be before I can send her to boarding school. In Finland.

So, my question to you, internet? Have you had this problem? Does it go away or have you had to sell your kidneys on Craigslist? How did you deal with it?

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On Being Me…(A Post About Anxiety)

I’ve told you guys before that I am a total basketcase. I am not ashamed of it. I have Generalized Anxiety Disorder that has been untreated for years since I decided that the medication that I was prescribed brought on…well…more crazy. I didn’t want to live my life dependent on some pill to keep me sane. I was pretty sure I could do it myself.

It all started on Christmas Eve (which was also the eve of my 23rd birthday) when my grandfather was rushed to the hospital by ambulance because my grandma and uncle thought he was having a stroke. He was 87 or something at the time, and had already had a couple of TIAs. By the time that I was told about any of that, however, my grandmother had been admitted also. To make a long story short, Grandpa was in perfect health but Grandma, while searching for their insurance information in her purse, lost the use of her left arm and ultimately was the one having a stroke. Bizarre. I know. And it was my birthday. And Christmas.

My grandparents lived with or near us for a good portion of my childhood. And, even in my early adulthood, they were the people I went to for EVERYTHING. My parents are great. My grandparents were saints. On my birthday, we turned off the machines. I held hands with my sister and my grandfather in the hospital I would later be employed at and, in my head, I sang, “Three little monkeys, jumping on the bed, one fell off and bumped his head…” because my grandma used to tell me how much I used to chant those words when I was small and how, after that, she wouldn’t even teach the other grandkids that song. She hated it. But telling the story always made her laugh that sweet laugh that made everyone else smile too. I thought that being annoying, even in my head, would stop me from throwing myself out the window of her room in the ICU. Because, losing her? Well, there’s never been anything worse than that.

That’s when the panic attacks started. They happened in the middle of the night. Out of a dead sleep, I would wake, struggling to breathe, sweating. They would happen when I couldn’t remember where I had parked my car at work. They would happen when my best friend didn’t return my phone call. I was falling apart.

I was put on Zoloft and Xanax by a doctor at the hospital where I worked. She didn’t ask any questions about what was happening in my life. In fact, she asked ZERO questions. I was in the office for less than five minutes. Prescriptions were written and I was excused. Zoloft made me feel like a lunatic and Xanax made me sleepy. So, I didn’t take them. I popped a Xanax only when I was mid-panic and I managed everything with…well…I didn’t. I drank a lot of beer because it mellowed me out. And my friends drank a lot of beer. So it just made sense. And a doctor I worked for did acupuncture on me on a weekly basis to calm me down. And it helped. A lot. But I never really dealt with the root of it all. But I managed.

Two weeks before my 30th birthday, my grandfather died. And so, there I was, back in the same place I had been 7 years before. I fell into a depression. It wasn’t long before the panic attacks returned. With a vengeance. I tried to see a therapist for grief counseling because, even though I have always been a little high strung, I knew that this had to have started there. With death. With loss. But my insurance was crap and I couldn’t afford to pay $50 per week to get my head straight. So I drank more wine. And I managed.

When I started dating my husband, he was so calm. And so ZEN. And so refreshing. And my anxiety was almost non-existent. Until I got pregnant with Baby L. And then I had a hard time finding the balls to leave the house. Why? I don’t know. I just didn’t want to see anyone. Or have conversations with people. I didn’t want to be noticed. I was so scared and felt so alone in my head. That’s when I started this blog. And, oh my god, internet. I can’t tell you the difference that this community of bloggers and readers has helped me just…maintain. But I feel myself slipping.

And not because I have two kids now. And not because my husband is no longer calm and comforting. But because now there are two people in the world who depend on me for everything. And I am terrified of failing. Or losing them. I find myself sanitizing like a madwoman. And avoiding public outings because we could get into a car accident. Or someone could take them. Or they could contract leprosy. I envy those women who can dive into motherhood with an almost carefree abandon about leaving the comfort of their homes and letting their kids experience things. It isn’t that I don’t do that stuff. I do, but it makes me physically ill to think about all of the things that could happen. It is paralyzing. Because anything COULD happen. And I can’t live in fear of EVERYTHING. Can I?

I am trying. Really trying, to learn how to just relax. And I feel It is imperative, at this point, to learn to deal with my fear of loss. To stop thinking so much about what could happen and focus on what IS happening. Because what IS happening is that my kids are growing. They are learning and laughing and becoming little people. And I am afraid to drive down the street for fear that I will miss all of it. When I could miss it just the same if I don’t just DRIVE.

It is a constant struggle. And this is a very personal issue for me. But I needed to talk about it. Because I know that I am not the only one. At least. I hope I’m not the only one.

 

Sleep or the Lack Thereof

So, Baby O is eight weeks old now. Yeah. I KNOW! I can’t believe he is 8 weeks old either! But its all true, you guys. All true.

So, he’s 8 weeks old and things are moving right along. He has stopped looking like an alien/old man like he did when he was born and now he looks like a little person. He has chubby cheeks and those little creases in his thighs to accentuate all that new chunk! He sleeps well at night. And I don’t have to be holding him which means that I can concentrate on getting Baby L sleeping in her crib and off of my head. Which hasn’t really happened ALL that much lately anyway, because I have been sleeping on the couch for the most part, to be close to Baby O without interrupting the rest of the family. But OMG, you guys, the chaos.

It is no secret that Baby L as been a hot mess in the sleep department since she was born. From birth, she has been difficult. She wants to be ON YOU.  Which was tolerable at 6 weeks. Or three months. Hell, I even could deal with it at 8 months. But it got a little bit out of control. She went, at 7 months, from sleeping all night in her crib (but having a little bit of a problem napping when she needed to), to needing to be in bed with me and MB. (I blame a trip to North Carolina to visit my Father-in-Law for this because he had us sleeping in a room that I am pretty sure had absolutely no insulation at all. In the middle of winter. With a baby. So, naturally, I had to cuddle up with her on our freezing cold air mattress for those three nights to avoid anyone freezing to death. It worked. But sleeping has never been the same.) I got pretty used to our nightly routine of MB bathing her and then putting her down in her room and then, a few hours later, having to try and put her back down after she wakes up, screaming her head off and standing in her crib. Usually, this occurred at about 1 or 2 in the morning, so in my very pregnant and exhausted state, I would usually just give up and bring her into our bedroom where she would sleep on my face for the remainder of the night. I grew used to it. And I sort of liked it. But with a newborn on the way, you guys, there was no effing way I was going to miss out on sleep because of all that newborn stuff and then have to deal with a toddler kicking me in the kidneys during the 4 minutes per night I am actually able to try and get some rest. No.

I had tried to let Baby L “Cry it Out” a few times. But I was terrible at it. Every time I tried to stomach the sound of her maniacal cries at naptime, I would break. I couldn’t stand it. And she would cry FOREVER. (Read: 10 minutes. Because that was all I could take.) But then, just weeks before my due date, I knew I would have to suck it up. And shockingly, it worked. I stood my ground and, within just a few very painful days, Baby L had accepted that she was powerless. Sleep was happening. And it was happening when and BECAUSE I said so. (Yes, I am officially the “because I said so” mom now.) And, by the time I was home from the hospital, Baby L was napping like an angel. But still waking up in the middle of the night and pleading for the return to her spot in the middle of our bed. (Which you know, if you have ever shared a bed with a toddler, means THE WHOLE BED, no matter the size of said bed. Toddlers are like cats in their innate ability to take up entire beds despite their size, for those of you who share a bed with a cat and not a toddler.)

Honestly, I was prepared to just leave well enough alone with the middle of the night stuff. If I weren’t too tired to deal with crying while I was pregnant, I was definitely too tired with a newborn. But two things happened: 1. I began having no choice but to sleep in the living room because Baby O being in our room meant that he would be waking Baby L several times throughout the night and getting HER back to sleep was much more difficult than getting HIM back to sleep and 2. She fell out of the bed one morning when I was feeding Baby O in the living room. We have a tall bed and hardwood floors. She was fine. I was not. (MB was sleeping beside her and had made a fort around her, as always, to prevent this sort of thing, but she is a walker now. So she sometimes stands up in bed and tries to walk around. I always wake up at her slightest movement. Because I am her mom. But dads can’t be trusted to do the same. No offense, dads, you just don’t have “that thing”.) So, needless to say, if I can’t be in two places at once, something was gonna have to give, you guys.

So three nights ago, I started to try to let her CIO at night. And OH. MY. GOD. I hate it. But, she has slept in her crib for three straight nights. And I have slept in bed with my husband and Baby O next to me in his sleeper. And things are starting to look up. You know, I still have to change 400 diapers per day. And the babies like to time their sleep/wake times perfectly so that the only time I actually get a second of peace is around 5 in the morning (which is when I started writing this post…) but Baby O is a good sleeper. And he doesn’t need me to hold him 24 hours per day. Which gives me time to give Baby L the attention she demands. Because that baby DEMANDS it.

And yes, I know I have been a bad blogger. But you might see why, after reading this post. Because everything I write is about sleep or the lack thereof. Because…well…that’s what happens. I promise to write something better. And soon. I think I’m gonna take up drunk blogging.

So,

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Lumpy

Baby O is 7 weeks old today. I seriously can’t believe how quickly time is going by! I mean, I can. Because it seems like just yesterday that Baby L was this small. But it also seems like AGES ago. A year makes a hell of a difference, that’s for sure. But daaaaamn. SEVEN WEEKS. In a couple of days, I will have my check-up and then I will be given the okay for “activities”. I imagine that this means that they will tell me it is okay to lift heavy objects. Or chase heavy objects around the house to prevent them from destroying all of my things and then swoop down and pick them up. You know, I will be given the okay to be Baby L’s mom.

I am sort of excited to be given the okay for exercise. Not that I will have time to do any of that. (Although, I am fairly certain that I do more of it now, with a 14 month old, than I ever have in my life…but they don’t call it exercise. They call that parenthood.) And, you know, I can’t think of any kind of exercise that I actually enjoy. (You know, the kind that I like is what got me these two kids in the first place. And we are trying to AVOID any more of those, people. AVOID.) I just am not sure I can learn to live with this new body.

I think I have said before that I, in no way, plan to give up big fat cheeseburgers or giant beers. Because if I did that, I just wouldn’t be me. But I would like to feel normal again.

After Baby L was born, I lost all but 5 pounds of the weight I gained in the first 2-3 weeks. And I fit back into my pre-preggo clothes almost immediately. (Please believe that I am not a thin girl to begin with. I was pleasantly plump when I got pregnant and I wasn’t terribly upset about it. I was pretty content with my curves because, for the most part, they were in pretty good places.) With Baby O, I lost the weight just as quickly. I gained less with this pregnancy than with my first one (27 pounds with Baby L and 21 with Baby O) and the poundage seemed to fall right off.

But the body, you guys. The body.

Okay, so lets be for real, ladies and gents. (Mostly ladies because I doubt that you boys can relate here. And if you can…well, damn. Awesome!) Your body goes batshit crazy for ten months when you are pregnant. And then you push a whole person out of your nether region. And then you are able to FEED them with your BOOBS. And your hips are bigger. And your hair falls out. And you cry at commercials. And your belly is like a bowl of Jell-O. A BOWL OF JELL-O.

I don’t want a Jell-O belly. I want the regular beer belly I used to have. And my clothes hate this new belly. My jeans want to push it out the top. My cute tops want to cling to it and make me feel all…lumpy. Feeling lumpy is not so much fun. And if you are feeling lumpy and are crying at commercials, well, you probably drink a lot of wine. (Which could contribute to lumpiness and crying.)

I went out for the first time in a long time on Saturday with some girlfriends. I was absolutely so nervous to even try on any of my clothes because I didn’t want to see how different/horrible all my cute clothes looked on me now. And, seriously, I considered canceling before I even tried anything on. Because, at least in yoga pants, I feel hidden. And comfortable. And reasonably frumpy. But I did it. I told all of my anxiety, “Shut the fuck up. I JUST had a BABY.” (Because that’s what my friends keep telling me when I talk about my Jell-O belly.) And I tried on EVERYTHING. And I hated EVERYTHING. And then I considered canceling again. Because the thought of hanging out with my lovely girlfriends who had their own bodies but no Jell-O bellies was just terrifying. I just knew that they would judge me. Because OBVIOUSLY my friends are assholes.

But they AREN’T assholes. And they are more forgiving than I am about the fact that I JUST had a BABY! Imagine that. A woman beating herself up about the way that she looks. And comparing herself to other women. With different kinds of bodies. And who didn’t just push a human of their vaginas. Weird.

And now I am angry with myself for being so self-conscious. Because HOLY SHIT, you guys. It has only been SEVEN WEEKS! And I was no Kate Moss before these kids, why do I expect to be now? WHY? And why would I WANT to be?

I read an article recently about how a woman’s dialogue to herself and about herself affects her daughter. And how girls pick up on the negativity that their mother’s put out there about the way they look. And I thought about Baby L and how I really want her to be confident. I don’t want her to look in the mirror and pick herself apart and never recognize how beautiful she is. And I’ve always been pretty confident, but I am definitely guilty about talking shit about the way that I look. And I don’t want that to shape my daughter into some self-conscious little shell of a person. And I don’t want her to seek approval from people for her physical appearance. I want her to be a proud, confident little lady. And I am staring in the mirror at my Jell-O belly and setting a bad example. And that stops now.

Dammit. I JUST had a BABY. And even if I hadn’t, I am a curvy broad. And curvy is hot.

I had to do it. This song makes me shake my curvy ass.

An Open Letter to Baby O: One Whole Month

Dear Oliver,

So, you’re a month old and everyone is alive! I say that because, as you are aware, you and your sister are very close in age and she is sort of a monster. A monster who has just learned to walk. And then there is you. You are adorable and squishy as can be. And you need me. YOU NEED ME ALL THE TIME. I ain’t mad atcha, little guy, all newborns are this needy. In fact, possibly less so than you. You are generally a really content baby. But you need to eat really often. And you pee constantly. And you despise pee. And you haven’t yet figured out that when your sister goes to bed, it is time for Mommy and Daddy to watch True Blood or Dexter without interruption. Because this is the only adult time we get. You seem to want to wake up as soon as you can have us to yourself. And then you demand things. For several hours. And by the time you are done, your dad is in bed and Mom is ready for a bottle glass of wine. I am hoping you will get it together soon. Because I gave up drinking for a long time to make you. And I deserve some Mommy time.

 

Baby O at 13 days old.

Baby O at 13 days old.

Needless to say, little man, you and your sister are definitely keeping us busy. You, with your constant peeing and your sister with her running around the house, screaming with glee about the discovery of a stray grape under the kitchen table.  You and I spend a lot of time chasing your sister around so that she doesn’t eat all of the paper products in the house. (Don’t ask me why she likes to eat paper. I suspect she just likes to eat everything and there is so much paper to choose from. Tissues, toilet paper, the electricity bill…You know. Maybe you will stick to actual food. We don’t have any Legos. So…) I am insanely tired and have, just like with your sister, been sleeping on the couch so that we don’t wake everyone else up when we have your snack time at 2 AM. I don’t really mind because you actually sleep. Like, for several hours at a time. And I don’t have to hold you the whole time. You do it (Gasp!) on your OWN. For that, I appreciate you more than you will ever know.

You are still a little meatloaf and only smile when you are about to let out some heinous gas. But it is really cute and almost makes the smell worth it. (I am not sure if ALL babies are as stinky as you and your sister, but sweet baby Jesus, you kids smell!) You look just like a tiny version of your father, which is sort of awesome because everyone says your sister is a tiny version of me. You even have your father’s fingers and toes. Namely the toes. You know, freakishly long and weird-looking. And sort of look like fingers. (I call them finger-toes because your dad’s toes are literally almost as long as my actual fingers. But…I do have freakishly SMALL hands…so…)

You have gained almost three pounds in the 5 weeks since you were born. At your last appointment, which was 5 days ago, you already weighed 9 lbs and 1 oz, which blows my mind. Because I don’t remember your sister growing this fast. It makes me excited to see you grow and become less and less like a meatloaf and more and more like a little dude. But, man, it is pretty surreal to think “he will never be this small again!” (and I DO think that. Every. Single. Day.) Luckily, this realization does NOT inspire me to give you guys a little brother or sister. So…that’s a sign that your mother hasn’t COMPLETELY lost it from all the sleep deprivation.

So, that’s about how things have been going during your first month of life. Your father and I love you very much. I would love to tell you that your sister loves you very much too. But really, at this point, she just loves hummus. And she really just wants your pacifier. Don’t worry, you guys will be besties some day.

We are so, so, SO glad that you’re here and have completed our little family. You and your sister are truly blessings in our lives. Even more so than I could have imagined. I am so excited to be your mom and to watch you grow.

All of my love,

Mom

Open Letter to Baby L: Brother Arrives!

Dear Lilah,

Today, you are 13.5 months old. I am probably going to be a little more lax (hard to believe, eh?) on writing your letters now for a couple of reasons: First, you’re a big girl now, and probably don’t need monthly updates anymore. You know, because I plan to do this until you are an adult. And can you imagine the crazy volume of letters? Yeah. I doubt you will even want to read through the first year. And second, we recently brought home your baby brother. And he needs something constantly and you are a maniac. So…I scarcely have time to pee. And really, let me just tell you that I have to pee right now and I have been holding it and trying to make sure you don’t bust your head open for the last hour. At least. But writing is important. And your brother is sleeping. So I may never have another opportunity.

Anyway, yeah. You are 13.5 months old. Since you turned one, a lot of stuff has happened. Right before your first birthday, you took your first unassisted steps. But then you sat on that skill until I was sufficiently stressed and unable to tend to you 24 hours per day and then broke out into a run. Honestly, you started walking on the same day that your brother’s nasty belly button grossness fell off and he was having his newborn photos taken, so I think that you were just trying to show him up. Like, “Oh yeah?! Photos and belly button grossness, eh?! Well, look what I CAN DO!” And then you went for a jog. The end.

Now you get into everything. And you say, “Oh shit!” on a consistent basis. And I am not sure where this came from because I don’t think that either me nor your father says that…like…ever (I suspect your Grandma J and Grandpa M, because that is pretty commonplace around their house.). I would have been less surprised if you started calling people “fucktard” out of the window of my car when I take you to see your grandma. Because, THAT would be JUST like your mother. True story.

You are just now, three weeks later, starting to be a little interested in Oliver. I repeat his name to you SO MANY times per day and tell him that he is your brother. You like to stroke his head like he is your little pet kitten or something. It is super cute but you are showing, at times, that all this attention he is getting is starting to piss you off, so I am a little worried that sometimes this nice stroking of the head you are doing will eventually turn into you trying to flush him down the toilet. I’m gonna have to watch you pretty close, I think. You really like to be the center of attention. And the way you dance, little lady, it is no wonder that you almost always are.

You eat ALL THE TIME. And some days, you love turkey hot dogs and mac and cheese and other days, if I try to put those things in front of you, they promptly end up on the floor underneath your high chair. And some days you like peaches. And other days, you fling tiny pieces of them at my head while I attempt to clean up the giant disaster that you have created in every other area of the house. You like liquids. To drink. To spill. To splash in. You are a hot mess.

You are definitely and officially a toddler. And you definitely keep us on our toes.

But you are hilarious and so much fun. And sometimes so defiant that I can’t help but laugh my face off at you when I tell you no and you shake your head “no”, indicating to me that you understand, and then you continue, with a ferocious will, to do whatever it was you were doing in the first place. And it makes me insane but it makes me so happy that you are such a little person. I look at your brother, the meatloaf, and I can barely remember you being that small and helpless. It is so crazy to think that just a year ago, you weren’t dancing around the living room to any tune that happened to be playing on TV or my iPod or, like, if I am humming. You are just so much fun and even when I am trying to do 87  things and you are emptying the entire contents of the DVD stand onto the floor and I know that I am going to have to pick everything up (along with the Cheerios which are constantly littered EVERYWHERE), I am just so happy to have you. You bring out the best in me. Even when I want to pull all of my hair out. Because I would be bald. But I would be bald and happy. And SO SO SO proud that you are my beautiful, hilarious, brilliant little girl.

As always, you’re freaking amazing and I love you to pieces. Sometimes, I still look at you and tear up and the thought that I didn’t think that I wanted to have kids. And then there was you. And I can’t imagine a life without you. A world without you would not be worth living in. There would be far fewer Cheerios on the floor, but it wouldn’t be worth it. Besides, every floor needs a little crunch. And ours is totally crunchtastic. Thank you, my little love.

 

SO MUCH love,

Mom

A box of Cheerios breakfast cereal.

A box of Cheerios breakfast cereal. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

A Couple of Things (While My House is Peaceful…)

I know I have been really slacking on Baby O’s birth story. And, to be honest, I have written that post in my head about 70 times but I can’t seem to find the time to sit down and blog. I know! Imagine THAT, right?!  But it is forthcoming. I swear.

First, though, I would like to give you a little peek into how things have been going over here in Oopsieville.

1. Having two babies is interesting. Because the minute you deal with one and make them all calm and serene, the other one sprays pee across the room and completely blows your mind. And then, once you have dealt with Pee Fountain, you will then find your toddler digging through the trash.  Coffee grounds, you guys. For reals.

2. I sweep the floor no less that 36 times per day.

3. Baby L has had mercy on me since we brought Baby O home and she has been VERY cooperative when she is being put down for her naps and for bed. It is amazing. But I can’t help but think that she is plotting against me and that this is all just a ploy to catch me off guard. She’s an evil genius.

4. MB returned to work yesterday after almost two whole glorious weeks of being home and helping chase Baby L around while simultaneously feeding a newborn. I miss him terribly because I sometimes wonder if I will be able to handle so much at the same time. And because Baby L likes to tug on my pants when my hands are occupied, I am also wondering if I can manage to do all of this sans pants. Because she is now pulling them all the way down when she knows I can’t do anything about it. Good times.

5. Baby L has officially learned to walk. It happened yesterday and it was so amazing. And I cried. Like a little bitch. (You know, like I do when she does ANYTHING AT ALL…)

All in all, things are moving right along. I don’t feel quite as scared as I originally did. Partially because Baby O has been a completely different baby than Baby L right from conception and has proven that not all babies will require that you sleep on the couch for 5.5 weeks because you have to hold them 24 hours per day. I remember feeling, with Baby L, more inept than I had ever felt at anything in my entire life. And now, well, I am more experienced. And I only feel painfully inept about 50% of the time. Not too shabby, I guess.

We’re a work in progress!

Uninvited

Before you ask: No, I haven’t had this baby yet. And yes, I am due in 6 days. And yes, I am uncomfortable, annoyed and generally ready to do the damn thang. (But yes, I am still having nearly nightly panic attacks about having another baby to take care of. I don’t think that’s going to change until I prove to myself that I am Superwoman. And this will hopefully occur sooner, rather than later.) But this isn’t really what I want to talk about today. Because if I talk about, I could get pretty profane. And, well, no one wants that. Right?

 

Who am I kidding? I am most likely going to get really profane anyway. Because this shit is pissing me OFF, you guys.

 

Okay, so MB, Baby L and I moved out of my Mother-In-Law’s house for several reasons. One was because, when we found out we were pregnant with Baby O, I envisioned myself actually locking MB’s nephew in a closet for several months so my kids would be able to sleep peacefully. And when you see yourself doing things like this, you know you are in an unfavorable situation. (And maybe it isn’t the kid’s fault that he is disobedient, loud and generally obnoxious. But it doesn’t matter. He IS those things. And I knew that if we didn’t move, I might start to get really mean.) I was so relieved to get out of there. Not because I didn’t like the family (obviously, I love them) but because I couldn’t stand living with people who were on different schedules, doing different things, at different noise levels, all when I was trying to get my kid into a sleep pattern that didn’t require me to be up all night and then cleaning up after everyone all day. This was not ideal. And I hated the side of town that we were living on.

When we found our rental house, I didn’t love it either. And it is on the same side of town. But the price is right. And the size is right. And guess what, you guys! My in-laws don’t live there! Score! So, I sucked it up. I gave in and agreed that, since I am not currently employed outside of the home, and MB is the breadwinner and this place is not falling apart and doesn’t come with built-in annoying children, I could do it. And I would grin and bear it until I go back to work, and can contribute more financially. SO…here we are. On a side of town that I hate, but no longer bitch about because I am grateful to be here. Alone with MY little family. And with my giant back yard.

But, here comes the bitching.

Several times a week, after I have spent an hour trying to get Baby L ready for a nap and then waiting for her to fight sleep and finally give in so I can go and EAT A DAMN SANDWICH, I walk back into the living room, take a bite of said sandwich and notice, out my front window, people walking up to my front door. (It is important that you know, internet, that we don’t use our front door. It is locked at all times, and can only be opened (even from the inside) with a key. Because we use the carport door. Because that makes sense. You know, because we park there. All of our friends use the carport. Everyone uses the fucking carport.) It happens before noon. And, because I have to, then, frantically search for my keys in order to unlock the door, these people typically have time to ring the doorbell and within ONE SECOND of doing so, add in a good banging on the front door. You know, for good measure. And then Baby L is screaming. And there is a rotund black woman wearing a giant hat, and a tall gentleman wearing a suit standing there, anxiously waiting to tell me where to find Jesus.

I KNOW WHERE JESUS IS.

I went to church for the entirety of my childhood. Never once was I required to knock on a stranger’s door to tell them about where to find Jesus. Because it seems to be the opinion of the people in the congregation I was a part of, that if you WANT TO FIND JESUS, you will do that. You do not need some strangers to help you. It is creepy that people will come to your house to tell you about this stuff. It is creepy because they don’t know me. I could be ANY KIND of person. I could be the kind of person who would totally shoots the kind of people who are not the same as me. I could be the kind of person who would be offended by their religious views. I could be the kind of person who has a one-year-old child who doesn’t sleep and who gets very hostile at 39 weeks pregnant when her baby is awoken by strangers who want to tell her about Jesus. I AM THAT KIND OF PERSON.

(And I am, honestly, a little offended when people try and push their views on me in the first place. That takes some NERVE to come to MY HOUSE and disrupt MY DAY like that without any consideration about how your views might sit with me. But I won’t get all on a religious or moral kick here. Because that is not the kind of blogger I am, and frankly, it doesn’t matter what I believe. Except that I believe that you should not come to my house unless you are invited. And, preferably, have brought me wine.)

After this happens, and I try my damndest not to seriously injure these people (who are likely thinking they are doing some sort of Godly work or something), I am seriously angry. I mean, ANGRY. It is the most annoying thing I can think of. Like, ever. MB had to stop me today, from putting a sign on our front door that said, “I know where Jesus is. Do not knock on this door. Thank you.” He said that it would be in bad taste. I think knocking on my door uninvited and waking my kid up is in bad taste. But maybe that’s just me?

What IS it with this side of town?!

Since I posted this, I’ve gotten some awesome illustrations:

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An Open Letter to Baby L: ONE YEAR

Dearest Lilah,

Two days ago, you turned one year old.

Firsts are a really big deal for parents. When you got your first tooth, I cried like a baby and wondered how long it would be before you bit the hell out of me. When you ate solid food for the first time, I cried like a baby and thought about how, soon, you would be feeding yourself. When you took your first steps (which happened just a few days before your birthday on May 14th), I cried like a baby and thought about the definite end to those days when you depended on me to travel. And to explore. And while these are all really beautiful things you are doing, they make me feel a little lost. Up until now, my lovely, you have needed me for everything. And now, here you are, one year old and starting to walk.

I wanted to make sure that, since your brother will be born in just a few short weeks, that this first birthday would be for you, a true celebration of how much you mean to your father and me. I know you won’t remember it. And I know that first birthday parties are more for the parents of the children than for the children themselves. But, the important thing was, to me, that the people who love you the most got to share in your day. And they did.

You were a beautiful birthday girl, Lilah. But I don’t want to talk about your party. Because that’s not what this letter is about.

This letter is to let you know, and make sure that it is spelled out here so you don’t forget it, what an amazing addition you have been to my life for the last year. Before I had you, I had known love, but I could have never known a love like the one that you brought to me when I saw you for the first time. I am not sure that a mother can ever fully express the love that she has for her child. I am not sure that I will ever be able to make you understand how much you have enriched me and every minute of my life so far just by being with me. The thought of my life before you is a faint memory. One that I don’t care to revisit. I was unaware, before I met you, how much I was missing out on. And I am so thankful that you have shown me. I hope that someday you will have children of your own, so that you can understand the kind of joy that you have brought to me. (Just for your information, when I say “someday”, I mean, when you are 30. Not 14. Okay?)

Your smile is the reason that I wake up each morning and it is the last thing I think about before I fall asleep at night. You are truly, the love of my life. You and your mama

I hope that I can be the kind of mother to you that I have promised to myself that I will be. I hope that I can teach you all of the things that a girl’s mother should teach her. About respecting herself. And finding beauty in herself, even in her flaws. About what confidence is and why it is important that other people not be able to tear you down. I hope that I can lead you down a path to be a respectful, compassionate person. I promise you, my dearest, I will do my best. I want nothing but the best of everything for you.

Now that I have sufficiently soaked the keyboard with the tears of a year with you, I will just end here by saying that I love you.

 

I love you to the moon and back.

Mom

Milestones are Stupid Bastards

Since Baby L has discovered that, not only does she not hate her walker, but that she can move freely about the house without anyone chasing her and removing her from dangerous spots, she has become a fiend.  But not just for the walker. For standing and cruising and being mobile every way that she possibly can. Like, all the time. Even while sleeping.

I’ve read that it is normal for babies, while going through developmental changes, to have sleep disturbances. And that sometimes, with all the new stuff they are learning, it is difficult for their little minds and bodies to slow down enough to sleep like they had been used to doing. And man, internet, are we learning this or WHAT.

Baby L is a giant asshole when it comes to sleeping troubled sleeper.  She always has been. She wants to be on me. Or near me. And sometimes, she even manages to be curled up AROUND me. And she hates being put to bed. Generally, with a bottle and darkness and nature sounds, she will fall asleep in Daddy’s arms and stay asleep while he puts her, ever so gently, into her crib. Where she will stay for just a few hours before we start the “putting the baby to bed” process all over again. (We, decidedly, meaning me.)

But now, getting her to stop moving and go to sleep, even after the bath and the bottle and the quiet time with Daddy, is more and more like wrestling a tiny alligator. Or possibly even a regular sized alligator. I don’t know, you guys, but it is effing HARD. She fights and screams and can’t seem to stop her legs from just GOING. And really, she is just doing a bunch of kung fu all up on your ass. And it is TOTALLY FUN. And not at ALL uncomfortable with this giant pregnant belly I am currently sporting. And then, once you think the kung fu has finally stopped and she is finally in that place where the squirming has gotten to the point where you think that you might be able to put her into her crib, you attempt the transplantation from arms to bed. And then her giant, blue eyes pop open, looking offended and the kicking starts again. And this time, it might be accompanied by screaming.

So, you have no choice but to start again.

Don’t worry. Even though this process seems like it is very time consuming, the whole process takes about five minutes. But, because you repeat it several times and have to wear protective gear, it can seem like an eternity. But eventually, she will fall asleep. And she will stay that way while you put her little ass into the crib. Where she will stay for an hour or so. And then she will start to grunt. And you will be able to ignore the grunting because you are watching “Hannibal” with your husband and eating ice cream. But then the grunt turns into a whimper. And the whimper into a cry. And, if you wait too long, a full blown scream that will wake the dead. But, if you let it get that far, you have waited too long. And you are starting from the beginning. If you catch her at the grunt, you can place her pacifier into her little mouth and she will roll to her side and start to snore. I mean, usually. But now, she isn’t lying down anymore, guys. She is half-asleep, standing in her crib. Eyes closed. And when you pick her up, she will look surprised that you are even there. And confused about why she has been standing. And she will be, surprisingly easy to settle this time. She will go back to sleep. She will stay in the crib for 3-4 hours until she wakes up, stands in the crib and is ready for play time. PLAY TIME, you guys! At 3 in the morning! What in holy hell is going on?

I have tried to explain to Baby L that, while I know that she is super excited about her budding skillz, this walking thing she is trying to do can ABSOLUTELY wait until the sun comes up. Because, I say, this is when normal people walk around. And, I tell her, I will have no problem chasing her around the living room all morning if she just goes back to sleep now. I bribe her with the coziness of Mommy and Daddy’s bed where she gets all nestled in between the two of us and gets to cuddle with me and pull my hair freely. But it doesn’t work. She tries to stand on my face. And then I eventually bring her into the living room. Because now she will cruise for around for the next 2-3 hours before I try one last bottle and bedtime routine and finally succeed.

This is not a good gift for my first Mother’s Day, Baby L. Not at all. I am trying to be patient with you. But I am going to tell you right now that, if you think that this shit is going to fly in a month when your brother is here, you are sorely mistaken. You need to learn to walk RIGHT NOW and get all this crazy, kung fu ridiculousness out of your system. Thank you.

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