When LB was three weeks old, I decided she would be a “go baby.” I’m not one to be happy at home for very long and the thought of staying in the house with this new person who cried and pooped and ate all the time made me roll my eyes constantly and weep in to piles of tissue. I needed out and she was going to go with me.
I started walking with her every day in the Bjorn. I was determined she’d figure out this whole “day time is for wakey and night time is for sleepy” thing. Also, I needed to walk off the sixty pounds I gained during pregnancy and figured hauling her around was a sure way to do it.
We visited the Jelly Bellies, we went to the park, we went to playgroup. We never stayed home for an entire day without going somewhere, even if it was just a ride to Starbucks so she could flirt with the Baristas. I prided myself on this child that could go most places, enjoyed being out and craved people as much as I did. I thought it was fantastic.
We did this most of her first two years. Then one day, we moved 260 miles north and I got pukey. Our house shrunk 400 square feet and I gained 10 pounds. We had no friends, no plans and no place to go. I’ve tried to find places and things to wear down LB. She loves the “Jump Park” and asks to go every day. And therein lies the problem: She asks to go every day.
She asks for Jelly Belly every day. She stands at the top of the stairs and says, “Ready to go! LB ready to GO!” She will go put on her Velcro shoes, attempt her coat until she yells, “TOO HARD!” and stand at the door. She will yell for me to come get my coat and shoes. She will ask for Buddy and tell me it’s time to go see Luke or Jelly Belly or the Jump Park.
I created a go monster.
I have to change our life. The past two months (my god, it’s only been two months) were full of begging for her to nap while I go hug the toilet and crawl in to bed every afternoon. It’s been long long days of rain and gloom with a toddler and an emotional pregnant lady stuck in the same 700 square feet for days. We practically growl at each other and wish for the other to just Go. Away. Already. We need space. We need room. We need people.
I’m hoping to find a solution that gives LB a place to be with little friends and time for Mommy to get her online work done during the day. I realized I’ve been working 12 hours a day keeping LB safe and shaping her character and then working another 4 hours at night shaping the character of students in my class. I then crawl in to bed and wake up to a screaming toddler and do it all over again. It’s time to take back my evenings. It’s time to get LB a place of her own. It’s time to get us both space, two days a week for four hours each day, a grand total of eight hours a week. Space, though, non the less. Perhaps she’ll make a friend or two and I’ll join a Mom group. Is it pathetic and horrible that we’re just that needy? At this point I honestly don’t care now. We need stuff. We need places. It’s time to get out there.
I just wish I could take all of you with me.
Today, as we were driving home from playing at the park with Paige, I decided to go through town so LB could go on a bridge over water and see the big buildings. We drove by Mr. Flinger’s Alumni and I pointed out that is where Daddy went to school. LB was quiet, and I repeated, “See? That is Daddy’s college. Daddy went to school there.”
We drove a bit more and she could see it better so I told her again, “That’s where daddy went to school.” And again after we rounded a corner and could see a different view.
About ten minutes later as we’re passing a mall and the surrounding stores, LB gasps and says,
“Oh! I see! Daddy’s school is Target!”
*sigh* Now I just need to inform her that when I tell her she will go to college after high school, I don’t mean be a cashier at Target.
We’re traveling south tomorrow so watch for us on Flickr. Merry Christmas and all inclusive holiday love from our family to yours.
Xs and stolen Os,
I’ve been trying to teach LB not to steal things. There is a fine line between looking at something and being tackled by security guards. The line is called THE DOOR and this concept is lost on my two year old.
LB loves to manhandle things. Toys. Books. Radios. Glasses. Still, at over two now, she has the grip of a Banshy and yells, “MINE MINE!” and strikes out for whatever fancies her attention at the time. More than once, this has been another buddy at the Paul Frank store. Buddy, I can understand, but a woman’s thong? Lotion? A watch? Seems my little kleptomaniac progressed up the money scale and will probably be heading right for the big jewels or important paintings next. I thought it was time to stop the inevitable.
I’ve been explaining to LB how we can look and not touch. Or how when we decide to pick it up and look, we need to put it back. She’s getting better. The trains in Borders (mostly) tend to stay on the table when she’s done playing and the books (almost) always get put back. Luckily I’ve caught all items before she actually smuggled them out the door.
It shouldn’t shock me, then, when we went to our friend’s house last week that she attached herself to a purple letter “O”. The kid loves the letter “O”. Also? “X” is a top fave. (Think tick-tac-toe at the park and you’ll see why she insists on having the “X” and “O”.) She carried around the purple “O” the entire visit. At last it was time to go and I reiterated the “put away everything you got out” rule that applies everywhere we go. I continued to talk while shoving things back in our bag and telling LB to “go put that back, Sweetie.” At some point, LB must’ve handed me the purple “O” when I told her to go put it back. I was unaware of the exchange. Apparently, I slapped it in the bag along with all our other crap.
The ironic part about is that our friend, the one whom my daughter and I just stole a purple “O” from, would actually MAIL us a bib if we left it there. She would make a special trip to hand us SOAP (this really happened once) if we forgot it in the shower. She would not let one thing be left behind on accident and I’m sure she’d mail something she and her son accidentally took as theirs.
The thing is? I can’t remember to mail my Christmas Cards, let alone a purple “O”. We still have toys from playgroup people left when she was six months old and a block from a friend we went walking with once a week a long while back. We no longer see these people and I completely forgot to give them back their stuff when we did see them. So the reality is, I think we stole a purple “O” among many other toys throughout the Northwest.
I am such a great role model.
I had an OB appointment today with the “new OB.” It wasn’t a recommendation from anyone specifically, but he had a spot open for a new patient. Now I know why.
The “nurse” came out wearing heels, capris with nylons, and a bright pink sweater under the white coat with name tag “CARMAN, RN.” She had huge puffy bleached hair and a thick German accent. She started out ordering other people around while I waited for her to take me back, to what I only could assume would be, a nazi camp. She barked at me to put my coat down and step on the scale. “But not yet!” she yelled. I stepped back. “Leave your shoes on and NOW, GO NOW, oh, you missed it you have to wait for it to say Zero now.” Apparently the scale is extremely sensitive and you must know the Nazi hand drill, jump four times and yell “HAIL HITLER” before getting on, all of which I totally fucked up.
I peed in the cup and handed it to her (I literally had to squeeze Urine out for fear she’d out me for not being able to piddle) and waited while she wrote down things about me “gaining too much weight, looks bigger than she should be, doesn’t know the scale drill.” She wouldn’t listen when I said I had a miscarriage on 8/28 and it was not a normal period. That I ovulated late because my cycle was messed up and this baby is the product of the ONLY TIME there was any action since the miscarriage. She didn’t need the sexual history, apparently.
She huffed out of the room but returned a minute later with a doppler, “Forgot to listen to baby’s heartbeat” she said in her accent (which may have been fun if she wasn’t such a bitch about everything). She spent ten minutes looking for the heartbeat. She found mine a few times. She heard some swooshing of my blood. She heard static. And nothing. Ten minutes of absolute hell. Then she gave up and walked out of the room.
I sat there, alone, for twenty minutes with a dead baby in my uterus.
Or at least that’s what I thought. I bawled, texted Mr. Flinger “Can’t Find Heartbeat” and had a major meltdown right there in the gown with the opening in the front like I was asked to do. The longer the wait got, the more decided I was on two things. One, I would never come back here and two, I was going to leave RIGHT THIS MINUTE.
Finally the doctor came in, quizzically looked at me with my red poofy eyes. “She didn’t find the heartbeat” I muttered trying to breath and not cry. “Oh, I’ll get to that,” he dismissed. He sat and talked to me for a good thirty minutes all during which I sat teary waiting and thinking, “none of this matters if there is no baby. I don’t want to talk about pregnancy. There is no baby.”
At last he got to the physical exam, measured my uterus (which is measuring large, another way of saying, “hold on there, cowgirl! Not so much on the cheese and crackers!), and got out the doppler. I closed my eyes and ten seconds later heard the refreshing swoosh swoosh of CB. Then I really lost my shit. I believe I actually yelled the words, “THANK THE LORD!” and cried right there with my boobs open to the ceiling and my uterus hanging out with goop on it. I’m sure a crying uterus is not the hottest thing ever because naked people coughing is the exact opposite of hot. But it didn’t matter. There is a baby.
(Happy 15 weeks tomorrow. What? belly shot? Oh, shit, right, I’ll be RIGHT on that. Right. Gotit. Sigh)
**updated ** Wow. You people really want your belly shots. Personally, I prefer tequila, but whatever.
Here ya go! (please ignore the light perspiration. I believe I haunched over the sink shortly after this was taken…)
I won’t list them out for you (trying to keep some level of pride here) but lately? I’m not just off balance, I’m off kilter, off skilter and hilter. I’m a loose hinge. I’m a leaning Christmas Tree. I’m.. well, you get it.
Already my belly is big enough to make my back ache. Already laying on my back or stomach is painful. When I lift my arms above my head in public (don’t ask me WHY I am doing this, just go with me here) my belly will shove out from under my shirt and show the entire world just how white and stretched out it already is. SEXY!
So it’s not a huge surprise that our leaning tower o’ treeza completely tipped over yesterday when my BOOBS brushed, ever so softly, against it as I tried to plug in the lights.
Between my belly, my boobs and my ass? I’m hopeless. I don’t think I’ll be sitting in LB’s little table and chair set she gets this Christmas. *sigh*
Lately I’ve been reflecting on our past few Christmases. We’ve moved twice since last year, the year before that LB was just brand new and before that I was blissfully two months away from puking from my first pregnancy.
A little while ago, I read Laura’s post about Sophia crying and remembered LB’s first Christmas. I have vague memories of screaming and not sleeping. I remember leaving her for the first time and coming home to her dressed like a complete freak. I shuffled through the archives of our family site and came to this little jewel:
LB’s first christmas
I found something I wrote about our child. I remember writing this, now that I re-read it, but it means something different to me now. In the heat of the moment, it means I’m tired, she’s cranky, and everyone notices. Now? I see validation for the months of frustration and complete angst over this baby that was supposed to be “the joy of our lives” that was really a little more trouble than not. Sound familiar?
Sometimes Murphy’s law takes over and everything goes haywire. Like my website. Notice it’s up and down more than people at a Catholic Mass? Yea. I’m working on it. Hoping to get it all fixed up (again) so that y’all can see the mega cute pics of LB. I mean, they’re up there in Cyber-world just waitin’ to be viewed! In other news, LB has been fussy fussy fussy. Mom and Dad (Oma and Pappa) are staying here and can’t believe how crabby she is. They love her, don’t get me wrong, and love and kiss on her, but make comments like “She’s fussy today” and “Hmm fussy baby.” In a way it’s nice that someone else thinks so. It’s not just in my head. She’s been labeled “high maintenance” by her Aunt. Which is probably true. But, then again, she’s a baby.
I saw something today I’ve never seen before. The “I’m going to cry and you pick me up now” look. The child is very smart. VERY. She opened one eye in the middle of a screaming fit, looked right at me, stopped for a second, and then started screaming again. She did this three times. I didn’t pick her up, I set her in her happy place (the changing table… I can almost always get grins if her butt is airing out) and held her hand and talked to her in a soothing voice about how I wasn’t going to pick her up but she needed to calm down a little bit and then we’d talk. Seriously, three minutes later she was smiling at me again. I think we had our first battle of wills.
Then tonight she did another first. I swaddled her arms into her blanket (usually left out for flailing) and laid her in the crib. I walked out to look for the Paci. She was fussing but I was helping Mom get something together for her room. About two minutes later she was quiet. I looked in and she was quietly looking at her wall. Another minute later she was asleep. All. By. Herself. I’m wondering if my little LB isn’t growing up faster than I’m willing to admit. Perhaps she is aware now of how to get what she would like. Maybe she’s not trying to manipulate me, but she’s figuring out what gets me to pick her up. And that’s ok sometimes. Sometimes I should pick her up just because she needs to be held. And other times, when she’s fighting her sleep or fussing for no apparent reason and all her needs have been met, it’s OK to let her fuss. I guess we’re both learning. I mean, I’m her first Mom and she’s my first baby.
And, last but certainly not least, the acclaimed original Flinger video, created at 1AM after hours of screaming, I present to you the one and only:
How to soothe a baby
All I have to say is this:
I have a very l large list for Santa this year. Santa, honey? Listen up.
I’d like my patience back. You know the stuff that keeps you from totally losing your shit on your two year old because you are pregnant, hormonal and tired? And she’s.. well… two? I’d appreciate it and I know LB and Mr. Flinger would, too. So let’s just put this on all our lists. Patience for the mommy.
Also, my sex drive and maybe some lovin’. We have at least six weeks after the baby is born for no nookie and, I’m thinking, three good months of me being so damn huge I either a) don’t want to be touched or b) no logical way to make it work. So right now would be lovely and I know the second trimester is the perfect time for this. So let’s just get on that, shall we?
But first! I would like to be done gaggin and puking. ‘Cause there ain’t no lovin’ gonna happen until I stop gagging and retching. “Raur, Mr. Flinger, you are so” ... HACK GAG GAG GAG .. DRY HEAVE.. “hot…” You see the problem?
It goes without saying I’d like a healthy baby this year, too. And make that a boy. So I can win the fifty bucks bet. (See? Two gifts in one! I try to make it easy on you, Santa.)
And last but not least, I’d like my toddler to nap. NAP WITHOUT POOPING. The trick where she takes off her diaper and poops in the crib? Not so much HAHA funny as disgusting. (See also gagging and retching.) I’ve been in touch with one of your elves who also happens to have a vast knowledge on the topic, but perhaps you can just slap some sense in to the toddler and help her crap in the toilet. Also? It would be a lovely gift for prego here to not change two babies in diapers at once. I’m all about efficiency, Santa, I hope you appreciate that.
And sorry in advance about eating your cookies. But cookies left out around a pregnant lady? There was no hope to start out with.
Your believing child,
P.S. I realize today marks Trimester Two. Belly shot to come. Go, CB, go!
And you thought picking out a garbage can was hard...
Just arrived so this is still fun!
We’re wet but going to have a good time!
The look of optimism
It’s muddy but that’s still ok
Found one we like! This one, Daddy! We like this one!
“No, that’s a noble fur. Let’s go Douglas”
What about THIS ONE?
Fuck the rain, I’m not wearing my hood. How about THIS ONE?
... tantrums…. an hour or more .....
Later that weekend….
It FUCKING LEANS
So glad we were so picky. This is why there is eggnog (with nog). Make the damn tree look straight.
When I unveiled the new template, Mr. Flinger asked, “You took down the snowman? What, you can’t handle that much cheer?” It’s not that I’m not a happy person. It’s just that I’m not a happy person RIGHT NOW. I struggle with the desire to be positive and kind and warm and the image of knitting pot holders and saying things like, “gosh darn I burned the brownies. Shoot dang.” In my heart I want to not judge others but I’m so defensive about being judged. I’d like to keep my mouth shut at times but it’s a short lived wish and usually turns in to a mountain of verbal poo spilled in one big glump instead of spread around in pieces so as to not hurt anyone.
I’m doing it now, aren’t I?
I can’t decided which I am more frustrated with today. IE or LB. They both throw tantrums when asked to behave. They both push my buttons until I’m ready to yell. Neither of them plays nicely at times and neither of them gives a rats ass about web design.
Look, let me come right out and say it here. I gosh-darn strongly dislike Internet Explorer. (LB threw out the word crap the other day followed closely by damnit. I am now speaking only in “rated LB” terms around the house and it gets so. bleeping. irritating. But really, do I need my two year old saying fuck? I obviously hit my fuck quota for the year.) Ok, it goes like this….. I get frustrated and unsettled at life in general. Perhaps it’s a mom who is prettier and not gagging hours a day over her sink that makes me wish I wasn’t me. Or maybe it’s the car’s “check engine” light that appears on a random basis having nothing what-so-ever to do with getting gas or a gas cap like one would hope. Or maybe it’s the two year old being very two-sie and me being very preg-sie and we just collide a little too long. It is times like this that I really want to escape to my happy place. You’d never guess where that is? (No, it’s not partying in the bathroom while the 6 month old sleep in the hotel room, but that was a fun memory…) My happy place is my blog. It’s the escape I get when things just are too .... real.. in real life.
Y’all are my happy place. (Sounds of people going “ahhhh” followed closely by gagging.)
Until I load the page in Internet Explorer and there is blood and shrieking and violence in my happy place.
So. Here I am. With one lovely template in Firefox and a
. Of course, you know I’m currently sitting behind the curtain staring at code going, “WHAT THE FUCK!” (Ooops, I mean, what in the gosh darn world…)
For now, though, do everyone in the world a favor. Download Firefox. Then come back here and enjoy a functioning footer with sidebars that actually go the length of the page. ‘Cause DAMN if I’m cowering to Bill Gates (again.) And while you’re at it, by a Mac.
Current Bugs to Fix***
(Please fill out what looks broken to you. It should look like the screen shot here.)
Also, while you’re waiting for me to get my act together, feel free to keep the “what we do for the holidays” discussion going. I’m enjoying a rousing rendition of “holy crap, people travel EVERYWHERE” right now. I had no clue so many of you get around on Christmas Day. You Christmas whores, you.
(**updated** someone check the temperature in hell. I think the template is fixed in IE and the toddler is asleep. It’s surely cold down there, surely cold…)
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