Target Practice

Today we took the ump-trillionth visit to the doctor for a variety of stupid ailments that aren’t really debilitating, but annoyingly present and threaten to turn into a two a.m. visit to Urgent Care.  Amelia is sporting a watery and (sometimes) gooey right eye. It’s not red, but gooey, and the skin underneath is red and raw. Yesterday Matt said she looks like somebody punched her. I’m pretty sure Carson is not to blame. I hope.  

Over the past ten days I’ve been patiently waiting for it to resolve itself.  And it has several times, but it keeps coming back. An old mid-wife remedy recommends putting breast milk her eye.  I’m told it’s something about the anti-microbial properties; and I am sure they mean I should use an eyedropper, but what a hassle, right? 

Instead, I’ve been making it game of target practice after each feeding. Amelia has learned to expertly dodge me. She reaches with outstretched hand in an NBA-ish move, blocking the shot. I bob, weave, and try to distract her, making clicking noises with my tongue, trying to get her to open her eyes in curiosity.  Then, at just the right moment when she’s not turning away or wagging her face side to side with an open mouth trying to put a cap on it, I lean in and spray her one good. She usually gets a good face-washing along with some in her eyes. She puffs air out her mouth instinctively like a little swimmer. She protests and rubs her eyes. Then she smiles when she tastes the few drops that roll onto her lips. Nice to know all those years I spent milking goats in my childhood were good for something.

Of course I don’t share this remedy with Dr. K.  He looks her over and decides she’s probably got a plugged tear duct, and it’s causing the skin underneath to get red and infected. He pokes around a bit under her eye and in the inner corner. He tries to expunge the plug, and prescribes a salve. I’m holding off until 2AM to see if we really need it.  

Until then, more target practice. 

My VD Badge

This week I earned my Mom badge for Vomit Duty (VD).  

No, not the baby vomit, spit up variety, you know, the for real, GET THE BOWL BECAUSE WE'RE SITTING ON THE COUCH AND I DON'T WANT TO SMELL THIS FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE vomit.  

Here's how it went down:  9:30 PM, Thursday night.  Both kids sound asleep upstairs.  Matt away at school for the weekend.  I'm on the phone with a friend when I hear Carson crying out, terrified. It's a distinctly different cry, I don't wait to see if he settles. I rush to his side and reach out to touch his face.  I feel something wet on my arm. Ugh. Then I smell it. And feel it.

Yep. Chunks. In the bed. And on the wall. 

My sweet little two year and nine month old boy doesn't move.  He just lies there, crying and awake, but frozen in fear.  He stops crying long enough to make a request, "Mommy, get a washcloth." Wow, good idea, dude.  Where'd you learn that, a past life as a drunk?  

"Get it off my arm." Oh my poor sweetie. Even at two he knows how completely foul it is to lie in your own vomit. 

The next fifteen minutes probably are something he'll seek therapy for in the future, because I absolutely have no choice but to take him to the tub and hose him down like some kind of Guantanamo Bay Abu-Gray Prison terrorism suspect. Poor little guy has chunks in his hair, on his neck, all over him.  Terrified and still shaky from vomiting, there is no amount of verbal consoling that helps. In the end I manage to spray the chunks off of him without letting him slip and crack his head open.  His screams awake Amelia, of course, who's room shares a wall with the bathroom shower.  Her cries quickly escalate into the fearful shrieks of a terrified baby.  Probably out of sympathy for her brother.  

In quasi-crisis situations like this, everything slows down for me, my heart pounds.  My brain begins making to-do lists to resolve the crisis like some kind of Operations Management textbook problem. I stack the priorities and begin planning their completion: 

1. Breastfeed the 10 month old and put her back to bed

2. Scrub the puke off the walls

3. Wash the bedding (especially coveted "blankie").  Just a quick aside: as it turns out, the chunks don't always come out in the wash, as they say, so I advise shaking them out beforehand. 

4. Monitor the puking child sitting in front of the TV (wreaking of vomit because I could not manage to get soap on him during his GTMO shower) in case of subsequent hurls.  Special caution, there is a shag rug involved. 

5. Redress the bed. 

6. Read story and cuddle the sick child back to sleep. 

Here is where my inability to accept help from others is completely insane.  I actually spend a moment evaluating this to-do list in my head as both Carson and Amelia continue to cry at the top of their lungs.  Matt's out of town, so there is no chance of waiting it out until he gets home.  Items #1 and #6, are mom-only tasks (yeah, ya think)?  Item #4 has to happen in parallel with everything else.  How the hell do single parents do this?  I'll tell you how: the sane ones ask for help. 

Enter Steve and Heather. My angels.  My God, I swear, there have been so many situations in our lives where without them we'd be F'd. I mean, for real. They live three blocks away, but I am sure they would be just as responsive if they lived an hour away.  They came over in the middle of the night when I went into labor. They take our calls any time, arrive with open arms for our kids, comic relief for the adults, and often, tasty food.  As a bonus, Steve is a Chef, and my "adopted" little brother. 

This time they pull through for us again. I interrupt their dinner at a restaurant while I try to calm Amelia and cue up PBS Kids for Carson on the DVR. Steve and Heather change their food order to go and arrive in minutes. As I'm scrubbing puke off Carson's walls, Heather comes upstairs. "He needs mommy." I hear Carson whimpering downstairs. I meet Heather's eyes with exhaustion, defeated, holding the disinfectant in one hand and a rag in the other, "I need to get this off the walls or the smell is going to make him sick again." 

Before I even finished the sentence, she's rolling up her sleeves, taking the rags from me, and waving me off-- "Go be his Mommy."   That's friendship. Someone who scrubs your kid's puke off the wall.  

Later, Heather gets another friend of the year nomination when Carson ambushes me with a hurl mid-sentence while watching Clifford. I'm completely paralyzed in fear and attempting to catch it my own hands (God, did I ever think I'd do that for anyone? Ever?).  She quickly grabs the puke bowl, pulling it under his chin and expertly grabing his neck and aiming his face into the bowl. Wow. Let's hear it for that sorority house training, huh? Kidding... I don't even know if Heather was in a sorority, but it sounds good. 

The beautiful thing about this evening (and yes, amidst the puking there still is a beautiful thing), is that Steve and Heather were not the only friends who would have done this for us tonight.  We are so very fortunate to have so many great friends who are like this, so many that sometimes the sinister side of my brain wonders how long this blessed season of our lives will last. Then I remember these are relationships we've built on years of reliability with each other. They don't happen overnight, but with commitments to working through stuff together, weathering the normal ups and downs of life, and accepting each other at face value, assets and defects (and by defects, I'm referring to mine) in all. I am so thankful God has put them in our lives. 

I can't wait until Steve and Heather have kids so we can be there in the same way for them.  Well... then again, who really hopes to be able to scrub puke-walls,…? Ah. Maybe I can settle for a dirty diaper or two?

Ten Lies Working Moms Tell Themselves About Staying Home With Kids

Ok, I'm not the first person to leave a successful career in exchange for staying at home with my kids.  And probably not the first to figure out it's not quite what I'd imagined, either.

I'm not just talking about having to do dishes and wipe butts.  Or even the countless hours of clock-watching while I wait for reinforcements to arrive, or horrendously boring kids programming on PBS.

I'm talking about the whole ball of wax.  You know, the isolation, inability to finish any task that takes longer than three and a half minutes, and the constant subjugation of my own needs for that of my kids.

I don't mean to sound ungrateful, I am the first to tell you I say prayers of gratitude every single day that my kids are healthy, that I'm healthy (aside from the Guantlet that is).  Having grown up on Brady Bunch reruns, however, I think somewhere out there is a fantasy that I should at least look good and always be happy when I'm doing this job.  Of course, that beee-aaach had a maid / nanny. Or whatever Alice was.

Back in January 2010 when I made the decision to stay at home with my kids, my blackberry was jam-packed with corporate job life, back to back meetings and tasks. If I wanted to take a break to do anything remotely mom-ish, I put it on my calendar.  Literally.  By that I mean, "PUMP BREAST MILK" was actually on there.  But when I was making the decision to leave my job, I had a lot of misconstrued notions about what it'd be like to stay home.  

Now, I don't regret my decision to stay home with my kids, but I do feel like it would have been nice to have these myths debunked before I took the plunge.  Here they are:  

1. The nanny (or sitter, or childcare provider) has it pretty easy.

Let me preface this with the statement that when we had a nanny, she was absolutely the most awesome nanny you could imagine (Tammy, you rocked).  Irregardless, there is a strange built-in resentment that comes when you let someone else spend 50 hours a week with your kid.   It's not personal, but it might feel like it at the time (on both sides).  Aside from the obvious fantasy that you get to sit around and paint your nails all day, (which Tammy never did),  I guess the underlying fear is that you will come home one day and your kid will cling to the nanny instead of want to come to you. That is rubbish, and absolutely could never happen-- but the mom-guilt I carried had me constantly afraid of it.  Now I laugh at that fear-- and it's irony, knowing that place I go when I'm at the end of my rope.  That place is one that starts with expletives and ends with me my son cowering in fear at the booming voice I resort to in total anger.  That voice is far more likely to cause him to not want to come to me than the goods any Mary Poppins nanny could possibly bring.  It doesn't happen a lot, but when it does, it makes the nanny's job look a lot harder. 

2.  You'll have more time to work out. 

If you count the huge amounts of physical labor you'll do at home as a "work out," then yeah, sure.  But if you're counting on plugging in your iPod and cranking out some serious miles on the treadmill or ellipitcal, think again.  And if you're a cyclist? Laughable.  With one child it's easier, but not so easy that you realize it when you're in it.  By the time you have two kids, working out becomes a highly focused strategy game you are constantly trying to figure out.  You carry your sports bra in your car and hope to squeeze in a twenty minute run when in the past that might have just been your warm-up.   You settle for pushing a 2-kid stroller for an hour long walk as a work-out, and trade timing with your spouse for a true solitude workout a couple times a week.   Oh, and now sex counts as a workout because let's face it, the ole heart rate is not getting up there any other way on certain days. The gym daycare is an option, but it's expensive in other ways...reference again The Gauntlet.  It's an option best exercised when you don't have a vacation or a family outing planned in the near future.

3.  Your cooking is healthier than what you eat at work

OK, true if you are disciplined.  But remember a lot of what you're feeding young kids is pretty easy prep stuff.  Maybe if you have older kids they will eat the tofu curry dish?  I dunno, so far I've had to cook my husband and my meal and then make something supplemental for my son.  This has been an area in which I've had to build skills.  I'm finding healthier options out there, but it takes a little research and a little planning, which is always tough when you're working around 2 kids and their individual nap schedules.

4. Most of the time it'll be heaps and loads of fun!

If "most of the time" you mean "greater than 50% of the time", yes, this is true.  If you mean 90/10, then you need to adjust your barometer for fun.  

5. You won't miss bringing home a paycheck, or making your own money.  

One of my "going away from corporate life" gifts to myself was a Coach purse.  That was January of 2010, and I have not bought myself something so extravagant since.  The mom-guilt is just too huge. I can't get over that sucking sound my credit card makes when I go shopping for myself and think about the immense NEGATIVE impact it's having on our household budget.  This is one I have got to reframe and work on, I know it's a false fear.

6. Your house will be very organized. 

Gaahhahhaahahah!! I - gasp - can - hardly - GASP--quit laughing at this one. I did recently find an awesome resource through the recreation department of my town, a lady who runs organization classes.  She's kind of Tough Love, but she's pretty good. Her name is Kathi Miller and her business is Clutter Coach, LLC.  Check her out. I'm scared to hire her though, she'll probably show up with a megaphone and a trash bag. So far it's easier to just go to the group classes and learn a few tips.  

7.  You will spend more quality time with your significant other. 


 Since most of my day is spent in the house with the kids, by the time Matt gets home I'm soooo ready to have a break. I swear I feel like I'm in 4th grade again waiting for the bell to go off.  I stand at the front door sometimes when he pulls up and it's all I can do not to hand him the kids and just run from the house waving my arms wildly like some kind of mental patient, or hop on my bike and ride up the biggest hill I can find, turning around and careening down it kicking my feet out and throwing my head back "weeeeeee!!! I'm FREEEEEEE!!!!"  Of course this is the classic problem a lot of folks have when one person stays home:  the working person wants to be at home after being out all day, and the stay-at-home wants to interact with society.  So Matt babysits probably more than he would if I were working, and then we do date-night like we used to before. So net-net, I think we're about the same in terms of "time together" that we had when I was working, minus the business trips.

8.  Your kids will be smarter and more well-behaved.  

The jury is still out on this, but I will tell you, I am not home-schooling these monkeys.  No F-ing way.  Carson just started pre-school two mornings a week, and it's helped us both immensely.  Maybe me more than him. 

9.  You won't need a cleaning person since you can do it all yourself.  

Shortly after I decided to stay home, I made myself a task chart for cleaning the house.  I started out with pretty low expectations.  You know, mop the floors once per month, vacuum upstairs 1 x week, downstairs the other week.  After two months I gave myself an "F" and realized I'd totally underestimated how hard it is to run a vacuum cleaner when they're napping, and how hard it is to complete ANY task when they're awake (see intro).  I've now resorted to "triage" approach. Whatever's dirtiest gets my attention.  Always the kitchen, of course, but the bathrooms are a close second.  The other areas get vacuumed when the cat hairballs are so bad that Amelia is crawling over to me with fur on her tounge.  That's when I know it is due.  Why don't I just get a cleaning person, you ask? I have about 2.5 hours a day that I don't need to have the kids home for one or the other of them to nap.  And that 2.5 hours is a sliding window changing every day.  I give up. 

10. Your kids won't annoy you as much as some of the people at work.   

Well.  Most days, right.  But the truth is, you leave the people you work with at work.  They don't throw a tantrum at 6 AM because you won't let them watch TV before the sun comes up.

   
All this is sort of tounge and cheek, I hope you know.  I love my kids, and the truth is, I love my job as staying at home with them more than any other job I've ever had.  It's kind of an 80/20 thing-- 80% of the time it's the best job in the world, and 20% of the time it blows.  But the worst days are still better than most of the mediocre days at any job I've ever held.  It's not perfect, of course.  But it is rewarding, and more than ever, I'm learning how to be present in this moment with my kids.  Because I can't meet a person on the street who doesn't look at me with my kids and say "They grow up fast, appreciate it now while you can!"  And I believe that's God reminding me of it, that the 100 sweet moments I take for granted are about 90 more than my husband gets to see everyday.  I know he loves them as much as I do, and I feel incredibly privileged to get to experience them fully while they still think we're the best thing in the whole world.

After all, I'll have plenty of time to work when they're teenagers and don't want me around.  And that's when I will read this list and be grateful--I'm at work. 

The Gauntlet

      We've come through the gauntlet. That's what it feels like around here. Eight weeks. In the gauntlet of cold, and flu, and pink eye, ear infections, and bronchitis, and probably a ton more germs that we've encountered and miraculously conquered. Oh I don't even want to know. Like head lice at gym daycare. We didn't get it, thank God, but the thought of it made me scratch my head for days (and just now, again).
       Everyone tells me this is just the way it is when your kid starts school. Everyone in your house gets sick. I somehow thought Carson had enough exposure at gym daycare. When I can muster the courage, I drop him in that petri dish of snot and God knows what else with a cacophony of crying children who's mothers or fathers also can't take  it for another f*cking minute without the calming force of a work-out. And I get it man, I've stopped judging all of you who unload kiddos no matter what is oozing out of their nose or butts-- really, I get it. Sometimes you just need to go for a run, or to take a shower without someone pulling the curtain back.  What you doing in there Mommy?  Sometimes the edge of insanity is just so close that whatever they've got doesn't seem that bad, and you weigh the trade off: being a monster to my kids, or adding to the petri dish? Which evil do I choose today? Most of the time I am polite, I keep my kids home when they have runny noses.  After all, they're sick, they need to rest. But having spent the last 8 weeks in the Gauntlet, I can see how there are "degrees" of health. Like when they always have a runny nose. Or when that cough lasts 4 weeks.  We'd all be morbidly obese and insane if we rat-holed ourselves inside that whole time.

Our little Vector on his first day of school.

      It got so bad around here I actually hired a micro-biologist to come do a "healthy home" assessment on our house. I was convinced we had some kind of toxic mold that was making us all sick. And in typical Rachel style, not just a micro-biologist, a forensic micro-biologist. He showed up with this rolling case full of equipment--a laptop, a tripod with some sort of expensive air sampling machine, a microscope.  It was damn CSI around here. He took swabs of dust from all over our home (and there was plenty to swab). His conclusion was that though we do have some elevated levels of mold in the basement, it's nothing we can't clean up with a little elbow grease and a sponge, and God forbid, a DUST RAG. And it's not enough to make us sick. So, our little vector, Carson, is the culprit.
      I'm hoping we're seeing the light at the end of the tunnel with the illnesses. We all have gone to taking our vitamins with dedication, but I know it will take at least a few weeks for my immune system to catch up. Hopefully this is not the new stasis-- someone in my home being sick at all times. Friends tell us this lasts for about two years and then you are superhuman and nothing gets you sick. Oh God, we're still in The Guantlet.  Are you on the other side? Will we survive?

Food for Thought

I don't know what it is about the second kid, but I'm not that jazzed about solids.  I mean, really, given the choice, what sounds easier to you:  cooking and emulsifying fresh vegetables for your kid, or just eating a well balanced diet and un-holstering your own meals on wheels? I mean, technically, they don't rely on solids until one year.  The American Academy of Pediatrics says breast milk is the primary source of nutrition until 12 months.

Breastfeeding has been so simple with our second child.  She's good at it.  And Amelia's no lightweight.  I mean, at six months she's not off the charts big (90th percentile for height, 25th for weight), but she's got some chunk on her thighs that I bet will rival what we'll see at the Wisconsin State Fair this year, for sure.  By that, I mean MC Hammer, of course. We've been offering rice and oats since she was five months, but she's not digging it.  She must sense my hesitancy.  And I know why I'm agreeing with her.  I have a toddler who demands six meals a day, and adding another kid's feeding demands (of different food altogether, nonetheless) to my plate  makes me want to check myself into the nearest psych hospital.  On top of this, my neurotic brain won't let me sleep at night if I feed them low quality stuff, so we stick to (mostly) organic and whole, real foods.  That means I do a lot of preparation here at home for our family's meals.

Oh, who am I kidding, let's be honest:  we still eat out a lot.

OK, so the thought of dragging along baby food for Amelia when I can barely make sure there are enough diapers in the diaper bag to keep us from soiling someones furniture makes me want to wear one myself.  I mean, one less thing to do, right?

Still, I know it's time for her to "practice" eating with a variety of foods. So today I thawed out some organic peas for Amelia's lunch, having already tried Earth's Best Organic Peas this weekend.  She wouldn't eat the jarred stuff, so, I thought, maybe the real thing would be more tasty. I love how bright green these frozen ones are, not the pea soup color of the ones in the jar.  I whipped them up and put on my favorite smile and offered them up to her.  Here's how it went:

Hmm, I'm a little bit interested.

Not sure yet... kind of "WTF Mom?"

OK, now she's sure.  (Gagging, about to throw up) 

To say we have a drama queen on our hands might be a little premature, but I will tell you I was moving pretty quickly to put down the camera.  After she stopped gagging, just a bit short of actually throwing up, I also went online and brushed up on my infant choking procedures, just to be safe. Then we promptly switched back to good old oatmeal. And breast milk, of course.  

Shhhh....Don't Wake the Dragon!

It's happened.  

For two solid nights in a row, Amelia has slept through the night. Twice I tell you. That is a TREND, not a fluke.  I'm so absolutely incredulous I'm afraid to talk about it. 

Matt credits this accomplishment to the simple act of shutting off the baby monitor. So she's either sleeping through the night, or she's not getting to that going-off-the-rails-crazy level of crying which I can hear over our air conditioner. Either way, I guess I'm ok with that. I mean, for five and three-quarters months I proved I couldn’t let her make a peep without running in to check on her.  So I guess a little crying won't re-wire her brain to be a crack addict or anything. At least I hope not.  

She finally made enough noise at 5:30 this morning for me to hear her-- and she wasn't too upset. She was just sort of complaining, not really all-out crying.  I scooped her up and she latched onto me almost before I could even un-holster.  She drank for a long, long time, all while closing and opening her little hands, reminding me I need to cut her nails again or risk multiple lacerations in places I'd never want a laceration.  Afterwards I put her back down in her crib thinking I'd have a better chance at winning the lottery than getting her back to sleep, and after 10 minutes of chatter...presto.  The dragon sleeps!

Now, where do they sell lottery tickets?  Awesomesauce!

Ten Ways to Survive Single-Parenting at the Pool

In case you haven’t noticed, it’s summer around here. We’ve been pretty busy soaking up the sun!  So far, my favorite part of the summer has been the new swimming pool at Hoyt Park, Hoyt Park Pool . It’s so absolutely mind-blowing fantastic that I’ve not figured out how to take pictures of it, since every time we are there we are having so much darn fun.  This is true even if my husband is with us, which is usually not the case. 

From nine to eleven every weekday morning (Parent Tot hours), it’s basically a water park, minus all those darn big-kids and unruly teens.  Plus, there is a lot for little ones to do—zero-depth entry to a little kids play set in the water, and a sandbox area with lots of fun water and sand toys nearby.  

Having a six-month-old and two and a half year-old, things are a bit busy when we’re at the pool. I’m usually the mom with the infant strapped to my chest in the Baby Bjorn carrier, waddling around in the shallow section trying to stay within three paces of Carson so I can pull him back up on his feet should he forget that he can stand up to breathe. I’ve also mastered a few tricks to make the whole event much easier with two kids. I consider these just a few of my favorite lessons when taking myself to the insane asylum…er… taking the kids to the pool by myself.

1)    Put the bigger kid in his swimsuit and swim diaper BEFORE getting him in the car seat (but not if you know of an impending poop, in that case, hold off).

2)    Get one of those tables with an umbrella—it’s infinitely helpful in the diaper-changing department. You won’t have time to lounge in one of the Adirondack chairs anyway.  Critical if you have two kids in diapers.

3)    Always bring a snack and drink for the kids and you.  No matter if you’re hungry or not.  A snack nearly always gets my two-year old to sit still long enough for me to gather everything up before we leave.

4)    Apply sunscreen before getting to the pool.

5)    Bug spray, not a bad idea but not critical either

6)    Stroller for the little ones—critical, for both sun shade and for the spontaneous nap (for the kids not you)

7)    Sun hats for everyone, and sunglasses for whomever will wear them

8)    A tiny bit of cash for the occasional ice-cream bribe

9)    A wet/dry clothes bag

10) A swimsuit cover-up for you, since changing out of your suit is gonna be nearly impossible.

Hopefully that will help you find some tiny bit of sanity at the pool. One caveat—if you are doing the parent thing solo at the pool, smash any expectations you had about relaxing while there.  This is survival, with a very tiny silver lining:  you can find some relief in knowing this will wear their little butts out. When they get home, they will sleep like the dead, and then you can relax.  So go have some fun at the pool!  

If anyone has more suggestions to help ease the trip--by all means, post here! 

Life on Life's Terms

Today we took a trip to Goodwill to give away Amelia's 0-3 month sized winter parkas. Not because they don't fit, but because it's May 26th. I mean, June is five days away, right? Who needs these heavy fuzzy parkas? Afterwards, we met a friend for a walk outside. We bundled up the kids and headed out.  The temperature? A balmy 54 degrees with 15-20 mile per hour winds. That equates to windchill somewhere in the low 40s. Twenty minutes into the walk, Carson was begging to go home, his little hands icy to the touch, and his lips somewhat blue. It took me a few blocks to get the message. I stubbornly pushed the stroller, charging on. It's May 26th, dammit. We are enjoying spring if it kills us.  

This expectation is exactly the type of thing that gets me into trouble. A friend of mine calls this a "premeditated resentment." And it's so true. I set myself up to be resentful about something I am absolutely powerless over. I do it in every aspect of my life-- as a customer, as a friend, as a sister, daughter, wife, mother and aunt.  I get an idea about what (insert anything) should look like, and then when it does not turn out that way, I get...well,  out of sorts. Still echoing in my head are the messages from all those damn business classes I took when part of big Corporate America, ideas lulling me into some whacked out sort of perception of reality. They hired fancy consultants to tell us we just need to communicate our expectations better.  So, if I just phrase it differently, they'll get it. And when whatever I'm focused on doesn't change, I communicate them again, and again, in a different way, or with a different tone, or with a different incentive for my subject.  Each time I'm taught the hard, hard lesson: I'm powerless. Powerless over the weather (of course, you say), over the way Lowe's Door Sales deals with me, over the way this person or that person wants to participate (or not participate) in their relationship with me.   All I get to do is my part, and that is, in it's essence, to be kind, and take right action.  I get to say what my needs are, once, and then I get to let it go. How do I do that with the Lowe's Installations department?  I cut them some slack when they screw up. I laugh it off. And when I can't laugh it off, I need a firm reminder that I have a choice to take my business somewhere else. 

Easy, you say, with the Lowe's guy.  But what about my family?  After all, it's much harder to choose your family.  Well, you can, but your new choice probably won't be a whole lot better than God's choice, and it will eventually catch up to you. After all, being human, we're all imperfect.  

Discontent 

Mommy, put the camera down and play with me. 

Living this way will not change the thing I'm upset about. It won't budge, I assure you.  But it will do two things.   First, it will make me feel happier while I'm living with Life on Life's Terms.  It will allow me to invest my time in relationships with people who love me and want to see me-- instead of chasing the one who doesn't.  Secondly, and not the least important-- it will teach my children how to choose happiness when life deals them lemons.   And from what I can tell, everyone's life deals them lemons sooner or later.   Or, at the very least, bad weather.   

Another Dental Disaster Looms

So our friends Steve and Heather got Carson a very cute little camping chair (for the deck, are you kidding me, we will NOT camp with this kid).  Pair this up with the most favorite recent toy-- the Little Tikes basketball hoop we put on the deck-- why, you ask?  Check it out.

I captured the wheels turning in his head as he put this one together.

Ok, I'm like, why is he moving the chair closer to the net?

oh, this is what I get for standing on chairs to get stuff from cupboards 

Cue the Sound Effects. 

Like SWOOSH- because this one went IN. 

Rinse and Repeat.  Again and Again.  

There is no chance we will be getting one of those little mini-trampolines any time soon.    I'm just glad he's stopped passing the ball to his 4 month old sister.  "Meena, dratch! (catch)"   

Oh, and here she is, his biggest fan: 

A Smile of His Own

About a year ago, my son Carson's smile was permanently altered at an elementary school playground near our house.   Yesterday we stopped there for the first time since the incident.  As he tromped across the sway bridge in his size 6 stride-rite sneakers, I still cringed.  I wondered if the other parents could see the PTSD on my face-- the pure parental guilt, and the hyper-vigilance with which I guard him while he plays.  The poor kid surely thinks his other name is Careful, since I say it so much.

Last year, when it happened, we'd stopped there on our way home from the gym.  He was goofy and tired, his tiny toddler legs surely rubbery from running about the Kids Club at my gym.   Barely walking a month, his run looked like someone constantly avoiding a fall-- his legs barely catching up with his torso in time to avoid catastrophe.  But it was one of those gloriously warm spring days-- too warm to just go home for lunch and nap.  I could not resist letting him try his new legs outside.  The bright red, blue and yellow colored play equipment beckoned.

May 2010, Before The Incident: his baby teeth, perfect.

We weren't there five minutes before he slipped on the sway bridge, his little Robeez leather bottomed shoe-clad feet sliding out from under him, and his two front teeth breaking the fall.  In full grin as he fell, he landed them squarely on two giant metal rivets which held the sway bridge to the platform it connected.  There was that moment of silence, and then the blood curdling wail.   Not knowing he actually hit his teeth, I picked him up and dusted him off, minimizing the incident.  Examined mouth. No blood.  "You're ok, you're ok.  Oh, you're so tired!"  But I did notice some strange white stuff on his lips. It looked like wax.  I brushed it off, hugged him, and suggested we go home for lunch.

He did the kind of sobbing he does when he's either terribly tired or (now we know) in a lot of pain.  Barely able to grab a breath.  Barely able to talk.   Not that he had that many words yet anyway, he was only 15 months.  I suspected he bumped his chin, so I finally succumbed and gave him ibuprofen. But later that night while we were giving him a bath and he smiled hugely at his daddy, I saw it.  Oh, God.   Two. Giant. Chips. Out of my darling boy's front teeth.  The natural tiny gap between his teeth had grown to a cavernous hole.  He'd lost the inside edge of the left one, and the bottom of the right one.  I was crushed.  I'd ruined his smile.  I'd only had this kid 15 months, and already had caused semi-permanent damage.  If I'd only put something other than slippery shoes on him.  If I'd not stood right behind him and bounced the bridge when he was running across it.  If I'd only caught him.   He wouldn't look like a redneck.    Matt and everyone else assured me it was cute.  He looked tough, they said.  I didn't want tough, I wanted my baby faced boy to hang onto his baby-ness as long as he could.  Now he was more little boy, less baby.

 There are not many photos of him in the weeks following the incident.   I mourned his teeth for nearly a month.  I took him to a dentist, an experience I would not recommend with a 15 month old.   After an exam that was similar to landing a 20 lb tuna on a rocking boat while deep sea fishing,  the doctor assured me the root was not damaged, and that it was purely cosmetic.  I should watch for discoloration in the tooth.  And pay attention if he says it hurts later, because it could develop an abscess.  But he didn't anticipate it would.  And no, they don't do cosmetic repair on 15 month old babies.  Damn.  There goes the modeling career.

After, Sept 2010 (It took me several months to get a good picture of them)

The offending Ottoman, and resulting teeth marks.

On Easter Sunday this year, Carson was chasing a balloon across his playroom.  He was laughing, as usual, and when he tripped and fell while looking up.   He again led with his teeth.  This time he smashed them squarely into one of our pleather ottomans.  He hit it so hard it left teeth marks on the pleather.  His mouth bled a little this time, and I'm pretty sure it was not only from the busted lip accompanying the fall, but also the gums.   The extreme pain sobbing ensued, followed by ibuprofen for a whole day.  The sobbing, of course, stopped within an hour.   And he was totally himself as long as he had ibuprofen.  On day 2, the gum surrounding his left front tooth was a bit blue and bruised.  I knew from the last visit to the pediatrician that they could not do anything but wait to see if the tooth turned any colors, or caused him lasting pain.   So far it's still white, but I examine it daily, ask him if his mouth hurts, and make him point to where.  He usually points to that tooth, but when I push on it or wiggle it, it he just laughs at the look on my face.

Today the gaped-tooth grin he wears while beaming up at me fits him perfectly. He's spunky and mischievous.  Square, straight, perfect teeth just would not have looked right on him.  I'm no longer concerned about his look, only whether the sharp edges are the constant source of injuries to his bottom lip, or worse, that he'll never get that adult tooth to come in quite right.  I am sure he will survive. No kid ever suffered lasting damage from a quirky smile.   

But I still can't help but cringe as I watch him fall, leading with those teeth.   And as he does, I call out his other name:  Careful!  And I feel like I finally totally understand what it's like to be a parent:    

To hope they have fun, but pray they don't get hurt.  To let them go and hope that your watchful eye and expertly muttered warnings will protect them.   And to know that sometimes, chipped teeth are just what they need to make their cute little outsides match their silly little insides. 

Today, my little snaggletooth.

Write about That Later. Wait, Now I Don't Remember!

I have this conversation with myself, no lie, every single time I go to write.  At random moments throughout the day I come up with these really great little comparisons.  These really great little ways of seeing some kind of special moment in my kids' lives.  And then, when the moon and the stars all align and I get five silly little minutes to write, I can barely write my name, let alone remember what it was that I had to say.

I am sure this is a common Mommy and Daddy writer thing.  Surely God's sense of humor is that He gives me all kinds of divinely inspired words, and no way to remember them when the time comes.  I have a sneaking suspicion that this is early Alzheimer's disease, and one day my family will look back and say, "remember when she was at home with the kids and they kept wetting through their diapers because she forgot to change them?" or something.  Oh, that doesn't happen.  Oh wait, yes it does, but only with Carson, and only because his damn diaper works so well he doesn't tell me it's wet until he's soaked through his pants and the couch cushion.  Oh and if you spend time on our couch, please forget that you read that here.

I am told the best way to combat the Mommy-Writer brain is to carry a--- oh, don't say it.  Not the old-school device-- yep-- a PEN and a note card or small pad.  I mean, it's not like I'm chiseling the damn words in stone, but there are all of those dreaded pen and ink excuses, like I hate my penmanship and it's not very cool, and can't I just type it instead?  A friend suggested leaving myself a voicemail or voice note on my phone.  I am sure my phone has some sort of memo function, but I've not figured it out yet, and since it is not a super fangled iPhone, I don't care to invest any time in figuring it out because some day I am going to get an iPhone and blah blah blah, really these are all just excuses to not write.  So, instead, you'll have to settle for my second rate ideas here on the blog, and I'll spend a little extra time complaining about it, because that is what I do best.

This week I'm working on getting my camera out when I see cute moments with the kids.  I don't know what I'll really do with all these pictures, but what is that rule about memory and the price of it (computer memory, not human), doubling and halving every 6 months?  Well, essentially, there is no limit to how many I can hold onto between now and the day they leave the nest, so I figure I will just keep snapping away so that someday, I can find those clever words I will one day have time to write down about each and every one of those moments.

Easter Morning- He's feeding me a Peep. 

Ok, I think this is the same Peep, but who's counting? 

For now-- here's a few pictures of the kiddos in their nearly current state-- a few weeks ago perhaps, but still.  Cue the "Awwww!"

Daddy's girl.  Such a sweet moment.

Amelia is sure to think we just left her on this mat for her entire first three months, with all the photos we have of her on it-- it's either this or her bouncy chair!! 

Two-Kids-Land

Yep, it's been FOUR MONTHS since I've written a blog. Though that should not be a surprise to anyone who knows me, I swear I can't believe sometimes how long I wait, how many great IDEAS for a blog I let go unwritten, and how many blogs I'll sit and READ before I actually sit down to do mine.  By the way-- all of your blogs I follow are so incredibly good!

So, the update: we had a little girl. Amelia Grace Pomeroy was born January 19th, 2011, at 3:14 PM, and was 8.0 lbs and 20 inches long.   She was born on the day of a full moon, and on the exact day I predicted, (once I knew the moon would be full that day, that is).   She was due on the 16th, so "fashionably late" she came, and we are so grateful for her timing-- any earlier would have meant she was smack in the middle of a huge snowstorm.  Later, the biggest one in the past 100 years.   We are so blessed-- she's a beautiful child with a sweet disposition.  I credit that entirely to my husband, and of course to God who knew I couldn't handle anything different.

We splurged a bit with Amelia and had a professional photographer come in and take some photos of her. We have about one hundred that we love, but here are the ones that are making it onto the blog.

 

Sweetness defined.  She is our little Angel. 

There have been too many wonderful moments already to recount, and every day I tell myself I need to be writing more down-- but the opportunities to do so are fleeting, and the fatigue often overwhelming.  Such is Two Kid Land.  It's rough, I'm told, rougher now than when they're 5 and 7, but still-- who cares about 4.8 years from now, right?  I am stuck in today, and most of the time, yesterday.  So true! 

Carson is amazing with Amelia. He surprises me every day.  For about the first month he wanted us to read him the Big Brother Book which, appropriately, talks about how great it is to be a big brother.  He still asks us to read it regularly.   He shows genuine concern for her, and lately, even when she is not around, he'll ask for her.  He has given her a nickname we all love as much as her real name, "Meena"-- so cute and absolutely perfect.  For the first week he kept calling her "Angel" as well.   That was kind of strange to me, because no one ever called her that-- and he came up with it all on his own.  Maybe he was commenting on the ones he saw hovering over her.  

I am working on figuring out how to add video here-- and will do so soon.  Right now my priorities have been really self-care, kid care, and home management, which leaves me little room for hobbies.  Then again, hobbies are part of self-care, right?  Ah, whatever.   

Till later- thanks for stopping in, I promise to find my creativity somewhere between here and never.  

Happy Spring! 

Last Days as Mommy of an Only Child

Dear Carson

Copyright Kelly Fisher Photography, 2011

This letter has been brewing for the past few days, as I watch you flourish into toddler-dom, nearly two and already fully acting the part.   I write it partly to capture the complete cuteness of your current age (almost 23 months), and partly to capture the bliss that I've found in being the person you spend the most time alone with on this little journey.  Soon we won't be alone anymore, I'll have to share my attention for you with someone else most days.  It's bittersweet now, but I know soon we will wonder what we'd do without #2.

We've been spending our days finding ways to tire you out, now that it's mostly too cold for outdoor activities.  In December we finished up your art and music classes, and weekday swim lessons (Daddy is starting swimming and tumbling with you this winter on the weekends instead).   I'm so pregnant with your little brother or sister that it's hard to load you in and out of the car to go places.  Still, we manage to waddle to several of your favorite indoor places; the Human Society, Kids in Motion, the gym, the public library, and shopping (which is your favorite as long as you get to eat a banana in the store).  When it's warm enough and not too windy we get to take a walk down to the park, and the construction site where they're rebuilding the bridge across Honey Creek.  You know the names of all of the construction vehicles and cranes, and constantly remind me that they move "big dirt!"  You've also become really interested in watching the kids skate on the skating pond in Jacobus Park.  I can't wait to get you your first skates and begin teaching you.  You also love to shovel the driveway, and we really really hope this holds up until you are at least 17.

Copyright Kelly Fisher Photography, 2011

When we're inside it's tougher to keep you occupied.  Santa brought you lots of blocks for Christmas, and your cousins gave you some Thomas the Train sets.   You love playing with both, but only if I'm down on the ground with you playing what you call "mommy train."   This gets tough being so pregnant, so I've caved in and allowed you ample amounts of PBS television.   Caillou, Elmo, and Bob the Builder are your favorites.  We hope the side effects of TV are your language skills which have exploded in the past 2 months-- you're doing three and four word sentences already.  You also love when we read to you-- we're constantly trying to find the book you're asking for, since you're so fond of so many that you've given them all nicknames.  

Copyright Kelly Fisher Photography, 2011

Your favorite word is "NoMommy," spoken just like that, all at once, and for no apparent reason or objective.  Perhaps you just want to remind me who is in charge.  You're growing more and more independent every day, and have plenty of opinions.  I worry all of these things we credit to the "terrible twos" are about to be complicated by the arrival of your younger sibling.  However,  I am sure you would tell us if you could, that you would be yourself regardless of your sister or brother's arrival.   I cling to the hope that you will weather this change just like you have all others, with your sweet little smile and your sense of humor intact.   You already show us daily that you love your sibling, giving spontaneous hugs and kisses to my belly, always accompanied by your own sound effects:  "Awwww!"

Copyright Kelly Fisher Photography, 2011

You continue to surprise us with your sense of humor-- inventing games like "Barn" where you close yourself between two laundry baskets and make animal sounds.  You will run circles around the downstairs for hours playing "I Got You" with anyone who will participate, and you LOVE it when we jump out and scare you.   You recently discovered Mommy's new Ipod, and are entertained for at least 20 minutes a day by the Talking Tomcat whom you call "Hello Kitty," though I am sure you will change that title as soon as you learn of the Asian phenom that shares the same name.

We've been playing music for you since you were a baby, and now finally some of those songs are sticking.  Your favorite is "Going to the Zoo" by Raffi, and you even sing it to me when it's not playing.  At least now you finally understand that it's not a promise that we'll actually go to the zoo-- in the past you'd run to the door and put on your shoes.  

We are so proud of your transition to your new room, along with a "big boy bed" single mattress we put on the floor.  You surprised us so much, only falling out of bed for a few nights before you were sleeping right through again.  You love to nap, and will give us the sleep sign when we're taking you up to your room.  At night you never complain about bedtime, and always go right to sleep.  We can't believe how lucky we are that you love to sleep as much as your daddy does.  We hope this continues even with the big changes you'll have in the house with your little brother or sister.

My sweet boy, I'm so thankful that we had 23 months to get to know each other before your sibling arrived.  I will always remember the precious year we had together after I stopped working to take care of you full time.  You make me laugh every single day, and I am so happy to be your Mommy.

Copyright Kelly Fisher Photography, 2011

Copyright Kelly Fisher Photography, 2011

Love, Mommy