Tag Archives: baby

Babies Everywhere. My Ovaries are Talking to me. (Shut up, Ovaries!)

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Recently I was asked in a comment about how I made the decision to have a second baby. This is a seriously good question, especially considering the trouble I had with L over the last year. The simple answer is that having only one child was never really a consideration for me. So it wasn’t a question of if but a question of when.

Luckily we decided to try for #2 before L was 2 years old. Had I still not been pregnant by the time L morphed from sweet but challenging toddler to complete evil monster villain (somewhere around 2.5), I don’t know if I would have gone through with #2. The year from almost 3 to almost 4 was so so so hard. L was not easy to be around, to put it mildly, (way mildly – he was extremely, impossibly, unfathomably unpleasant,) but thankfully S was already here by then.

So now I have my sweet but challenging 4-year-old and my sweet 1.5-year-old and I’m done. Right? Totally. I’m completely 100% mostly almost sure of it. What more could I want? I had 2 healthy pregnancies, have two healthy kids, have one of each sex – why push my luck? Also, I can sort of see the end of the tunnel. Baby days are close(ish) to behind me. Soon I’ll have a family that can go places and do things and not be encumbered by naps, diapers, and other babyish stuff.

But babies are just so cute. Can’t argue with that logic.

Unlike normal people, I liked being pregnant and I liked the newborn phase. I love that warm little floppy helpless bundle, even if it means colic, no sleep, sore nipples and diaper blow-outs. I recognize that this feeling I have is not remotely coming from my rational brain. It’s coming from some evolutionary, biological, clock-ticking, animal place and I should know better. And I do. Mostly. Luckily, T totally knows better and has not even the slightest inclination towards having another baby.

So, back to the question of how one arrives at the decision to have or not to have another child? I don’t really have an answer for that. For having a second, we didn’t really ever consider the alternative so there was no decision process beyond timing. As far as having any more, I feel like the partner who is done has veto power over the partner who may want one more. So we’re done. Well, at least we’re shelving the topic. For now. No, really, we’re done. Almost certainly absolutely probably so.

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Missing Your Kids: It’s a Good Thing

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I just returned from a vacation without kids. We had an amazing time and it didn’t take long to get used to (and  love) having absolutely no responsibilities. It also didn’t take long to miss our kids. Sounds crazy, right? While we did miss our actual kids, what I think we missed more was the idea of our kids. The overwhelming all-the-timeness of kids is quickly forgotten when they’re not with you. All you see is the adorable toddler playing in the sand and you wish yours was there doing the same.

All around us were unbearably cute kid moments: naked tiny toddlers squealing with delight and toddling around in the very fringes of the surf. Slightly bigger little people venturing out into the waves clutching a parental hand tightly, mis-timing their jump over the approaching wave every time. Water-wing wearing kids splashing in the hotel pool, having as much fun as the substance enhanced spring breakers adjacent to them at the in-pool bar. Adorable floppy sun hats. Kite flyers. Sand castles and mouthfuls of sand. Our kids could have been there. Imagine the cuteness!

What we did not see was the all-the-timeness of these kids. It seemed great to have kids on vacation. The parents were happy. The kids were beside themselves with happiness. But those were only moments. What is the ratio of awesome moments to pull-my-hair-out-I-can’t-believe-I-spent-money-to-bring-you-godforsaken-brats-to-Puerto Rico-moments? My guess is that ratio is not a favorable one. And this is what I kept reminding myself as I sipped my umpteenth pina-colada, enjoying me freedom, and pining for my kids.

Missing our kids allowed us to like them. Wait, that sounds bad. (But it’s true.) Instead of talking about all the frustrating things, we talked about the cute and sweet things that we missed. We talked about how much L or S would like this or that. We completely romanticized our kids into alien versions of themselves. Great, perfect, flawless versions of themselves. It allowed us to focus on the good, and there is a lot of good. It’s just hard to focus on it while limping because you stepped on some small pointy toy while trying to wrangle your kicking and screaming kid into his pajamas, after a day of equally as annoying moments.

Another bonus to missing your kids? The hugs you get when you reunite. Quite possibly the best hugs of my entire life. Sweet enough, in fact, for me to forgive the immediate and thorough house-wrecking that took place upon their return home. It’s honestly amazing what those people can do to a house…

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Why my Kids Don’t Know the Alphabet and Hit Your Kids

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Why should my kid know the alphabet? Because “the man” says so? Well, fuck the man. I don’t like the letters C, P or U so I’m not going to teach them to my kids. If they decide, at some later date, that they do like those letters, then they are free to add them into the alphabet, wherever they please. My children are special small people and I believe they know what’s best for themselves.

That’s right. My kids know what’s best. That’s why L has cookies for breakfast and is allowed to use the stove. If he burns himself, which I doubt he will, he will learn organically that placing his face on the element is a poor choice.

S does not like her carseat. She’s 1.5 now and old enough to know what’s best for her. I don’t give a shit that “the man” says it’s the law. Laws stifle my children’s freedom to develop at their own pace, into whomever they please. So I allow S to climb around the car freely as I drive. People are shocked by this and want to take my daughter from me. It’s not their fault that they feel this way. They harbor long-standing resentments towards everyone because they were made to share as children, and are still trying to seek retribution for having to give other kids a turn with the shovel in the sandbox.

I don’t stop my children from hitting your children. Confused? Don’t be. If my child wants to hit yours, yours probably deserves it. By not forcing my child to keep his hands to himself, my child will learn the natural way that hitting does not gain friends. Your child is free to walk away from my child. I am not willing to shove nonviolence propaganda down his throat just to please judgmental parents, society at large, and the children mine are beating on.

I don’t discourage my children from putting forks into outlets or drinking from the toilet, if they feel so inclined. Those might not be my choices, but they are not me. They are free to make their own choices, even if it means that I will suffer the heartache of mourning the loss of my electrocuted toddler. At least she had her freedom.

I don’t have to conform to your ways because I’m not going to send my children to school. They won’t be forced to confront society until they are adults, or whenever they decide they are ready to move out of my home. At that time, they will have the maturity to navigate the world on their own, because I’ve let them navigate the world on their own since the day they were born.

I’m not judging you for kowtowing to “the man” and sheepishly doing random things like teaching colors just because you’ve been told to. (If my kid wants to call blue red, then that’s his creative right.) I’m not better than you just because I’m not stunting my children’s individuality like you are.

I know I’m really cerebral about this stuff, but that’s just because I’m really freaking smart. Smarter than you are. But that’s OK.

Wondering what this is all about? Check out Blossom’s latest. I probably should have encouraged you to read that first, but I thought it would be funnier this way. I really don’t see my post as much more outrageous than hers.

Blossom says, “I have heard people say that those who force their kids to share, be polite, and excel on adult terms are really just creating children who are monkeys…” Really, Mayim? You’ve heard people say this? What people? Where? Well, I’ve heard people say that those who force their babies out of their vaginas are really just birthing children who are witless losers. I would never push my baby to come out if she didn’t want to. Just because by our “adult terms” we could both die if I don’t push. Why force your baby to enter the world that way? If my baby wants to be born, she’ll come out on her own. She knows what’s best for her.

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Sickness and Jealousy

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S is sick and L is jealous. This doesn’t speak well for L’s intelligence. S is miserable and looks it – glassy, red and sunken eyes atop purple/bruise colored half-moons, ever-leaking nose, and best of all a face and body covered in the large welts of hives. The only thing as bad as her looks is what she sounds like. With her croup she sounds like a hybrid of a sick seal and an emphysema patient.

In fact, she looks and sounds so bad that at daycare the other day I got the call no mom wants. Upon waking from her nap, her sudden onset of illness was alarming enough that K, the daycare provider, called to say that I need to come immediately and that S needs to see a doctor. I jumped in the car for the 20 minute drive and dialed the pediatrician. Soon I got another call from K. She did not feel like S’s condition could wait and called an ambulance. Holy panic!

The ambulance was absolutely overkill, thank goodness, and the EMT’s happily agreed that I could just take her to her doctor. Thankfully, although the cop who also showed up eyed me very suspiciously, as I had one kid with mysterious welts all over her body and another in 2 leg casts, he didn’t detain me long with too many questions.

Anyway, this whole long story is preamble to L’s jealously of S’s illness. Namely, he wants some medicine. And he knows how to get it (sort of):

“Mommy, I really need some medication. I have a headache. And a fever. I took my tempterber [sic] and it’s 42 and 8 inches. Is that high?”

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So This is What Irish Coffee is For!

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This morning was more stressful than most. We noticed last night that the house was cold. Nothing unlivable, just a cool 63 degrees. A few pairs of fleece jammies for the kids and extra blankets for us and we all went to sleep just fine. This morning – 53 degrees. I don’t know why, but 53 degrees in a house feels so much colder than 53 degrees outside.

We were frozen and couldn’t be in the house. No problem. Good mommy takes this as an opportunity for a special morning out! We go out for breakfast. The kids are starving by the time we get to the restaurant and I let L pick out a muffin from the display case. He comes back to the table followed by the waitress carrying a cheese danish. OK, so the kids can have a cheese danish. What a fun mommy I am! I feel like I’m winning the morning. We follow-up with some hot food and hot coffee (just for me) and we’re on our way.

Driving down the road where the speed limit is 40, so it’s safe to assume I was moving at 45, a bunch of bad things happened at once. First, I noticed that the cars behind me and in the oncoming lane started honking, and the drivers all slowed down and waved their arms around. At the very same time L started screaming. The car filled with a strange, loud whooshing sound. And it got cold. I glance in my rearview at crying, panic-stricken L and I see that his door is open. All the way open. Wide friggin’ open!

A note to Subaru manufacturers: you know that little white switch you’ve placed on the inside edge of the door, right at child-height, which turns the childproof locks on/off? Well, guess what? Children can play with it. And, apparently, they do. Maybe consider a different location?

A note to moms: when your kid does something that scares the living crap out of you, just let your natural emotions about it show. Doing so will scare the crap right back out of the kid, who will swear to you he will never ever ever do it again if you just calm down and promise you still love him.

Back home intact and in time for the heating guys to show up. 2 hours later the heat is back on and as I type this it is a balmy 57 degrees in here and rising. Soon I’ll take my coat off and be able to feel my fingers. In the meantime, this is what S has been wearing inside the house:

Despite how horribly unflattering this would be on me, I wish I had a fleece jumpsuit like this.

Under this all fleece number, she has on fleece pants, a long sleeve t-shirt, and a sweater.

Despite more temptation than usual, I have not started drinking.

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Blossom is Better Than You Are (Post Where I Alienate my Readers)

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I think one of the worst things parents do to their children is reminding them of their manners. Wait, what? That’s right, reminding your child to say please or thank you is just awful! Think of the slight bad feeling you’d be causing Snowflake! How could you?

Obviously, I don’t really think that. Because thinking that is stupid.

L is a lot of things, but he is not a precious snowflake and he usually says please and thank you. He may be running wild and climbing your bookcase, but if you give him something he’s probably going to thank you for it. How does he know to do this? Because I say thank you, and I remind him to if he doesn’t. How do I know to say it? Because my parents reminded me. Sure, being reminded of my manners totally led me to be a cutter, but at least I’m polite.

Where is this absurd tirade coming from? It’s coming from an article that Blossom (Mayim Bialik, Ph.D.) wrote about her parenting. Before you click over there and read it, know one thing: Blossom is a better mom than you. She’s a better mom than EVERYBODY (except people who do things just as she does). But she’s not judging you. She’s too good for that.

Some of what she says bothers me too much to even put into words. This is because I have not “stepped up to the plate” as a mother. My children should probably be taken from me and given to Mayim. They both came into the world via c-section. They were nourished predominately by formula until they started solids at 6 months and switched to (gasp!) cow’s milk at a year. (This might be why L has 12 fingers and S has a cute little third arm protruding from her abdomen. But you can’t prove it.)

Both my kids will grow up to be afraid of everything and unable to make it in the world. This is because T and I share a bed, up off of the floor, and my children each sleep in their own rooms full of unsafe, unloving hazards like a crib and a bed.

Both my kids will have eating disorders because I expect them to say please and thank you, and I remind them if they forget. The phrase “say please” has escaped my lips and we are all worse off for it.

Mayim says “Wearing our children… encouraged the emotional and physiological comfort that being close encourages.” Dammit, I didn’t encourage that encouragement and now my kids will be failures. My kids slept in swings, bouncy seats, vibrating chairs, carseats, cribs, slings and whatever else worked at the time. I can’t even address the whole population of the world who needs to put their children into daycare so they can work to provide food and shelter for their families. Those poor, unloved children aren’t being worn all day? Those terrible working mothers aren’t nursing on demand all day? Why did they even have kids? Mayim thinks you’re bad.

Mayim’s last paragraph explaining that she isn’t judging others is so disingenuous after the rest of her nonsense. Thank you for not judging me, even though I’m not parenting “the way people have parented for hundreds of thousands of years.”

If you sleep in a bed with your kids, wear your baby 24/7 and nurse well into toddlerhood that’s fine by me. If it works for you, if you feel it’s best for you and your kids, and you’re all surviving day-to-day, that’s wonderful. But, if you imply (or outright say) that doing these things is simply better parenting and is what’s best for every baby, then fuck you. (Sorry about the language – it’s not my fault – I was formula-fed and lucky I’m not in prison.)

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While Mommy was Busy…

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I’ve decided to redecorate the walls behind my kitchen table. I’m tired of the unobtrusive beige. How about a little pizazz? You know what color is nice? Peach Yogurt. This isn’t a Benjamin Moore color you can pick up at the hardware store. It’s a Yoplait color you pick up in the dairy aisle.

Unbeknownst to me, S suddenly (as in this morning) can climb up to the kitchen table. While I innocently ignored my children in the other room, S climbed up and found L’s half uneaten yogurt and went wild. She loves yogurt and has a firm attachment to the idea that it is a finger food. It’s also a finger paint and apparently a hair styling product.

Have I cleaned up yet? No. I laughed, took a picture, and came in here to blog about it. (I have a firm attachment to the idea of not disturbing happy children.)

20 Inches too Many

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In the town where I grew up there is a park with a great sledding hill. The hill is wide enough for dozens of sledders, has some pretty steep parts, sections with a more gentle grade, and a huge flat area at the bottom where a sled can safely come to rest. I have vague memories of sledding here once or twice. We only went once or twice because we had hills in our yard. Although not nearly as fun, they were right outside. I didn’t understand why my mom didn’t take us to the park more often. I mean, it was clearly so much more fun. And she could sled too instead of being stuck inside watching us out of the kitchen window.

Now I get it.

My town is currently under 2 feet of snow. I can’t put S down in it for fear she’d drown. L can’t walk through it, and when he falls he is unable to get up since pushing himself up with his hands results in sinking to his armpits and face-planting. Nevertheless, L and I have romped around in the snow at our house, and S even seemed to enjoy herself on my back as I went snowshoeing. So, with much stupidity, I took the kids to the park to go sledding.

I should have turned around at the gate when I discovered that the parking lot had not been plowed. Previous sledders and x-country skiers had furrowed a narrow winding trail to the hill at the far side of the parking lot, perhaps the length of a football field away. Both kids are bundled up, how bad could it be?

S started crying the second I took her out of the car. I considered buckling her into the baby sled to pull her along, but the trail was too narrow, and so deep that she’d certainly tip over. So I carried her, screaming, dragged her sled and encouraged L along. L fell down every 2 or 3 steps, complained that pulling his sled was too hard and basically moved about as slowly as a person possibly can.

Finally we meet our friends at the top of the hill. There is no place I can put S down. She continues screaming with enthusiasm, and my arms begin to ache. L makes his first attempt down the hill, sliding about a foot before getting stuck. See, with sledding, the depth of the snow has to be proportionate to the steepness of the hill. This hill is great with 4-5 inches of snow. With 2 feet, not so much. My arms are full of screaming, miserable S and my blood pressure is seriously on the rise, so when L finally reaches the bottom and begins to throw a fit about having to come back up with his sled I have no patience and am ready to go home.

I let L take 3 runs. Each return trip requires some “encouragement” (yelling and threatening) to get him back to the top. S never stops screaming. I’m wishing to be anywhere else than out in 2 feet of snow forced to hold a slippery 20 lb screaming child. I’m torn between embarrassment and who-the-fuck-cares as I yell at and threaten L and try to make light of the fact that S is crying harder than she has since she had colic as an infant.

Miraculously, L agrees to depart and we begin the long trek back to the car. This time I’m in front setting an unforgiving pace and each time L cries that he can’t keep up I shoot him a look that lets him know he’d better. Apparently, I’m very good at this look. Afraid to cry full-out, he whimpers and does his best. All in all, the walk to and from the hill take significantly longer than the actual sledding. We were out for about 45 minutes, 9 or 10 of which were spent sledding.

Between the hell of the outing itself, the process of getting both kids dressed for it, undressed from it and the sheer volume of wet clothes to contend with afterwards, I can easily guarantee that we will never do that again. So, like me, L might have vague memories of a sledding hill in his town; and I’m looking forward to many years of being stuck inside watching from the kitchen window.

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15 Step Program

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I’m not sure if Mama Hippo is the original author of this little gem. I’ve seen variations of this list around the webworld, but can’t find where exactly it originated. Whoever wrote it is brilliant. I especially like #’s 5, 8 and 10.

Thinking of having kids? Do this 15 step program first!

Lesson 1:

Go to the grocery store.

Arrange to have your salary paid directly to their head office.

Go home.
Pick up the paper.
Read it for the last time.

Lesson 2:

Before you finally go ahead and have children, find a couple who already are parents and berate them about their…

Methods of discipline.
Lack of patience.
Appallingly low tolerance levels.
Allowing their children to run wild.
Suggest ways in which they might improve their child’s breastfeeding, sleep habits, toilet training, table manners, and overall behavior.
Enjoy it because it will be the last time in your life you will have all the answers.

Lesson 3:

A really good way to discover how the nights might feel…

Get home from work and immediately begin walking around the living room from 5PM to 10PM carrying a wet bag weighing approximately 8-12 pounds, with a radio turned to static (or some other obnoxious sound) playing loudly. (Eat cold food with one hand for dinner)
At 10PM, put the bag gently down, set the alarm for midnight, and go to sleep.
Get up at 12 and walk around the living room again, with the bag, until 1AM.
Set the alarm for 3AM.
As you can’t get back to sleep, get up at 2AM and make a drink and watch an infomercial.
Go to bed at 2:45AM.
Get up at 3AM when the alarm goes off.
Sing songs quietly in the dark until 4AM.
Get up. Make breakfast. Get ready for work and go to work (work hard and be productive)
Repeat steps 1-9 each night. Keep this up for 3-5 years. Look cheerful and together.

Lesson 4:

Can you stand the mess children make? To find out…

Smear peanut butter onto the sofa and jam onto the curtains.
Hide a piece of raw chicken behind the stereo and leave it there all summer.
Stick your fingers in the flower bed.
Then rub them on the clean walls.
Take your favorite book, photo album, etc. Wreck it.
Spill milk on your new pillows. Cover the stains with crayons. How does that look?

Lesson 5:

Dressing small children is not as easy as it seems.

Buy an octopus and a small bag made out of loose mesh.
Attempt to put the octopus into the bag so that none of the arms hang out.
Time allowed for this – all morning.

Lesson 6:

Take an egg carton. Using a pair of scissors and a jar of paint, turn it into an alligator.
Now take the tube from a roll of toilet paper. Using only Scotch tape and a piece of aluminum foil, turn it into an attractive Christmas candle.
Last, take a milk carton, a ping-pong ball, and an empty packet of Cocoa Puffs. Make an exact replica of the Eiffel Tower.

Lesson 7:

Forget the BMW and buy a mini-van. And don’t think that you can leave it out in the driveway spotless and shining. Family cars don’t look like that.

Buy a chocolate ice cream cone and put it in the glove compartment. Leave it there.
Get a dime. Stick it in the CD player.
Take a family size package of chocolate cookies. Mash them into the back seat. Sprinkle cheerios all over the floor, then smash them with your foot.
Run a garden rake along both sides of the car.

Lesson 8:

Get ready to go out.
Sit on the floor of your bathroom reading picture books for half an hour.
Go out the front door.
Come in again. Go out.
Come back in.
Go out again.
Walk down the front path.
Walk back up it.
Walk down it again.
Walk very slowly down the sidewalk for five minutes.
Stop, inspect minutely, and ask at least 6 questions about every cigarette butt, piece of used chewing gum, dirty tissue, and dead insect along the way.
Retrace your steps.
Scream that you have had as much as you can stand until the neighbors come out and stare at you.
Give up and go back into the house.
You are now just about ready to try taking a small child for a walk.

Lesson 9:

Repeat everything you have learned at least (if not more than) five times.

Lesson 10:

Go to the local grocery store.
Take with you the closest thing you can find to a pre-school child. (A full-grown goat is an excellent choice). If you intend to have more than one child, then definitely take more than one goat.
Buy your week’s groceries without letting the goats out of your sight. Pay for everything the goat eats or destroys.
Until you can easily accomplish this, do not even contemplate having children.

Lesson 11:

Hollow out a melon.
Make a small hole in the side.
Suspend it from the ceiling and swing it from side to side.
Now get a bowl of soggy Cheerios and attempt to spoon them into the swaying melon by pretending to be an airplane.
Continue until half the Cheerios are gone.
Tip half into your lap. The other half, just throw up in the air.
You are now ready to feed a nine-month-old baby.

Lesson 12:

Learn the names of every character from Sesame Street, Barney, Disney, the Teletubbies, and Pokemon. Watch nothing else on TV but PBS, the Disney Channel or Noggin for at least five years. (I know, you’re thinking, What’s ‘Noggin’? Exactly the point.)

Lesson 13:

Move to the tropics. Find or make a compost pile. Dig down about halfway and stick your nose in it. Do this 3-5 times a day for at least two years.

Lesson 14:

Make a recording of Fran Drescher saying ‘mommy’ repeatedly. (Important: no more than a four second delay between each ‘mommy’; occasional crescendo to the level of a supersonic jet is required). Play this tape in your car everywhere you go for the next four years. You are now ready to take a long trip with a toddler.

Lesson 15:

Start talking to an adult of your choice. Have someone else continually tug on your skirt hem, shirt-sleeve, or elbow while playing the ‘mommy’ tape made from Lesson 14 above. You are now ready to have a conversation with an adult while there is a child in the room.

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Worst Case Scenario

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Last night while watching TV I fast forwarded through a commercial for some kind of horrible looking cage fight – two hulking, tattooed, sweaty and half-naked men punching each other in the face. I had a moment of panic: what if L grows up to be an ultimate fighter? Those men are someone’s sons. What happened in their life that lead them to punch and kick and be punched and kicked for a living?

I think ultimate fighter is the male equivalent to having a daughter grow up to be a stripper or hooker. Oh God! Double the panic. L is an ultimate fighter and S is working next door as a stripper. This thought struck me with terror last night.

What can I do now as a mom to ensure that this never happens? I know that it’s unlikely as they’re growing up in a safe, loving home and probably most strippers and fighters had a harder childhood than my kids, or even I, could ever imagine. But what if?

Or what if they grow up to be something else that scares me? A bigot, a homophobe, a bully, a drug addict? While my fears have the best of me, why not throw in premature death by drunk teenage driving? How about sexual assault victim? What about a quadriplegic  from a tragic sledding accident?

That’s it. My kids are never leaving the house again.

But then they could become bed-ridden 900 pound hoarders on a reality show.

There’s no winning this game of self torment. The good news is that these thoughts temporarily make L’s endless “why? why? why?” a lot less annoying. Also, it is kind of cute when S dances on the table. Then again, is that a pre-disposition for pole dancing??