Some weeks after giving birth to Secondborn, Hubby and I had the discussion on which contraceptive path we wanted to take. After some discussion we opted for something non-hormonal. Let's face facts, folks. I'm crazy enough as it is without introducing any new variants to the mix. So, I chose the diaphragm.
After receiving mine I quickly realized that I had forgotten to pick up the required spermicide to be used along with the diaphragm. I quickly added it to the following week's grocery list and put it out of mind. The days that followed were something of a blur of preparations and excitement as we were expecting a visit from the in-laws.
Monday finally rolled around and we had a full day of shopping planned. First we had the grocery store and then home for lunches and naps. This would be followed by a trip to Costco for all our bulk item needs. After a busy morning of household chores we all loaded up and headed to the grocery store.
At this point, Firstborn routinely refuses to ride in the shopping carts no matter where we are, what we attempt to bribe him with, or what cool car concept cart it might be. In an effort to be somewhat in control of our mobile circus, I suggested that he push one of the smaller carts while Hubby would push the larger cart and Secondborn. An hour and only minimal (depending on who you ask) damage later, we checked out.
As I was unpacking the groceries in our kitchen I realized that we had accidentally omitted an important item from our list.
"Crap. We forgot the spermicide" , I said to Hubby.
"Well, we're still going to Costco this afternoon," was his reply.
Somewhat taken aback I asked, "Exactly how much sex are you planning on us having? I mean, I'm all for fun and games, but I've got two kids aged two and under. I'm a tired woman most days. Three, four times tops (a week), is about all I can manage after cleaning up after Firstborn. And let's not forget about Secondborn parking herself at my boobs throughout the day and night."
Even as I was saying those words my mind was flooded with pictures of tubes of spermicide so large that it would require a forklift to load them into the MommyMobile.
Poor Hubby. It wasn't what he quite meant to come out, but even he got a good laugh once he realized the implications of his reply.
And for the record, Costco doesn't carry spermicide. I know. Hubby and I both looked.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Friday, October 23, 2009
....But You Can't Pick Your Friend's Nose
You know the old saying, "You can pick your friends and you can pick your nose, but you can't pick your friend's nose"? Just how do you explain that to a two year old?
Last night Firstborn was not feeling well. He'd had a very long and trying day. I had the family down at the health department before sun up in order for us to obtain our H1N1 Flu vaccines. The vaccine made him cranky. The ungodly hour of 5:30 in the morning made him tired. And I just made him mad every time he turned around.
Since he was not feeling well I allowed him to go to sleep in my bed with the plan of Hubby moving him to the toddler bed once Hubby was home from closing the restaurant. Firstborn was having trouble settling down. He kept wiggling. I asked him to stop. He did. He began to sing. I asked him to stop. And he did. Then the nose picking began. I said to Firstborn, "Take your finger out of your nose and do not put it back in there." And thankfully, he did.
As I lay there on the very edge of sleep, thinking I had taken care of the situation, I reached out for my son's sweet chubby hand. For the record, this particular hand had no involvement in the prior nose picking incident. Firstborn was playing with my hand and I paid it no mind. That is until I realized my finger was going up his nose. My son had enlisted my hand to harvest his crop of snot.
After dislodging my finger and giving it a generous application of hand sanitizer, I once more tried to go back to that fuzzy sleepy place. This time I was interrupted by Firstborn sitting up in bed and asking, "Where booger go, Mommy?"
"What do you mean, 'Where booger go'?"
He then points to Hubby's pillow, apparently its previous resting place, and says, "Booger go bye-bye".
As I closed my eyes for the last time that hour, I gave an inward giggle that at least I would not be the only one picked for this booger business.
Last night Firstborn was not feeling well. He'd had a very long and trying day. I had the family down at the health department before sun up in order for us to obtain our H1N1 Flu vaccines. The vaccine made him cranky. The ungodly hour of 5:30 in the morning made him tired. And I just made him mad every time he turned around.
Since he was not feeling well I allowed him to go to sleep in my bed with the plan of Hubby moving him to the toddler bed once Hubby was home from closing the restaurant. Firstborn was having trouble settling down. He kept wiggling. I asked him to stop. He did. He began to sing. I asked him to stop. And he did. Then the nose picking began. I said to Firstborn, "Take your finger out of your nose and do not put it back in there." And thankfully, he did.
As I lay there on the very edge of sleep, thinking I had taken care of the situation, I reached out for my son's sweet chubby hand. For the record, this particular hand had no involvement in the prior nose picking incident. Firstborn was playing with my hand and I paid it no mind. That is until I realized my finger was going up his nose. My son had enlisted my hand to harvest his crop of snot.
After dislodging my finger and giving it a generous application of hand sanitizer, I once more tried to go back to that fuzzy sleepy place. This time I was interrupted by Firstborn sitting up in bed and asking, "Where booger go, Mommy?"
"What do you mean, 'Where booger go'?"
He then points to Hubby's pillow, apparently its previous resting place, and says, "Booger go bye-bye".
As I closed my eyes for the last time that hour, I gave an inward giggle that at least I would not be the only one picked for this booger business.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
It's My Life
I pride myself on having well managed days with a three month old and a two and half year old. While pregnant I was terrified of what the days after the birth would hold in store for me. But, as it turns out, I've done alright. Heck, I feel like I'm doing really well. Yes, some days are harder than others, but each has its own rewards.
In maintaining these well managed days I've had to let some things go. Namely, myself. Yes, I know I just had a baby....three months ago. That does not excuse the fact that I should not neglect the things that make me happy. I love writing articles for this blog. It's a wonderful outlet for my rantings. I have several topics scribbled down that I want to write about. The problem is when I have the time I'm often too tired to connect the words. Even as I'm writing this it feels forced and not as fluid as it once did. I hope that as we continue to establish a good working rhythm with our household that it will come back to me once more.
Secondborn is a pure delight. In every aspect she is the day to Firstborn's night. Where he was severely colicky and cried for hours and hours, she rarely utters a whine. There are exceptions to that, though. Obviously when she's gassy and it hurts she'll cry. Or, when big brother decides to shower, or mop as it was in one case, her with attention she does so as well.
Where he had a head full of jet black hair, she has little. And what she does have is strawberry blond. He never cooed or babbled much, but she's my little chatterbox.
It's a marvelous thing to have such an easy going and happy baby. It helps alleviate some of my heavy workload of constantly rescuing Firstborn out of some precarious position he's wriggled himself into. Or cleaning up mishap after mishap. Dealing with Firstborn at this time is exhausting and often frustrating. It's not uncommon since he's learned to open the refrigerator to find a new bottle of tarter sauce poured across the kitchen floor, or him drinking lemon juice straight from the bottle. I suppose that teaches me a lesson about having shoved lemon wedges in his mouth when he was just a babe to see his funny faces.
Yesterday was trying and today's forecast is predicting the same patterns as well, it would seem. I felt as if I had a three foot tall parrot shadowing my every move yesterday. Not only was my every step followed in close pursuit by said parrot, but my every word was also mimicked. I love Firstborn dearly, but sometimes Mommy just needs a moment. I'm certain all mothers have gone through this very thing. However, acknowledging that does not relieve the stress of having to be on ballerina toes at all times so as not to step on the always underfoot child.
And when he isn't underfoot, I'm even more concerned. Why, you may ask. Because that's when he's most dangerous. Not only to himself, but my sanity. He finally learned to put his poop in the potty. And there was great rejoicing throughout the land. However, for the third time this week he's deemed it unnecessary to use the necessary. What gives, kid?
He sneaks off while I'm nursing Secondborn. He has learned that this is his window of opportunity to wreck havoc upon my house and my nerves. He slips off quietly to his bedroom. He shuts the door, yet I never seem to hear it close. What I do hear over the monitor is him reading books to himself. I then silently congratulate myself on instilling a love for all books in him early on. I also hear him playing with toys. It all sounds so innocent until I hear those dreaded words, "I poo-poo, Mommy! I poo-poo!" as he's approaching me with fingers to elbows covered in poop.
After the initial freak out routine of me unlatching Secondborn with little to no ceremony, plopping her in the nearest safe spot, grabbing Firstborn by the upper arm and leading him to the bathroom all the while yelling, "We DO NOT put our poo-poo in the floor", I am once more thrust into clean up mode.
Today's routine was slightly altered as he had locked the bathroom door and then closed it. Hubby was on hiney detail and I was on umm, litter patrol. I went to the bathroom to flush the poop only to find I was locked out. Great, not only was I irritated that he'd once again pooped the floor, but I was left holding still warm poop. Lovely.
I love it when older women like to give the advice "to enjoy every minute of these days because they pass all too quickly". Even with days such as yesterday and today I try to. After all, it's my life and I love every single poop and tarter sauce covered floor moment of it. I may grow weary in the midst of it, but I will never tire of the greater rewards. Besides, I'll get mine when I get to tell his future girlfriends of how he tried to mop his baby sister and proudly said, "Look, Mommy. I hepped. All clean now."
In maintaining these well managed days I've had to let some things go. Namely, myself. Yes, I know I just had a baby....three months ago. That does not excuse the fact that I should not neglect the things that make me happy. I love writing articles for this blog. It's a wonderful outlet for my rantings. I have several topics scribbled down that I want to write about. The problem is when I have the time I'm often too tired to connect the words. Even as I'm writing this it feels forced and not as fluid as it once did. I hope that as we continue to establish a good working rhythm with our household that it will come back to me once more.
Secondborn is a pure delight. In every aspect she is the day to Firstborn's night. Where he was severely colicky and cried for hours and hours, she rarely utters a whine. There are exceptions to that, though. Obviously when she's gassy and it hurts she'll cry. Or, when big brother decides to shower, or mop as it was in one case, her with attention she does so as well.
Where he had a head full of jet black hair, she has little. And what she does have is strawberry blond. He never cooed or babbled much, but she's my little chatterbox.
It's a marvelous thing to have such an easy going and happy baby. It helps alleviate some of my heavy workload of constantly rescuing Firstborn out of some precarious position he's wriggled himself into. Or cleaning up mishap after mishap. Dealing with Firstborn at this time is exhausting and often frustrating. It's not uncommon since he's learned to open the refrigerator to find a new bottle of tarter sauce poured across the kitchen floor, or him drinking lemon juice straight from the bottle. I suppose that teaches me a lesson about having shoved lemon wedges in his mouth when he was just a babe to see his funny faces.
Yesterday was trying and today's forecast is predicting the same patterns as well, it would seem. I felt as if I had a three foot tall parrot shadowing my every move yesterday. Not only was my every step followed in close pursuit by said parrot, but my every word was also mimicked. I love Firstborn dearly, but sometimes Mommy just needs a moment. I'm certain all mothers have gone through this very thing. However, acknowledging that does not relieve the stress of having to be on ballerina toes at all times so as not to step on the always underfoot child.
And when he isn't underfoot, I'm even more concerned. Why, you may ask. Because that's when he's most dangerous. Not only to himself, but my sanity. He finally learned to put his poop in the potty. And there was great rejoicing throughout the land. However, for the third time this week he's deemed it unnecessary to use the necessary. What gives, kid?
He sneaks off while I'm nursing Secondborn. He has learned that this is his window of opportunity to wreck havoc upon my house and my nerves. He slips off quietly to his bedroom. He shuts the door, yet I never seem to hear it close. What I do hear over the monitor is him reading books to himself. I then silently congratulate myself on instilling a love for all books in him early on. I also hear him playing with toys. It all sounds so innocent until I hear those dreaded words, "I poo-poo, Mommy! I poo-poo!" as he's approaching me with fingers to elbows covered in poop.
After the initial freak out routine of me unlatching Secondborn with little to no ceremony, plopping her in the nearest safe spot, grabbing Firstborn by the upper arm and leading him to the bathroom all the while yelling, "We DO NOT put our poo-poo in the floor", I am once more thrust into clean up mode.
Today's routine was slightly altered as he had locked the bathroom door and then closed it. Hubby was on hiney detail and I was on umm, litter patrol. I went to the bathroom to flush the poop only to find I was locked out. Great, not only was I irritated that he'd once again pooped the floor, but I was left holding still warm poop. Lovely.
I love it when older women like to give the advice "to enjoy every minute of these days because they pass all too quickly". Even with days such as yesterday and today I try to. After all, it's my life and I love every single poop and tarter sauce covered floor moment of it. I may grow weary in the midst of it, but I will never tire of the greater rewards. Besides, I'll get mine when I get to tell his future girlfriends of how he tried to mop his baby sister and proudly said, "Look, Mommy. I hepped. All clean now."
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Bath Tub Highjacker
I realize that it's been quite some time since I've last shared any articles. I'm sure most of you are aware by now that our family has expanded. Secondborn joined our ranks on July 7, at 11:08 weighing in at 7 pounds and 2 ounces. She was just shy of 20 inches long. I was thrilled to be able to have a successful VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean). She has added immeasurable joy to our household as well as she has taken away from what little personal time I had before her arrival. That's a trade off that I have no problem with. Most days. Then there was the day we had on Sunday.
Firstborn had woken in the middle of the night with a high fever. We had to cancel Secondborn's prayer and dedication at our church not only because of his sickness, but also because Hubby had thrown his back out. That day I played Mommy to all three. By the end of the day I was done and extremely close to tears. After supper I begged to have a few minutes to myself alone in the bath tub with a copy of a magazine that was getting close to a month old, but still very much new to me. Hubby had Secondborn asleep on his chest while he was lying flat on the heating pad and Firstborn was engrossed with a Play Doh project at the kitchen table.
This was my moment and nothing was going to stand in my way. I locked myself in the bathroom and drew a hot, steamy bath. I was almost giddy thinking of how the next fifteen minutes would hold no diaper changes, no small child dangling from my boob, and no crying. I climbed in and began to block out the world of Elmo and spit up.
Not more than eight minutes into my relaxing soak did it begin. The crying. I distinctly remembered that I had stipulated my bath would have no crying, so I tried to ignore it. This crying was different though. This crying was coming from Firstborn and this crying indicated to me that some part of Firstborn must no longer be attached. I jumped out of the tub knowing that Hubby could do no jumping up as his back was out of whack. I unlocked the only barrier between me and what surely must be my severely maimed son. Once the door was open my ever so healthy and completely naked son pushed past me and climbed into my bath. My relaxing bath had just been hijacked by a two year old carrying a wide tooth comb. Not knowing what else to do I sunk back into my bath alongside my son and began to shed a few tears. So much for a bath with no tears.
*Editor's Note*
This is not my best work. Forgive me I'm somewhat sleep deprived with Firstborn still sick and typing with a baby latched onto your boob isn't that easy. Please continue to read on.
Firstborn had woken in the middle of the night with a high fever. We had to cancel Secondborn's prayer and dedication at our church not only because of his sickness, but also because Hubby had thrown his back out. That day I played Mommy to all three. By the end of the day I was done and extremely close to tears. After supper I begged to have a few minutes to myself alone in the bath tub with a copy of a magazine that was getting close to a month old, but still very much new to me. Hubby had Secondborn asleep on his chest while he was lying flat on the heating pad and Firstborn was engrossed with a Play Doh project at the kitchen table.
This was my moment and nothing was going to stand in my way. I locked myself in the bathroom and drew a hot, steamy bath. I was almost giddy thinking of how the next fifteen minutes would hold no diaper changes, no small child dangling from my boob, and no crying. I climbed in and began to block out the world of Elmo and spit up.
Not more than eight minutes into my relaxing soak did it begin. The crying. I distinctly remembered that I had stipulated my bath would have no crying, so I tried to ignore it. This crying was different though. This crying was coming from Firstborn and this crying indicated to me that some part of Firstborn must no longer be attached. I jumped out of the tub knowing that Hubby could do no jumping up as his back was out of whack. I unlocked the only barrier between me and what surely must be my severely maimed son. Once the door was open my ever so healthy and completely naked son pushed past me and climbed into my bath. My relaxing bath had just been hijacked by a two year old carrying a wide tooth comb. Not knowing what else to do I sunk back into my bath alongside my son and began to shed a few tears. So much for a bath with no tears.
*Editor's Note*
This is not my best work. Forgive me I'm somewhat sleep deprived with Firstborn still sick and typing with a baby latched onto your boob isn't that easy. Please continue to read on.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
A Letter From The Landlord
Dear current tenant,
while I have enjoyed your lengthy stay in my womb I am writing to inform you that I will not be renewing your lease upon its expiration date. This does not, in any way reflect my opinion of you. It is merely a personal choice.
During your stay we've come to know one another with great detail and intimacy. Therefore, I feel I can speak candidly. For the most part I've enjoyed your presence. But, there have been times that you've shown a complete disregard for my hospitality. This seems to be a common occurrence these past few months, one that does not sit well with me.
Your late night dance parties have often hindered my ability to enjoy a good night's rest. Your constant protests of my food and beverage choices is unwelcome. And your demand for larger lodgings is out of my control.
I feel that it's within everyone's best interest if we just part ways, and soon, while we're still on agreeable terms. I realize that this sudden change in living arrangements will most likely be disagreeable with you, however, I have a solution. Rather than viewing this as an eviction notice, I suggest you view it as a relocation program. In exchange for giving me full rights to my body once more, I offer up a warm, comfortable crib located within close proximity to my own sleeping arrangements. In addition, I will also throw in two working boobies that you may feast upon any time you so choose. So, you see, this really is in no way an eviction notice. I hope you find this plan to your liking and I look forward to your moving soon. Real soon.
Sincerely,
Mommy, your current uterine landlord
while I have enjoyed your lengthy stay in my womb I am writing to inform you that I will not be renewing your lease upon its expiration date. This does not, in any way reflect my opinion of you. It is merely a personal choice.
During your stay we've come to know one another with great detail and intimacy. Therefore, I feel I can speak candidly. For the most part I've enjoyed your presence. But, there have been times that you've shown a complete disregard for my hospitality. This seems to be a common occurrence these past few months, one that does not sit well with me.
Your late night dance parties have often hindered my ability to enjoy a good night's rest. Your constant protests of my food and beverage choices is unwelcome. And your demand for larger lodgings is out of my control.
I feel that it's within everyone's best interest if we just part ways, and soon, while we're still on agreeable terms. I realize that this sudden change in living arrangements will most likely be disagreeable with you, however, I have a solution. Rather than viewing this as an eviction notice, I suggest you view it as a relocation program. In exchange for giving me full rights to my body once more, I offer up a warm, comfortable crib located within close proximity to my own sleeping arrangements. In addition, I will also throw in two working boobies that you may feast upon any time you so choose. So, you see, this really is in no way an eviction notice. I hope you find this plan to your liking and I look forward to your moving soon. Real soon.
Sincerely,
Mommy, your current uterine landlord
Sunday, May 31, 2009
An Apology To My Husband
To my dearest and ever loving husband,
do you remember when we were still dating? You would come to pick me up and inevitably I wouldn't be ready. I would pour you a drink and leave you to finish getting ready. I took great pride as well as pains, in choosing what to wear, how to do my hair, and where I should apply the perfume I had carefully chosen for the evening. I loved watching you watching me as I would walk back into the room. The way you would watch me all evening always made me feel special. I knew all my hard work while done in the name of vanity, had not been in vain.
During these past few years you've looked at me in many different ways. There have been looks of awe, anger, frustration, fascination, love, and sheer lunacy. The look I'd like to thank you for the most, however is for looking the other way. With only a few weeks left till Secondborn joins our ranks I often find it hopeless to spend the amount of time and energy I once did on making myself presentable. It's not as easy as it once was. It's certainly not as enjoyable. Let's face it, no amount of concealer is going to conceal the fact that I look as if I'm smuggling a watermelon. My issue isn't so much with what my body looks like, but what my body does. I left the land of Ladylike long ago. There's the burping that results in Firstborn asking each and every time, "You 'kay?" There's the belly and hiney scratching that occurs indiscriminately, whether it be in front of just you, or everyone in the supermarket. There's the ever present waddle that in no way resembles my once seductive sashey.
And then there's the pooting. The pooting that is fueled by my mostly produce ingested diet. The pooting that drives Firstborn to the other side of the room and causes much conversation while he and I are in public potties together. The pooting that I once would have been mortified by and try to lay blame on the dog or the newborn, is now so commonplace that I don't even notice. And by the look on your face, neither do you. You are either such a gentleman that you look the other way, or God has blessed you with some sort of pregnant hormone to block out all effects of mine.
So thank you, darling Hubby for looking the other way. I offer my sincerest apologies for all of my bodily offences for the rest of the pregnancy, labor, and delivery.
With all my love,
Your Affectionate and Flatulant Wife
do you remember when we were still dating? You would come to pick me up and inevitably I wouldn't be ready. I would pour you a drink and leave you to finish getting ready. I took great pride as well as pains, in choosing what to wear, how to do my hair, and where I should apply the perfume I had carefully chosen for the evening. I loved watching you watching me as I would walk back into the room. The way you would watch me all evening always made me feel special. I knew all my hard work while done in the name of vanity, had not been in vain.
During these past few years you've looked at me in many different ways. There have been looks of awe, anger, frustration, fascination, love, and sheer lunacy. The look I'd like to thank you for the most, however is for looking the other way. With only a few weeks left till Secondborn joins our ranks I often find it hopeless to spend the amount of time and energy I once did on making myself presentable. It's not as easy as it once was. It's certainly not as enjoyable. Let's face it, no amount of concealer is going to conceal the fact that I look as if I'm smuggling a watermelon. My issue isn't so much with what my body looks like, but what my body does. I left the land of Ladylike long ago. There's the burping that results in Firstborn asking each and every time, "You 'kay?" There's the belly and hiney scratching that occurs indiscriminately, whether it be in front of just you, or everyone in the supermarket. There's the ever present waddle that in no way resembles my once seductive sashey.
And then there's the pooting. The pooting that is fueled by my mostly produce ingested diet. The pooting that drives Firstborn to the other side of the room and causes much conversation while he and I are in public potties together. The pooting that I once would have been mortified by and try to lay blame on the dog or the newborn, is now so commonplace that I don't even notice. And by the look on your face, neither do you. You are either such a gentleman that you look the other way, or God has blessed you with some sort of pregnant hormone to block out all effects of mine.
So thank you, darling Hubby for looking the other way. I offer my sincerest apologies for all of my bodily offences for the rest of the pregnancy, labor, and delivery.
With all my love,
Your Affectionate and Flatulant Wife
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Googer Hurts, Mama
Firstborn ran up to me one day last week with his finger outstretched and waving wildly. He kept repeating this phrase: "Googer hurts, Mama. Googer hurts."
I racked my brain desperately trying to figure out what part of my beloved Firstborn might be ailing him. I reached for his hand and held it for a closer inspection. And there it was, on the very tip of his finger. A booger, or as my son was saying, "Googer".
"Does the 'googer' hurt or does your nose hurt from retrieving the 'googer'?"
"Googer hurts, Mama. Googer hurts."
That's all I could get out of him, besides the 'googer'. A lot of things hurt him these days. At his two year wellness check up last week I had to ask the doctor if he thought Firstborn might have a urinary tract infection. Every time he went pee-pee in the potty he would tell me his pee-pee hurt. The urine analysis was negative. Turns out our little "googer getter" now understands the concept of hurts and owies but not to its fullest extent.
I waddle a lot these days. A combination of gaining 33 pounds and being less than five weeks from my due date, I suppose. I also hold the bottom of my back often. And sometimes, if all the forces of pregnancy are really wanting to pull a good one over on me, the hiney will ache from the occassional hemmeroid as well. Firstborn approached me one afternoon as I was waddling down the hall with one hand on my lower back and the other on my hiney. I'm pretty sure I was giving a good bellyachin' moan too. My sweet child ran behind me and kissed my hiney. "You 'kay? No hurt, Mama."
"No hurt. Mama all better now. Thanks."
I racked my brain desperately trying to figure out what part of my beloved Firstborn might be ailing him. I reached for his hand and held it for a closer inspection. And there it was, on the very tip of his finger. A booger, or as my son was saying, "Googer".
"Does the 'googer' hurt or does your nose hurt from retrieving the 'googer'?"
"Googer hurts, Mama. Googer hurts."
That's all I could get out of him, besides the 'googer'. A lot of things hurt him these days. At his two year wellness check up last week I had to ask the doctor if he thought Firstborn might have a urinary tract infection. Every time he went pee-pee in the potty he would tell me his pee-pee hurt. The urine analysis was negative. Turns out our little "googer getter" now understands the concept of hurts and owies but not to its fullest extent.
I waddle a lot these days. A combination of gaining 33 pounds and being less than five weeks from my due date, I suppose. I also hold the bottom of my back often. And sometimes, if all the forces of pregnancy are really wanting to pull a good one over on me, the hiney will ache from the occassional hemmeroid as well. Firstborn approached me one afternoon as I was waddling down the hall with one hand on my lower back and the other on my hiney. I'm pretty sure I was giving a good bellyachin' moan too. My sweet child ran behind me and kissed my hiney. "You 'kay? No hurt, Mama."
"No hurt. Mama all better now. Thanks."
Friday, May 22, 2009
Monday- Pull Head Out Of Hiney
I hate to be that person who not only neglects their blog, but writes a blog to apologize for said neglect. But, this afternoon I am indeed that person. The past three weeks have been really busy with Hubby's parents coming to visit, Firstborn's second birthday, and the planning and replanning of his party. Not only was I super busy, but it seems my endless energy is now finding its way to an end. I suppose that's to be expected since I'm only six weeks away from due date. I have had several ideas for new articles and hope to find the time sometime within the next week to finally commit them to the blog. So...for those emailing me nasty little notes about my blog neglect, message received. I'm writing it on my calander: Monday - pull head out of hiney and get busy confessing.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Pass The Gas, Please
I'm craving one of my favorite southern meals: meatloaf, stewed potatoes, pinto beans, and cornbread. It's what's on the menu tonight. I'm even considering jacking this up a notch by adding broccoli and cheddar to the cornbread. The only thing missing at the moment would be fresh sliced tomato, but I'm too much of a tomato snob to enjoy one from the local big box market. But soon, very soon they'll be coming into season and I'll be able to hit my local produce stand up for one of those juicy Better Boys or Big Berthas.
Most likely this is a mundane topic for some of my dearly devoted. Those of you who know me though, know of my love for all things food. Factor in the pregnancy and you'll find that food occupies a good 78% of my thinking. So it was of no surprise when this menu came to me in a dream early this morning. I woke slobbering and smacking with anticipation for the deliciousness that awaited me.
As I was soaking and rinsing my beans it occurred to me, however, that this meal was going to hurt me. Between the heartburn and the gas, there's no doubt in my mind I will be rolling on the floor miserable a good half hour after consumption. Ordinarily this meal might sting for a brief time, but I would soldier on. I'd forgotten to consider my on board companion might not enjoy the in flight meal as much as myself. Well, little girl, you best buckle up. You're about to experience some slight turbulence. Mama needs her comfort food.
Most likely this is a mundane topic for some of my dearly devoted. Those of you who know me though, know of my love for all things food. Factor in the pregnancy and you'll find that food occupies a good 78% of my thinking. So it was of no surprise when this menu came to me in a dream early this morning. I woke slobbering and smacking with anticipation for the deliciousness that awaited me.
As I was soaking and rinsing my beans it occurred to me, however, that this meal was going to hurt me. Between the heartburn and the gas, there's no doubt in my mind I will be rolling on the floor miserable a good half hour after consumption. Ordinarily this meal might sting for a brief time, but I would soldier on. I'd forgotten to consider my on board companion might not enjoy the in flight meal as much as myself. Well, little girl, you best buckle up. You're about to experience some slight turbulence. Mama needs her comfort food.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
He Said, She Said
The following conversation took place this morning as my husband I watched a pair of finches building a nest in our Boston fern on the deck.
"Typical male", I said as the female was doing all the nest building and the male sat below pigging out in the feeder.
"He was probably kicked out for not doing it right", said Hubby. " 'No! That's not where that leaf goes. It goes over here."
"Well, that sounds about right. He probably wasn't listening the first five times she told him where and how to do it."
"What was that?"
"Never mind, I'll just do it myself."
"Typical male", I said as the female was doing all the nest building and the male sat below pigging out in the feeder.
"He was probably kicked out for not doing it right", said Hubby. " 'No! That's not where that leaf goes. It goes over here."
"Well, that sounds about right. He probably wasn't listening the first five times she told him where and how to do it."
"What was that?"
"Never mind, I'll just do it myself."
Monday, April 6, 2009
Some Days Are Better Than Others
Some days are better than others. We all know this. But when stuck in the middle of one of those days it's difficult to see past the poop on your carpet, or whatever else may have come your way. So I suppose there was no great reason for me to be surprised when the words "GO GET IN YOUR CRATE" were issued from my lips last week. The surprise came as I realized I was yelling them at my son, and not our dog.
Firstborn turns two next month and we've been working on potty training the past two weeks. We've actually been "potty teaching" for some months, but it's been in the past two weeks that the proverbial light bulb went off deep within him. And with the weather warming up it's made potty training much easier. He's been going bare bottomed, and loving it too, I might add. His floor potty is placed in the living room atop several old towels as well as in front. I'm absolutely amazed by the boy's arc and aim. I can see now that I will be fighting a constant battle with keeping a clean bathroom in the future.
The first few days I baby gated him into the living room so as to contain any accidents. Each time he pee-pees in the potty he gets a jelly bean. After a few days the gate came down. I'm proud to say we've only had four, maybe five "uh ohs". The third "uh oh" I'm sure was done on purpose just to see if he could vacuum it up with his play Dirt Devil. It seems he may have inherited my love of vacuuming.
He's doing quite well with the pee-pee portion of potty time. It's the poopy that gives him fits. Like most boys he would rather poop in his diaper. The problem is that he doesn't like to wear diapers anymore. So when he needs to "see a man about a horse" he does this crazy, tribal dance. He'll run to the potty and sit. He'll hop up grabbing his hiney. Then he'll run in circles while whining, "hurts, Mama, hiney hurts". Then he'll sit again, only to repeat the whole dance. I ask him if he would like to put a diaper on and he'll utter a very pained, "yeah". Sometimes he avoids the whole tribal dance and just brings me a diaper. No sooner will I have him strapped in and he's finishing up business.
One day last week we were having an especially whiny morning. I don't know who started it, but when either Firstborn or myself wake in a whiny mood it tends to be contagious. I was sitting on the couch when Firstborn began his poopy dance. I was determined that this time the kid was going to poop on the potty, so I didn't offer him a diaper. He danced around the living room half a dozen times and then sat on his potty.
"Alright," I thought to myself. "That's more like it." He sat and sat. He sat some more. It had been over twenty minutes since the beginning of the "poo poo limbo" and I needed to go potty as well. I'm pregnant, it had been twenty minutes, you know the equation: pregnant + the recommended 60 oz of water/daily = peeing every 15-20 minutes.
I could hear Firstborn as I was making my way back to the living room. "Poo Poo! Poo Poo!" I hurried. I certainly didn't want him trying to empty the potty by himself. I guess there was no need to hurry after all. I entered the room as my son had a handful of poop and was about to place it into the potty. Oh, and there was more on the carpet. *Sighs* Some days are better than others.
The rest of the day followed much in the same fashion. I had a lengthy to do list, but was making no headway with it. Every time I turned around I was either cleaning up a new mess or disciplining. The straw that broke the camel's back came at the end of the day. I was trying to make supper and fold laundry while Firstborn was playing in his room. As I emerged from the laundry closet I looked across the room to see that he was washing my sliding glass door with his baby's blanket. I knew in an instant there was only one place he could have gotten the water to wet that blanket as thoroughly as he did, the potty.
I took the blanket away and swatted his bottom all in one motion. With my right arm I pointed down the hallway. And as if I was having some out of body experience I heard myself yell, "GO GET IN YOUR CRATE."
The dog, who had been sleeping soundly, jerked her head up. Her look said it all, "What did I do?" Firstborn cocked his head to one side and began to giggle hysterically. And with that so did I, because after all, aren't some days better than others?
Firstborn turns two next month and we've been working on potty training the past two weeks. We've actually been "potty teaching" for some months, but it's been in the past two weeks that the proverbial light bulb went off deep within him. And with the weather warming up it's made potty training much easier. He's been going bare bottomed, and loving it too, I might add. His floor potty is placed in the living room atop several old towels as well as in front. I'm absolutely amazed by the boy's arc and aim. I can see now that I will be fighting a constant battle with keeping a clean bathroom in the future.
The first few days I baby gated him into the living room so as to contain any accidents. Each time he pee-pees in the potty he gets a jelly bean. After a few days the gate came down. I'm proud to say we've only had four, maybe five "uh ohs". The third "uh oh" I'm sure was done on purpose just to see if he could vacuum it up with his play Dirt Devil. It seems he may have inherited my love of vacuuming.
He's doing quite well with the pee-pee portion of potty time. It's the poopy that gives him fits. Like most boys he would rather poop in his diaper. The problem is that he doesn't like to wear diapers anymore. So when he needs to "see a man about a horse" he does this crazy, tribal dance. He'll run to the potty and sit. He'll hop up grabbing his hiney. Then he'll run in circles while whining, "hurts, Mama, hiney hurts". Then he'll sit again, only to repeat the whole dance. I ask him if he would like to put a diaper on and he'll utter a very pained, "yeah". Sometimes he avoids the whole tribal dance and just brings me a diaper. No sooner will I have him strapped in and he's finishing up business.
One day last week we were having an especially whiny morning. I don't know who started it, but when either Firstborn or myself wake in a whiny mood it tends to be contagious. I was sitting on the couch when Firstborn began his poopy dance. I was determined that this time the kid was going to poop on the potty, so I didn't offer him a diaper. He danced around the living room half a dozen times and then sat on his potty.
"Alright," I thought to myself. "That's more like it." He sat and sat. He sat some more. It had been over twenty minutes since the beginning of the "poo poo limbo" and I needed to go potty as well. I'm pregnant, it had been twenty minutes, you know the equation: pregnant + the recommended 60 oz of water/daily = peeing every 15-20 minutes.
I could hear Firstborn as I was making my way back to the living room. "Poo Poo! Poo Poo!" I hurried. I certainly didn't want him trying to empty the potty by himself. I guess there was no need to hurry after all. I entered the room as my son had a handful of poop and was about to place it into the potty. Oh, and there was more on the carpet. *Sighs* Some days are better than others.
The rest of the day followed much in the same fashion. I had a lengthy to do list, but was making no headway with it. Every time I turned around I was either cleaning up a new mess or disciplining. The straw that broke the camel's back came at the end of the day. I was trying to make supper and fold laundry while Firstborn was playing in his room. As I emerged from the laundry closet I looked across the room to see that he was washing my sliding glass door with his baby's blanket. I knew in an instant there was only one place he could have gotten the water to wet that blanket as thoroughly as he did, the potty.
I took the blanket away and swatted his bottom all in one motion. With my right arm I pointed down the hallway. And as if I was having some out of body experience I heard myself yell, "GO GET IN YOUR CRATE."
The dog, who had been sleeping soundly, jerked her head up. Her look said it all, "What did I do?" Firstborn cocked his head to one side and began to giggle hysterically. And with that so did I, because after all, aren't some days better than others?
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Have You Seen This Giraffe?
In the back of my mind I knew there would come a day when the unthinkable would occur. In anticipation of this dreaded day I had made preparations. Apparently, I had not done enough. The unthinkable took place last Monday. We lost a lovie, a precious, a near and dear to us. Put your hankies away. Nobody died. No, this was far worse.
For those who run with the five and under set I'm sure you're all too familiar with what a lovie is. It's a item of esteemed affection of a child. Hubby and I both had them as children. Both, coincidentally, were yellow blankets. I still have mine in all its tattered glory. When I was pregnant with Firstborn I began crocheting him a yellow blanket as well. It's a simple affair as I was, and still am a simple crocheter. Last spring I even made him a second "Yellow". A backup if you will. After having suffered the loss of my dearly beloved Panda as a toddler, I was all too familiar with this type heartache. I wanted to make sure our Firstborn never had to endure this. But the dreaded day did not involve Yellow.
We attended my niece's birthday party this past fall where the party favors were quite generous. Firstborn walked away with not only photo mementos, but a goody bag, and a handsome stuffed giraffe. From that day forward "Draff", as he has come to be known, has not left my son's side. Draff attends every function he does. And I mean every function, from potty breaks to church services.
I vividly remember the Great Jam Incident of '08. Firstborn was diligently sharing his breakfast of toast and jam with his dearest friend when things got a bit sticky. I deemed it necessary not only for Firstborn to have a bath, but Draff as well. Things went as planned during my son's bath, but a near riot insued when he saw Draff being dropped into the washing machine. He stomped, kicked, screamed, pulled all the magnets off of the fridge, and tried valiently to find a way to climb up and save Draff from what he was sure to be his very death. He pulled his stuffed chair into the laundry room and waited. He sat dutifully awaiting for his friend to emerge from his watery grave only to be tossed next into the dryer. Still, he sat. Never have I seen a more relieved look on my son's face then when I removed Draff from the dryer and handed him over.
Last Monday Firstborn, Yellow, Draff, and I loaded up the Mommy Mobile and headed to the mall to walk. We had been cooped up for much too long and were in search of some much needed exercise. After our 45 minute walk it was time to load back up and head home. This is where things began to get ugly. I quickly realized as I was packing everything into the car that Draff was not one of my items. I backtracked mentally. Where had he last been seen? I didn't actually remember seeing him in the mall, but I did remember him being next to the diaper bag at home. It's that period of time between leaving home and getting ready to head back home that was a complete blank. Drat this baby brain. I couldn't remember anything anymore. I convinced myself that most likely Draff was sitting on the kitchen counter patiently waiting for Firstborn to retrieve him.
I frantically organized a search party once home. Within the hour Hubby and I had ruled out Draff being anywhere in the house or Mommy Mobile. This was not good. I was beyond panic as I knew nap time was fast approaching. My mind was racing with thoughts of Amber Alerts: Draff: orange and white spotted, twelve inches in height, last seen wearing long eyelashes and a kind smile. While I was getting that out to the public, Hubby could be gluing recent "Have you seen me?" photos onto milk cartons. A team effort would be needed to print up fliers and get in touch with Nancy Grace. But I was certain we could pull it off.
Nap time was long and painful that afternoon. It took almost an hour to get Firstborn asleep. However, once he was Hubby and I worked quickly. I got on the horn. First I called the mall's lost and found, but no luck. Then I called my sister-in-law. Thankfully, she was home and able to tell me where she had purchased Draff. Within minutes Hubby was out the door and headed to Toys-R-Us.
While he was out Firstborn woke prematurely from his nap. I distracted him with projects and snacks. Then my knight in shining armor strode in quickly ripping price tags from a brand new Draff. I'm not sure if it was a combination of pregnancy hormones and stress, or if just seeing my son's face light up with sheer joy at seeing his long lost friend returned safely, but I began to cry. It was a look I will never forget. I know, it's a look he gives me often, and that alone makes being Mommy all worth it.
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Friday, March 13, 2009
Granny Takes No Prisoners
Recently, I visited with my ninety year old Granny. It was the first time she had seen me in some months and there was definitely much more of me to be seen. At our last meeting I was still early on in my pregnancy. I looked as if I'd eaten a large lunch, not very pregnant at all. This time was a different story. I am now six months along and look as if I'd eaten a small hot dog stand, not just a large lunch.
We were enjoying watching Firstborn as he played with my aunt. During all this time my Granny complimented me on how good I looked and asked questions regarding the pregnancy. She deftly waited until my aunt took Firstborn outside to pick buttercups, and that's when she began the assault.
On outside appearances my granny looks like any ninety year old granny, but don't be fooled. She's a seasoned, war time general. She's lived long enough to learn the best tactile maneuvers, and she's not afraid to use them. Little did I realize that she had already been maneuvering her artillery into place in our prior conversation.
Granny: "You look good. You look like you've been eating well. And I see you're still out and about frequently. Is the baby giving you any problems? Hrphmph."
It all sounded so innocent to me as we were watching the antics of my aunt and son as they tickled one another with a feather duster. It's what she said next once we were alone, that set off the air raid sirens in my head.
Granny: "Don't you think you need to be in maternity clothing?"
Mommy: "Granny, this is maternity clothing."
Granny: "Hrphmph."
Oh no. There it was, the second Hrphmph! Just minutes before I had been lovingly rubbing my blissful belly as Granny had been speaking. I was caught up in the scene before me and not paying much attention to what she said. But quickly, I was jolted back to the battlefield that lay before me. I began running our previous conversation back through my head.
Granny: "You look good."
Translation: I see you've been performing your wifely duties.
Granny: "You look like you've been eating well."
Translation: Don't get too fat. You'll just have to lose all of that baby weight again, and we know how long it took you last time.
Granny: "And I see you're still out and about."
Translation: Don't you think you should be in confinement? You are after all, with child.
Granny: "Is the baby giving you much trouble?"
Translation: That poor child you're carryin' has to be miserable what with all the weight you've gained and you out gallavantin' about the countryside.
Granny: "Hrphmph."
Translation: I don't approve of this one bit.
Granny: "Don't you think you need to be in maternity clothing?"
Translation: You're in the family way. You should be wearing the appropriate tent like clothing, complete with Peter Pan collars.
Granny: "Hrphmph."
Translation: I really don't approve of this one bit. This is worse than I thought.
How had I missed it? I was a sitting duck. No, I was a sitting, pregnant duck with a giant bulls eye painted on my ever expanding belly. This was not going to be pretty. This lady was known for taking no prisoners. She left them in a pile of ashes and bones that had once been their self-esteem, strewn across the living room sofa.
It was time to hunker down. Firing back would have been in poor taste, after all, she was ninety. And her guilt game was far superior to even her war games. I would have to move quickly and carefully. I explained that not only what I was wearing was in fact, maternity clothing, but that it had been passed on to me from my younger sister. Ouch, sorry for throwing you under the bus like that dearest sister, but you know how the old bird operates. It's every man for himself.
I should have stopped there but I couldn't. My tongue marched on with prhases like, "this is how it's done these days" and "all the cool kids are doing it". She just sat there in silence with her left hand in a sort of fist under her chin and index finger covering her mouth. And just like that she had conquered victorious. With the entrance of my aunt and son her demeanor once again changed back into that of a jolly great-grandparent. I sat there on the living room sofa a shell of the once confident mommy to be.
We were enjoying watching Firstborn as he played with my aunt. During all this time my Granny complimented me on how good I looked and asked questions regarding the pregnancy. She deftly waited until my aunt took Firstborn outside to pick buttercups, and that's when she began the assault.
On outside appearances my granny looks like any ninety year old granny, but don't be fooled. She's a seasoned, war time general. She's lived long enough to learn the best tactile maneuvers, and she's not afraid to use them. Little did I realize that she had already been maneuvering her artillery into place in our prior conversation.
Granny: "You look good. You look like you've been eating well. And I see you're still out and about frequently. Is the baby giving you any problems? Hrphmph."
It all sounded so innocent to me as we were watching the antics of my aunt and son as they tickled one another with a feather duster. It's what she said next once we were alone, that set off the air raid sirens in my head.
Granny: "Don't you think you need to be in maternity clothing?"
Mommy: "Granny, this is maternity clothing."
Granny: "Hrphmph."
Oh no. There it was, the second Hrphmph! Just minutes before I had been lovingly rubbing my blissful belly as Granny had been speaking. I was caught up in the scene before me and not paying much attention to what she said. But quickly, I was jolted back to the battlefield that lay before me. I began running our previous conversation back through my head.
Granny: "You look good."
Translation: I see you've been performing your wifely duties.
Granny: "You look like you've been eating well."
Translation: Don't get too fat. You'll just have to lose all of that baby weight again, and we know how long it took you last time.
Granny: "And I see you're still out and about."
Translation: Don't you think you should be in confinement? You are after all, with child.
Granny: "Is the baby giving you much trouble?"
Translation: That poor child you're carryin' has to be miserable what with all the weight you've gained and you out gallavantin' about the countryside.
Granny: "Hrphmph."
Translation: I don't approve of this one bit.
Granny: "Don't you think you need to be in maternity clothing?"
Translation: You're in the family way. You should be wearing the appropriate tent like clothing, complete with Peter Pan collars.
Granny: "Hrphmph."
Translation: I really don't approve of this one bit. This is worse than I thought.
How had I missed it? I was a sitting duck. No, I was a sitting, pregnant duck with a giant bulls eye painted on my ever expanding belly. This was not going to be pretty. This lady was known for taking no prisoners. She left them in a pile of ashes and bones that had once been their self-esteem, strewn across the living room sofa.
It was time to hunker down. Firing back would have been in poor taste, after all, she was ninety. And her guilt game was far superior to even her war games. I would have to move quickly and carefully. I explained that not only what I was wearing was in fact, maternity clothing, but that it had been passed on to me from my younger sister. Ouch, sorry for throwing you under the bus like that dearest sister, but you know how the old bird operates. It's every man for himself.
I should have stopped there but I couldn't. My tongue marched on with prhases like, "this is how it's done these days" and "all the cool kids are doing it". She just sat there in silence with her left hand in a sort of fist under her chin and index finger covering her mouth. And just like that she had conquered victorious. With the entrance of my aunt and son her demeanor once again changed back into that of a jolly great-grandparent. I sat there on the living room sofa a shell of the once confident mommy to be.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Trying Two
My dear, sweet, and strong-willed son, Firstborn, is not quite two. He won't be two until May, but has already decided to fully embrace the "terrible two's", a phrase I dislike greatly. It's a misleading phrase. Maybe a more appropriately alliterated phrase should have been the "trying two's". Because that's what it truly is. Firstborn is trying many things, not just my patience, but that's the one that comes to mind when I say, "trying two's".
Not only is he trying to learn who he is, but where he stands in this family. And that is going to be somewhat unsettling I'm afraid, once Secondborn arrives in July. He's trying out boundaries, of the physical and parental department. Three weeks ago he attempted ice skating in our narrow kitchen with each foot in a separate frying pan. Needless to say, he didn't stick that particular landing. He did, however, nail the one yesterday as he walked on the couch up and down its length until falling and cracking his head on the wooden armrest. I don't know about crossing his T's, but he certainly dotted his eye.
Firstborn is learning at an amazingly rapid pace that never ceases to amaze me. It's evident that he will be much smarter than I am. Maybe it was the fish oil pills I took the last half of the pregnancy to increase his brain growth and development. I'd like to think that us teaching him sign language starting at five months had a hand in it too. Most likely it's that he takes after his Daddy who I'm in awe of. Whatever the case may be, I'm both terrified and proud of my son's problem solving capabilities.
Recently we've had to replace the original covers on our electrical outlets. He had learned to pull the safety plugs out. The new ones require a steady and strong hand in sliding the plate over to its opening. We're taking bets on how long it takes him to figure this one out. Two weeks ago he learned how to unscrew lightbulbs. Two days ago he shorted out my nightstand lamp trying to figure out how it works. His favorite tool in the house for some time now has been an ever handy pair of kitchen tongs. He uses them to reach anything that's out of his reach.
Do you see where I'm going? Do we enroll him in some sort of Montessori Electrical Engineering program or duct tape him to his high chair? I've always loved working with children whether it be in daycare settings or one-on-one. I highly encourage thinking outside of the box. I believe a child should be independant and confident. I can't sit beside him and watch his every move. Not only would it wreck his self esteem but my house would be a wreck as well, what with all the neglect.
Every day is presenting new challanges and obsticles for both, Firstborn and myself. I want him to keep trying new things and seeing how they work. I also want a clean house (prefereably with all my electrical appliances working within the proper safety codes). But the question is, do I want these at the risk of raising a child who doesn't know how to think for himself void of any personality? No. As long as my child is safe, well fed, and fully aware of just how much he's loved, then I'm doing my job. As the older woman in my ladies group told me a few weeks ago, "Hon, your job is to give that child all the lovin' you got, and to keep him from breakin' his fool little neck...cause it's the only one that the good Lord gave him! The house can wait, but that boy will be gone in the blink of an eye." Amen.
So, for those who think I'm crazy because I let my son finger paint with chocolate pudding in the bathtub and play with Quaker Oats as he plows them into my living room carpet with his tractors I say this: I'm not crazy (err, that crazy), I'm just letting my son be the best "trying two" he can be.
Not only is he trying to learn who he is, but where he stands in this family. And that is going to be somewhat unsettling I'm afraid, once Secondborn arrives in July. He's trying out boundaries, of the physical and parental department. Three weeks ago he attempted ice skating in our narrow kitchen with each foot in a separate frying pan. Needless to say, he didn't stick that particular landing. He did, however, nail the one yesterday as he walked on the couch up and down its length until falling and cracking his head on the wooden armrest. I don't know about crossing his T's, but he certainly dotted his eye.
Firstborn is learning at an amazingly rapid pace that never ceases to amaze me. It's evident that he will be much smarter than I am. Maybe it was the fish oil pills I took the last half of the pregnancy to increase his brain growth and development. I'd like to think that us teaching him sign language starting at five months had a hand in it too. Most likely it's that he takes after his Daddy who I'm in awe of. Whatever the case may be, I'm both terrified and proud of my son's problem solving capabilities.
Recently we've had to replace the original covers on our electrical outlets. He had learned to pull the safety plugs out. The new ones require a steady and strong hand in sliding the plate over to its opening. We're taking bets on how long it takes him to figure this one out. Two weeks ago he learned how to unscrew lightbulbs. Two days ago he shorted out my nightstand lamp trying to figure out how it works. His favorite tool in the house for some time now has been an ever handy pair of kitchen tongs. He uses them to reach anything that's out of his reach.
Do you see where I'm going? Do we enroll him in some sort of Montessori Electrical Engineering program or duct tape him to his high chair? I've always loved working with children whether it be in daycare settings or one-on-one. I highly encourage thinking outside of the box. I believe a child should be independant and confident. I can't sit beside him and watch his every move. Not only would it wreck his self esteem but my house would be a wreck as well, what with all the neglect.
Every day is presenting new challanges and obsticles for both, Firstborn and myself. I want him to keep trying new things and seeing how they work. I also want a clean house (prefereably with all my electrical appliances working within the proper safety codes). But the question is, do I want these at the risk of raising a child who doesn't know how to think for himself void of any personality? No. As long as my child is safe, well fed, and fully aware of just how much he's loved, then I'm doing my job. As the older woman in my ladies group told me a few weeks ago, "Hon, your job is to give that child all the lovin' you got, and to keep him from breakin' his fool little neck...cause it's the only one that the good Lord gave him! The house can wait, but that boy will be gone in the blink of an eye." Amen.
So, for those who think I'm crazy because I let my son finger paint with chocolate pudding in the bathtub and play with Quaker Oats as he plows them into my living room carpet with his tractors I say this: I'm not crazy (err, that crazy), I'm just letting my son be the best "trying two" he can be.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
A Farewell To Buttons and Zippers
When I was pregnant with Firstborn I could hardly wait to get into maternity clothing. I'm not exactly sure what excited me most about wearing elastic band pants. Maybe it was the prospect of hitting up any number of all you can buffets. Maybe it was the ease in which I could now pull my pants down as I was running for the potty for the umpteenth time that day. Or maybe it was simply that I was ecstatic to have this wonderfully created tiny being inside of me. Whatever the case may be I jumped into maternity clothing much sooner than I should have.
This time around, however, I've tried putting off "the great switch" as long as possible. Well, dearly devoted, that time has come. Farewell buttons and zippers. Till we meet again.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Plunged Into The Icy Depths
I love my husband. He is a wonderfully thoughtful man with a huge reserve of patience. Let's face it, any man who is willing to commit his love and life to that of a stubborn, feisty, and often times erratic redhead is going to need HUGE reserves of patience. Having said that, it is time I tell you, my dearly devoted, of the grievous error he committed not once, but twice within a four day span.
The aforementioned grievous error took place the last week in December in the early morning hours. Some of you may know of my struggle to fall asleep. Since childhood I've had great trouble in getting to sleep. The older I become the more difficult it is. In recent years my doctor has prescribed Ambian, Ambian CR, and Lunesta to get me where I want to go. They've proven themselves to be everything they advertise on television. The problem is now that I'm pregnant I'm not allowed to partake in these aides. So once again I toss and turn for nearly two hours every night until I fall asleep. Now that I've given you the necessary background let me once more take you back to those chilly, early hours in the last week of December.
I was deep asleep and had only roused three times so far that night to relieve my bladder as pregnant women often do. I've learned not to drink anything after 7:00 including my night time ritual tea or else I'm up every hour performing this necessity. Still, it is normal for me to make my way to the bathroom, eyes shut, at least four to five times a night. I walk to the bathroom, eyes shut, in attempts to avoid waking myself to where I once more have trouble falling asleep. I even go so far as to keep the bathroom light off as well. I know the path by heart and more than once I'm sure that I've actually dozed for a few minutes while sitting in the upright position waiting to pee.
On this fateful night I was making my way, eyes shut, to the bathroom, completely dark, for the fourth time. It was on this fourth trip that I was plunged into the icy depths. With great force my hiney hit the bottom of our toilet bowl. Hubby had forgotten to put the lid down on the toilet. Not only was I cold and wet, but I was pissed - literally, physically, emotionally- anyway one could be. I can count on both hands the number of times my husband has left the lid up in the time that we've known one another. I tried to take this into consideration since he'd always been so attentive to it in the past, but taking anything into consideration in the middle of the night when your bum-bum is not only soaking wet and frigid, but slightly bruised from the force of the fall is difficult. After gathering my composure, hiney, and dignity from the bottom of the bowl I made my way back into our bedroom, eyes wide open. I recounted my ordeal in the calmest manner I could muster with a plea to always put the lid down. Hubby apologised and by the tone of his voice I could tell that he truelly was sorry. Hoping I could reclaim my night's sleep I rolled over and closed my eyes.
Two more nights passed by with no incidents. I would fight to find sleep, feel the need to relieve my bladder four or five times a night, and then go back to a warm and snuggly bed. The fourth night is a much different story, however. As you can already guess, yes, Hubby forgot to put the lid back down. Once more in the chilly, early hours of a December morning I was making my way, eyes shut, to the bathroom, completely dark. Once more I was plunged into the icy depths of our toilet with great force. You've got to be kidding me! What had happened to my once wonderfully thoughtful and patient husband? Did he not like my cooking over the past week? Had I been snoring too loudly? Was he seeing someone else and trying to find a way to "off" me, no matter how silly the cause of death might be? What was he thinking? Then it occured to me. He wasn't thinking. He was tired and simply not thinking. I don't know about you, but that reason made me angrier than any other reason he could offer. Not thinking? About his pregnant wife? If there is anything he should have learned from our previous pregnancy experience it's that he should always be thinking about his pregnant wife! I stomped back into our bedroom, eyes wide open and began my angry rant. My poor, sweet, and very tired husband felt horrible . And if I hadn't been so mad, then I might very well have felt sorry for him. But after all, it wasn't his hiney I had been toweling off just minutes before.
I'm not sure I ever got back to sleep that night. I fumed and fidgited in bed for what seemed an enternity. I must have made quite an impression upon Hubby because he has yet to leave the lid up again. God bless him. He's such a good egg.
The aforementioned grievous error took place the last week in December in the early morning hours. Some of you may know of my struggle to fall asleep. Since childhood I've had great trouble in getting to sleep. The older I become the more difficult it is. In recent years my doctor has prescribed Ambian, Ambian CR, and Lunesta to get me where I want to go. They've proven themselves to be everything they advertise on television. The problem is now that I'm pregnant I'm not allowed to partake in these aides. So once again I toss and turn for nearly two hours every night until I fall asleep. Now that I've given you the necessary background let me once more take you back to those chilly, early hours in the last week of December.
I was deep asleep and had only roused three times so far that night to relieve my bladder as pregnant women often do. I've learned not to drink anything after 7:00 including my night time ritual tea or else I'm up every hour performing this necessity. Still, it is normal for me to make my way to the bathroom, eyes shut, at least four to five times a night. I walk to the bathroom, eyes shut, in attempts to avoid waking myself to where I once more have trouble falling asleep. I even go so far as to keep the bathroom light off as well. I know the path by heart and more than once I'm sure that I've actually dozed for a few minutes while sitting in the upright position waiting to pee.
On this fateful night I was making my way, eyes shut, to the bathroom, completely dark, for the fourth time. It was on this fourth trip that I was plunged into the icy depths. With great force my hiney hit the bottom of our toilet bowl. Hubby had forgotten to put the lid down on the toilet. Not only was I cold and wet, but I was pissed - literally, physically, emotionally- anyway one could be. I can count on both hands the number of times my husband has left the lid up in the time that we've known one another. I tried to take this into consideration since he'd always been so attentive to it in the past, but taking anything into consideration in the middle of the night when your bum-bum is not only soaking wet and frigid, but slightly bruised from the force of the fall is difficult. After gathering my composure, hiney, and dignity from the bottom of the bowl I made my way back into our bedroom, eyes wide open. I recounted my ordeal in the calmest manner I could muster with a plea to always put the lid down. Hubby apologised and by the tone of his voice I could tell that he truelly was sorry. Hoping I could reclaim my night's sleep I rolled over and closed my eyes.
Two more nights passed by with no incidents. I would fight to find sleep, feel the need to relieve my bladder four or five times a night, and then go back to a warm and snuggly bed. The fourth night is a much different story, however. As you can already guess, yes, Hubby forgot to put the lid back down. Once more in the chilly, early hours of a December morning I was making my way, eyes shut, to the bathroom, completely dark. Once more I was plunged into the icy depths of our toilet with great force. You've got to be kidding me! What had happened to my once wonderfully thoughtful and patient husband? Did he not like my cooking over the past week? Had I been snoring too loudly? Was he seeing someone else and trying to find a way to "off" me, no matter how silly the cause of death might be? What was he thinking? Then it occured to me. He wasn't thinking. He was tired and simply not thinking. I don't know about you, but that reason made me angrier than any other reason he could offer. Not thinking? About his pregnant wife? If there is anything he should have learned from our previous pregnancy experience it's that he should always be thinking about his pregnant wife! I stomped back into our bedroom, eyes wide open and began my angry rant. My poor, sweet, and very tired husband felt horrible . And if I hadn't been so mad, then I might very well have felt sorry for him. But after all, it wasn't his hiney I had been toweling off just minutes before.
I'm not sure I ever got back to sleep that night. I fumed and fidgited in bed for what seemed an enternity. I must have made quite an impression upon Hubby because he has yet to leave the lid up again. God bless him. He's such a good egg.
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