FOUR

So, it was like, 3 months ago that this happened, right?

How could it be a whole year? I can feel in my bones and my body and my heart (which are all old) the long stretch of days between the first terrified months after bringing her home and now, but if each year is going to go progressively faster what is going to happen when she is 6? Or 10? Or tween? I am scared.

One of her favorite things is "Freeze Dance!" and I would like to Freeze her. Just lift the needle off the record for a long moment or a few months so I can absorb and appreciate and memorize her Four-ness. She is a pain in the ass and won't listen to a word I say. She is hilarious and thoughtful and creative and feels everything so intensely. She (still) loves purple. She can pack her own snack and take herself to the bathroom and oh oh oh she is not a baby anymore, not even a little bit. Except for in the middle of the night, when she is scared and comes into my room. She drags a blanket and a stuffed friend across the floor and after a quick cuddle to calm the fears she climbs herself into the (way-too-small) pack and play next to my side of the bed and sleeps there until morning. Tim is not so keen on this habit, but I can't bring myself to make her stop.

In the mornings the baby comes in for her milks and then leans over the side of the bed to call her sister's name and wake her up. We are all delighted to see each other.

And then 5 minutes later someone pulls someone else's hair or beeps someone's nose too hard and then there are tears and someone is sent to her room or loses her TV privileges and cries and then needs a hug and then we all get dressed and have breakfast.

This was the first year Little A. really seemed excited for her birthday and all that surrounded it. Every night before bed we counted down the days to her party, and the days to her REAL birfday (the day after the party), on our fingers. She was eager to help with the cleanup and the shopping for the party. And especially eager to get at the presents that kept appearing in our entryway. So we are making a week of it. Last Friday she opened a present from my mom, her Nana, who winters in Florida, while we Skyped with my mom. Saturday was the arrival of her Grammie and Pop and a big-girls ONLY! manicure. Sunday was the super fun Fairy-Princess party and egg hunt and then Easter dinner at our friends Jenny and Brian's house (Jenny is Little A's favorite person). Monday was waffles, dance class, and more presents from Mama. Tuesday, she celebrated at school with a friend whose birthday is the day after hers. Last night, we had tacos and a dance party. Tonight, Tim is taking her out for a very special Daddy-Daughter Dinner Date. And there is one more present from the far-away land of Chicago making its way to us as I write. We're living in celebration station and no one really wants to leave.

So. Happy new year to my most favorite person in the whole wide world (first baby category).

Now, FREEZE.

xoxo, A

Instant Karma

So yeah, I spoke too soon. I spoke waaaaaaaay too soon there.

Who was reading my little blog? Why did they have to karma little ol' me? What did I dooooo?

(Answer: everything I did romantically until my mid-30s, probably earned me enough negative karma that I'll be working that shite off for the rest of me life)

I posted that Pollyanna post over there, went for a quick run to celebrate a lazy boss-less day at work. Went contentedly home with my adorable girls singing in the car. Went to my grandmother's for dinner, all warm and fuzzy. Put the girls to bed, and watched some House of Cards. Contemplated the wonder that is Claire Underwood's hairdo. Went to bed myself. Life was good! Spring had sprung! Extra hour of sunlight! Etc.

HEY SHUT UP OR KNOCK ON WOOD YOU ASSHOLE.

At 5 am Baby G. woke up crusted in her own vomit and...other stuff. Suffice it to say, she got sick in the night, and then somehow fell back asleep. And woke up screaming, as is quite reasonable under the circumstances. A shower and some new jammies later she was tucked into bed next to me.

And then at 6 she threw up in my bed.

Fortunately Tim was planning to be home so I was able to go to work. Yay! Work! No one threw up on me at work!

So we had a sick baby on our hands and I stocked up on Pedialyte and the makings of the BRATY diet that would be her menu for the next week or so. Friday night was predictably low-key. Then Saturday morning I went off to my Zumba class only to drag my weak, dizzy, nauseated ass home 25 minutes later. And so help me I could not move from a horizontal position all day. Baby G and I took a couple of long naps and I fell asleep on Little A's floor for 3 hours after putting her to bed. I was sick as a dog, a prisoner of germs. Housebound.

And we had booked a babysitter. You parents out there know how precious and wonderful and amazing, the mere idea of BABYSITTER. It was going to be our first night out since Baby G's birth (sad but true, we are notsogood at that date night thing). Yes, there are worse things. But we burned a BABYSITTER night. Sigh.

And then it snowed. A lot.

All told I spent 4 days trapped inside with the entire family. How did the Ingalls family do it? Those long winters all spent indoors, looking at the same people, hearing the same whines, blowing the same noses? I would never have made it. As it was I was never so glad to wave bye-bye to my adorable progeny and head off the to blissful silence of my basement office. And then I found out my grandmother spent the beginning of the week in an advanced state of dehydration due to our stupid germs. Argh.

TL:DR takeaway: don't tempt the fates. Shut your fool mouth, and also buy whiskey. And Pedialyte.

xoxo, A 

Pie in the Face

So. I have typed the opening to this post 6 times. Type type type. Delete delete delete. Type type type something else. Delete all that. Times six. So this meta-opening will have to suffice and I will launch into my story in medias res as if Homer himself was guiding my pen.

So. You can think you know someone, but everyone -- everyone -- is full of secrets.

Two nights ago, Little A. had a very rough night. She's stormy these days; whether it's her age or household stresses or fatigue or illness (oh constant germiness of winter, you are tiresome and please fuck off) or likely a combination of all plus a dash of mommy's lack of patience, who knows. Stormy, she is. On this particular night, the storm gathered around a typically contentious subject: the washing of the hairs. This kid HATES to get her hair washed. HATES. As if it were pouring acid, or red-hot meteorites, onto her head. Most days, I just let it go. But this night, I got a bee in my bonnet. Her hair was already mostly wet from "swimming" in the tub. One quick cup of water over the head, some shampoo, and another quick mermaid dunk, and we'd have clean hair for the week! No problem! Let's do it!

NO ACID FIRE HAIL HATE YOU NO NO NO NOOOOOOOOO.

And instead of caving in, I just went ahead and washed her hair. I tried to be gentle and cajoling but at a certain point the shampoo just had to be rinsed out and water got on the face and Oh. The rage. The screaming. The tears. The splashing and kicking and rage. It was completely out of proportion, yes. The howling and hitting would have been more in line with someone, I dunno, running over your family pet, or stealing your beloved.

The tantrum lasted all the way through Skype'd good-nights to Daddy, pajamas on, tooth-brushing. Finally, as it always does, the Incredible Hulk left the room and in its place a tired little girl needed a hug from Mama. I was happy to oblige. Suddenly, the tears started up again, but with a softer, sadder quality. I asked what was the matter. And this kid. This kid who has been nothing but shockingly amazingly wonderful (because she was incredibly attached to me prior to baby's arrival) to her little sister for the 14 months she's been on our planet, reluctantly, painfully said I wish it could be just you and me, Mama, no Baby G. I miss you so much Mama. And she started crying again, probably thinking I would be horrified at this admission, and that she would get in trouble. Guilty sobs.

OHFUCK PARENTING MOMENT. I thought. These are happening more frequently as the girl gets older and more articulate and oh god I need to read more books about kids because I am surely going to mess her up for life. But also, I could just answer honestly and from my heart and maybe that will work?

So that's what I did. I told her that I missed those days, sometimes, too. That it was so nice to have a Baby G in our family and to love but that we sure could use more "just us" times too. That I appreciated her honesty and that I love her so much -- even more when I see what an awesome big sister she is and that my heart grows 10 sizes every day because I am so proud of her. And we had more tears and a big hug and I tucked her into my bed for a special JUST US Mama-and-Little-A sleepover and we all slept like champions and the next morning was the smoothest we've had in weeks.

After the storm.

 Oof. In my excitement over her "good" behavior with her little sister, and my smugness in thinking that *I* had somehow masterfully engineered the smooth transition into big-sisterhood for her, I never once thought she was behaving, well, how she intuited *I* wished she would behave. I am certain her loving behavior towards Baby G is genuine, but she has never once expressed jealousy or acted out, as would be expected and completely normal for the deposed. Not once! Seriously! But those feelings were lurking there under the surface, and burst out in a painful, guilt-ridden confession during a crisis about something else entirely. 

Oh. Ha ha. Um. Yeah. That kinda reminds me of somebody: me. Quick, someone write a book about how to successfully parent me. Here's your working title.

Hey Girl, You Sure Seem OK, but There Really is Something Wrong, Right?:

How to Crack that New-English Veneer and Get to the Healing Truth.

And in the meantime, pass the Pinot. There's a whole lotta winter left to go up in this piece.

xoxo, A

Leaking Out My Ears

There is a moment every evening, after I have (finally) gotten both girls to sleep, after the chores (finally) are done, when the house is quiet. At that moment I think: now is when you can write. WRITE SOMETHING! C'MON JUST DO IT! I cast my ear up for sounds of wakeful babies. Nothing. The silence grows and grows and I find another pot to wash while ideas for posts and more posts and maybe even a little short story starts leaking out my ears and...

...And then I turn on the TV and watch for an hour or two until I decide to go to bed.

Why am I ignoring the internal prompts? I *almost* signed up for a poetry class. I *almost* signed up for a dance performance. But for each moment that presents as ripe for creative expression, something equally urgent insists that I turn my brain off and do nothing. It, frankly, does not feel great. I fear the house is growing stale and unmagical for the girls. I fear my soul has shriveled up into a dried pea. I fear...well...a lot. But mostly I fear that if I stop to examine all of my fears, confront them in writing, I will spontaneously combust. So, you know, no pressure.

Mother's little helper #21 -- matching jammies. 

I think I need more Vitamin D. February is so very...February-ish this year. January was too. We shall carry on, because we do. But goddamn wouldn't it be nice if it was a bit less of a slog. Ugh. My head is still up my butt. And it's dark up in this piece. Help!
 
AND ON THAT CHEERFUL NOTE.

xoxo, A

The New Normal

So, yeah, it's been a loooong time since I've posted up in this joint. Sorry about that, dear Reader. Right around the time of my last post, our family took on a change that seemed like no biggie at first but then, slowly but surely, lead us (me) down a rabbithole of stress and exhaustion and tears. Or maybe it was a coincidence of Seasonal Affective Disorder combined with the New Normal: Part-Time-Single-Work-Outside-the-Home-Motherhood (PTSWOHM?). Everything felt wrong; I had no patience, no reserves. At the end of each day I would lay in bed and stew about all the (my) shouting and impatience and unfairness (to my beautiful children, who deserve better than a shouty, impatient mama, and to me, who deserves better than to feel so lonely and stressed) and even indulge in a little self-loathing directed at my butt and belly because my baby is a year old and why am I still so squishy and what do you mean my baby is a year old time is slipping away and boohoohoo woe is me.

(p.s. The baby's birthday was really nice, you guys. And she is walking! And continues to be just about the funniest, sunniest creature ever. Dedicated post to come.)

And then there was that horrible week in December, when nothing happened to me directly but everything shitty happened to everyone else, and then the following week the world was supposed to end, and I was only slightly relieved when it didn't. Because everything was wrong, and there was nothing I could do.

All around the world, time zone through time zone, the world didn't end. In fact, nothing changed at all. December 21, 2012: a spectacular non-event.

And the next day the sun came up. And the baby stood up in her crib and grinned at me in the half-light. And said mumumumumumumumumMAMA!! And so I thinks to myself I thinks, HEY FUCK THIS FEELING BAD SHIT. Life, as they say, is short. The black hand doesn't discriminate and it won't award misery with longevity. Or pass you by because you are ignoring your talents and pushing away love that is right in front of you. I can't protect myself or my girls from anything through the force of my worry or anxiety. 

So I pulled up my bootstraps (metaphorical and literal) and finally did my Christmas shopping and engineered a lovely holiday. And had a birthday of my own (39??!? seriously how the hell?!!?). And started a new blog with a good friend. I am turning this train around, as slowly and surely as it went off track.

Well. I reserve the right to be impatient and shouty on occasion because 3.5 year olds can be assholes, and I am not keen on having my nipples bitten, but damned if I don't promise to also make my girls laugh hard and sing loud and feel loved every day. And I will use this space to document the bits of our lives so that I can look back and laugh and say those hard years when the girls were little...they had sweetness too. And if I get my head out of my butt for more than a few minutes at a time I can see how I can affect positive change elsewhere.

And it shall be so.

So, what are you guys up to for the New Year?

xoxo, A

Parenting Challenge #323

Curb your instinct to burst into guffaws when the adorable 3.5 year old girl serenades you with a mini-opera with a single lyric: shit.

Foul-mouth'd cherub.

Shit! Shitshit! Shit shit shit shit shit shiiiiiiiiiiiit!

MAMA! MAMA! SHIT! SHIT SHIIIIIIIIIIT!!!!

1 Million, Billion Bonus Points for accomplishing this before you have finished your morning coffee.

(Who else is glad it's Friday?)

xoxo, A

Nines

The baby has been out as long as she was in, 9 months old on Sunday the 2nd. The baby is trying very hard to not be a baby for much longer, what with all the pulling up and climbing stairs and trying to walk and babble-conversing and being almost a year old. The baby needs to STOP because she is my last baby and she is really just the sweetest, silliest, easiest baby ever.

I haven't yet told you her birth story, partly because it was so devoid of drama. The baby has been so agreeable from the moment she was conceived (excepting the 8 days she hung out past her due date, that was kind of a dick move) that I was able to deliver her without any pain medication whatsoever. So, we can do this real quick and move on:


Overdue. Boo.

After trying sex and pineapple and long walks and yoga and spicy foods and pizza and swept membranes and everything that is supposed to get the damn baby out, one Thursday night, a full week past my due date, I felt a contraction. A real, true contraction that made me go oof. But it was only one. And so we put our big girl to bed and went to bed ourselves. I had decided that I would try laboring through a *very* unstudied version of the Bradley method, and somehow lulled myself into such a state of relaxation that I was able to sleep for a few hours at a time between the somewhat more intense contractions, until the next morning. Friday, December 2nd. We woke rested and ready to get the show on the road.

The baby is so considerate that she waited until her big sister was breakfasted and whisked away by my parents for a weekend of ice cream and movies. The in-laws were put on alert to begin their drive up from Connecticut. Tim and I arrived at the hospital in time for a second breakfast*, around 10 am, and so began the long waiting time. Contractions were coming every five minutes or so, and for every one I closed my eyes and breathed slowly and deliberately and went hmmmmmm and was probably pretty weird-looking but it fucking worked. We walked the halls, we did the stupid slow-dance shuffle you see on every birthing video, I used the birthing ball, I draped my upper body over the edge of the bed and watched Food Network (that shit is soothing) while Tim rubbed my back. I had my Pandora station set to Super 70s Soul. It was awesome. We had a break for lunch*.  I went to the bathroom several times. See how boring is this? It was kind of boring, except for the growing realization that we were ABOUT TO HAVE A (NOTHER) BABY HOLY SHIT. But I was trying to keep that voice quiet, because that panicked voice had served me ill at Little A's birth. So with the Giada and the Contessa and the Aretha and the hmmmmm I kept the panic at bay.

My lovely midwife, Jerri, popped in at intervals to check my stats and sit on the couch and just hang out. My even nicer nurse came by more frequently to chat about whatever, our kids, the current show on TV, oh and also monitor my contractions and give me the crazy strong antibiotics I needed for the Group B strep I somehow picked up between pregnancies. At one point the nurse gave me the best shoulder rub I have ever had in my entire life, seriously, I would have paid a hundred dollars for that outside of the hospital, and there I was getting it for free just because I was pushing a baby out. Lucky me! Also, oxytocin is for real. Because:

After said shoulder rub, all of a sudden I got really, really tired. I wanted to lie down on the bed, so I did. And then even more suddenly shit got super real. My contractions became much more intense and frequent. I felt something like a water balloon popping inside my ladyparts and OH IT WAS MY WATER BREAKING SHIT IS GETTING REAL. The thought hey! an epidural would be really nice right about now floated into my mind space, but it was way too late. I was fully dilated and stripped out of my civilian clothes (cause, duh, I never changed until my water broke and ew gross like nearly everything birth-related) and the nurse was put on hurry-up to set up the birthing tray because all of a sudden I wanted to push. I never got that overwhelming sensation with Little A., but here it was: I wanted to push and push and please don't make me stop pushing because I am gonna be a pushing machine. The nurse said I could do little tiny pushes until Jerri came back from another patient. That kind of made me laugh. *Tiny* pushes? Hee. Hee. See how tiny?

And then Jerri came back. Jerri said, do whatever you need to do. Apparently, what I needed to do was grab those bars on the top of the bed (the next day my arms were SO sore, like I did 100 pullups) and go RAAAWWWWRRRR like a crazy thing. And maybe 4 crazy Sheela-na-Gig pushes later, Baby G shot out. Seriously. My nurse said she'd never seen a baby come out that fast. This is not bragging; I literally couldn't have helped myself. Unlike the first birth, I just let my body do its thing. And my body, I guess, can be efficient when my head is not in the way.
 

9 minutes old. Total. Bliss.



But then there was the problem. Baby G had the umbilical cord around her neck, and because my body wanted to shoot the baby out, Jerri didn't have time to gracefully unwrap the cord. So oh, oh, oh. The grey little baby they put on my chest that day at 3:40 pm. I cried and begged her to start crying, too. They took her away to give her oxygen and I cried and begged them to bring her back. Two of the longest minutes of my life passed and finally, finally, I heard her little cry and they brought her back to me and we looked into each other's eyes and good lord you guys. I fell in love so completely. We sat, happily cuddling and nursing and dreamily smelling her head and admiring her fingers and etc., for hours. The oxytocin and other feel-good chemicals didn't leave my system for two weeks.



9 months old. Total. Goof.



Natural childbirth, yo. Thumbs WAY up.

And so, my last baby was born. And it was so amazing, and so banal. And so, we became a family of four.

The end.

The beginning.

xoxo, A



*If you have a baby, do yourself a favor and find a midwife practice. So empowering! I got to decide things! I didn't get poked and prodded against my will every 15 minutes! I got to EAT! YAY MIDWIVES.





Gratutious babytoe photo serves no purpose.