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.

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.

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."

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?

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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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.

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.