Tonight could be labeled “and then you get pregnant again” because amidst all the apprehension of the impending birth, sleepless nights, and 3am diaper changes, our daughter gave us a glimpse in to the reason we decided to throw caution to the wind (or, rather, sperm to the unprotected vajajay) a few months ago in the hopes of creating another one. Tonight, as we read her story and kissed her good-night, she said to us, “Thank you, Mommy. Thank you, Mommy and Daddy.” All on her own, no prompting, and no death threats.
Today is one of those days that makes me remember that I’m not always pregnant, that I’m not always sleep deprived, that I’m not always bordering taking up heavy drinking for medicinal purposes. Today reminded me that inside this very large body of raging hormones, there’s the mom who turned to her husband one day and said, “I love being MOM. I want more. I want to do this again.” It reminds me that there is hope for those who discipline their children, that mine can, in fact, be disciplined, and that she is just as sweet and wonderful as her Grandmas think she is.
Last week I called Oma in a complete panic because THE CHILD WOULD NOT NAP OHMYGOD AND I CAN’T HAVE HER NOT NAP FOR SIX MORE MONTHS. (Yes, I spoke in all caps). She gave me the equivalent of a “Corner Ring” talk and sent me back in there armed with a plan: I would walk in, put the child in bed, not say a word to her, and wait outside her door for her to get out of bed again. Rinse and Repeat. I was prepared to stay outside her door for an hour or more if needed, because I know how the entire family crumbles on days she doesn’t nap, how her tiny little self can not handle not napping, how my very pregnant self can not handle her not napping. I was prepared for the sacrifice.
It took four times of going in and putting her in bed totaling 20 minutes. She napped for three hours.
We’ve tried this technique every chance we have for naptime. It’s been successful 100% of the time. She napped again today. I napped today. She woke up happy, calm, talking a mile a minute. She cracked me up. We laughed together. We enjoyed dinner. There wasn’t one tantrum, either from her OR me, and we all ate dinner like a regular family.
It was a super-nanny miracle.
She was pleasant and cooperative all afternoon. She went potty four times, letting us know she needed to go and keeping her diaper dry. She let me get her PJ’s on without fighting me for control. She pretty much sealed the “this is why we will have more children” when she kissed us goodnight and thanked us for being there.
Internet? If we make one more of these? If I have another “active” child full of spunk and spit-fire and flare? Maybe it’s not so bad after all. And, just so we’re perfectly clear, I’m writing this so you will remind me in three months that I’ve said all these words.
Sometimes I love being the Mom.
Granted, I don’t go around telling girls to get knocked up in High School as a regular expression of my brilliance, but I’ve been thinking of this a lot lately. I mean, what’s with all the “finish graduate school” and “get a stable job” and “have years with my husband first” crap? Really? When you compare it to the blissful layout of the following list. (Yes! It’s a LIST! I know I know…)
10. Boys are always horny. No need to beg them to come “DO” you because you’re ovulating. TONIGHT. RIGHT NOW. DAMNIT. PERFORM.
9. Down Syndrome pregnancy risk factor is 1 in 1659.
8. Perky Boob recovery is 1659 to 1.
7. Natural Lubrication. ‘Nuff Said.
6. Young people don’t sleep. Or need sleep. Or care about sleep. Old thirty-year olds turn in to beyotches without sleep. Trust me.
5. You can’t legally drink for a few years anyway. Why waste sobriety on pregnancy later?
4. Nobody cares what your GPA in High School was.
3. Your mother, your boss, and your friends will never ask why you’re not off getting laid.
2. Did I mention the perky boob thing?
1. You will get your body back the day you deliver. You will effortlessly sneeze a child out of your vajaja, turn to your mother and say, “What’s for dinner?”
LB will never read this post. I’m just sayin’....
Today I finally cashed in on a gift I received back at the start of January.
I’ve never had a professional massage in my life. Hell, I only spell “MASSAGE” correctly about ten percent of the time. Usually I have it on a wish list as a “Message” and people gloss over it with a flushed face wondering what kind of “Full Body Message” I could possibly mean. (Porn, obviously.) So, one fateful and delicous day back in January, I opened up a care package full of the most delicious cookies and brownies, some random pieces of love, and a pregnancy massage from my good friend Laura.
Sweet Jesus, I may be indebted forever.
So, as it is, I got my massage-cherry popped today. I may become a regular paying customer. Does that make me a massage-whore?
I’ve done amazingly well this pregnancy, in terms of not actually going to the ER for random bits of complete nonsense. I can tell, though, as I get closer to the end (Did I hear a PRAISE JEZUZ?!) I find myself becoming a wee bit more worrisome. Or freakish. Either way.
Compared to last go-round, I’ve been amazingly calm. With my first pregnancy I called the doctor no less than 8 times for various “pains.” I freaked out three times with false labor, thought my water broke once, called the hospital because I was SNORING TOO MUCH (I swear to god, it hurts to type that), and twice because she wasn’t moving enough. I also used to rub my belly at night if she was too quiet (which my Aunt later told me was the cause of her colic/screaming all night every night for months, which it wasn’t, but thanks for that anyway). This time around I don’t count the hours until the next doctor appointment, I don’t call the hospital wondering if he’s getting enough oxygen, I don’t call for every twitch or ache or pull. I file a lot of it in the “I’m pregnant and large” category and move along. I never wake him up at night, just in the slightest case my Aunt was right, figuring I’ll let him get used to this “sleeping” thing because I love me some sleep. I send down positive sleep vibes all day long, “You LOVE sleep. You do not LIKE to scream. You LOVE sleeping at night. It’s good!” I’m brain-washing a child in utero. This must be some kind of parenting record.
Still, though, you can imagine the complete shock yesterday on Mr. Flinger’s face when I turned down a four hour non-stress-test at the hospital following a fall in the parking lot. Sure, I’ve been thinking or talking a lot more about the “what-ifs”. I’ve been hearing stories and not letting go of the “oh-my-god that could happen to me”. Yes, I actually thought I may have caused the placenta to rip off the uterus when I made some sweeping hand motion while talking dramatically until I talked myself back to reality hours later. But after I slipped and fell flat on my large ass in the parking lot at the OB yesterday, minutes before I had the professionals poking and listening and evaluating the baby for any signs of stress, even as they said, “I think everything is just fine,” I still wondered that “what if they’re wrong? what if he’s dying a slow horrible death because something ruptured? What if…” because it’s getting so much harder to just. let. things. go.
There are six long weeks left. Long weeks that if I let my un-realistic worrisome side take over will seem even that much longer. Or I can choose to trust that we’ve made it this far. We’ve grown this healthy. We have only six weeks until we meet our little man and hold him and have him for the rest of our lives. If I remind myself there are plenty of things to worry about later, that he’s safe and healthy and growing inside me, maybe the last six weeks won’t feel as long as I think.
Then again, maybe I’ll completely lose my shit over the impending C-section and decide to keep him in. Because oh-my-god you’re going to take my bladder out and set it where?
Sure, we don’t have the same hair, or the blue eye-shadow, or the youthful glint in our eyes, but we were molded during the era of butt-rock and we’re here to pass along the wisdom of bad rhyming and cliches to the next generation, one time-out at a time.
For those more annoying whining moments wherein the toddler is Soooo Hiigghhh Piittchhheedddd Whhinnyyyy, perhaps a tune of High Enough will let your child know just how bad whiny and high pitched sounds (also that it doesn’t make more than one song hit the charts).
When the playdate turns in to a fist-fight over Elmo, it’s always appropriate to sing a little Cinderella.
If you’re trying to convey the unfairness of the world at large, why not let Guns and Roses do it for you?
When dropping your child off at preschool, a simple “I’ll Be There for You” will ease the separation anxiety.
For those napless afternoons, you might try a little Silent Lucidity lullaby.
Love of a Lifetime: No longer the soundtrack of the 8th grade gym dance, now a ballad to sing to your small one as you watch them sleep, peacefully, at the end of a trying day.
—Parenting Strategies brought to you by Casey Kasem reminding you to “Keep your feet on the ground, and keep reaching for the stars.”
I’ve talked openly about my child’s refusal to nap and its subsequent effect on me. We’ve been battling the “Nap Issue” for some time now. Eons ago, Oma said “perhaps she’s just giving it up?” to which I threw tomatoes at her and booed very loudly. I may have even hissed, I’m not sure. Either way, I know that even if SHE thinks she does not need a nap, *I* know she does. She claims she wants to go play because “my eyes aren’t tired, Mommy!” but I see this:
Sometimes after a struggle, she really will nap. And that? Is a sort of exorcism here.
I haven’t found the solution to prevent my own head from spinning 360 degrees or the flames darting out of my own eyes on days she doesn’t nap. I’ve tried it all. In the end? I don’t know what the magic formula is but you can bet your bottom dollar that I furiously replay whatever happened on a day when she does nap and I’ll try to repeat it to the very detail: “Fell asleep with polka dot dress OVER PJ’s.” Check.
************** Only slightly related *************
Did I tell you that my child has a poltergeist kitty? Oh, what? No? YOUR kid doesn’t have a ghost pet? Oh, well, really, you should get a ghost kitty that scares the crap out of your toddler so she’ll go running and jump on whatever piece of furniture is closest to her claiming, “THE KITTY! THE KITTY! THE KITTY SCRATCH!” I wouldn’t be lying if I said it creeps me out just a wee bit. If you ask her where the kitty is? It’s always in a different place. Sometimes it’s on mommy’s bed, sometimes it’s on LB’s bed, sometimes it’s in the garage. But sometimes it comes after her and makes her jump on the bed/sofa/chair perfectly scaring the holy hell out of me.
I always thought I’d have to scare away a monster. I never pictured a kitty under the bed. Somehow, that seems much, much worse.
This weekend we did some of the “to do” items from the “before our lives change and never really go back” list. We finally did some small things like put up the ties for the blind-pulls so the toddler doesn’t end up strangled while we ignore her to feed the baby. We re-arranged their closet to fit all of CB’s new baby things. We got the stuff to stain the diaper changing station and a few other home projects that we’ve neglected. Just having marked off several list items made me feel like this little man actually might fit in our tiny house.
But there’s an item on my list that I really am not good at. It’s something I’ve confessed here before. I have “make dinners and place in freezer” on my list. But Internet? I don’t know what dinners to make. Or what would freeze well. Or what will fit in the freezer with the two-farking- turkeys that are STILL there from Thanksgiving. (That’s right, Internet. Anyone up for Turkey dinner in about four days? Gawd.) So, if you have some ideas on what *I* might be able to cook and freeze that might come out decent, I’d be happy to hear them.
And you remember those neighbors I told you about? I’ll test out one of those recipes on them, too. Because there’s nothing like “hey! I make shitty food!” to really get you on the right foot when you’ve been spying on the people with the new baby.
I’m finding out that awards come in various packages. Some of them get passed by friends*, others take votes** and nominations***, some may be real or fake, some are in the form of a kind word about a pregnant belly, and some come in unexpected emails and comments from strangers. Some have bling. Some do not.
I don’t often speak of political or late-breaking news. I usually don’t touch current affairs. I leave those topics to the so-called “experts” But, quite honestly, the latest information about the VA Tech tragedy is eating away at my hope for the future. I’m sad and horrified on behalf of the families and friends of the victims. But the fact that we’re allowing video from the killer, we’re allowing our kids to watch him get his fame, his air-time, his publicity, disappoints me to no end.
Anyone who raised a toddler knows there’s such a thing as “negative attention.” If my child acts out, sometimes she’s doing so simply for attention. When appropriate, I try not to give it to her. I let her throw a fit, scream her head off, try to piss me off and I’ll continue with my activity. Instead, when she listens, I become her cheerleader and praise her in a way that makes Barny look sane. I go on and on about how great she’s doing and how wonderful she is when she’s good. Sometimes this tactic makes me roll my eyes in to the back of my head. Usually, though, it works.
What are we, as a nation, teaching the children who want attention? What are we showing those kids who have are in a hard place? Are we telling them that if they lash out, kill people, and send in a video, we’ll make them famous? Their legend will “live on”? They’re life will not be in vain? And, as Cho said, “become martyrs?” Hell no. Hell. No. You rip the video down. You do not claim “It will help us learn more about the tragedy” by forcing students and families to watch the killer’s message. You pass along the video to authorities, who themselves admit, “it’s not as insightful as we’d hope to the investigation,” and respect the victim’s families wish to not glorify a killer.
After hearing about a High School “copycat” that was arrested on a plot to kill over a hundred students, a simple google search for the article using “high school boy arrested” reveals too many students ready to become famous in the same way. And that? Makes me cry for my own son, who may never know a safe and wonderful world.
Today we caught a glimpse into our youngest child’s world. While a mother knows many things about the person growing inside of her, like his resting times, his active times, which body part is poking her ribs, the Dad only hears second hand, “He’s moving! Come here quick!” There are times, I’m sure, that Mr. Flinger feels a little slighted with the experience of growing an actual person. There are times, that is, until I’m puking or swelling, failing diabetes tests or having contractions. Today, though, he had the chance to peek at his first son, our second child, and it made the entire experience just that much more real and rich and amazing.
Internet? I’m growing an entire human being in my stomach. That. Is. Amazing.
We learned he’s an “active” boy. We learned that he is, in fact, a boy and that’s it’s ok to start sending out those girl clothes after all. We learned he sleeps with his mouth open, that he’s breech still, that his feet are up near his head and his hands often grab his toes. He also sucks the umbilical chord, which I find less than tasty sounding, and laughs when you tickle him. Yes, we saw our son laugh, or at least smile with an open mouth after the technicial rubbed the wand on his back and he jumped. My son is ticklish. My son has the Mr. Flinger nose. My son has fine hair on his head and his daddy’s lips.
Once again, my genes are slackers.
I don’t mind, though. He looks just like his sister did when she was a baby. It’s comforting almost, to see a familiar face. Even if we haven’t seen him in the world yet, we know him. And today? We know him just a little bit more.
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