Three Weeks Later (almost)…

I think I’m having a weird time adjusting to this whole having two children thing. Not a hard time. Not a bad time. Just very strange, sort of like, “This is my life now? Huh.”

I was so used to it being just me and E around here during the week days. We watched a couple of cartoons on PBS in the morning. We laughed and talked while I changed his diaper. We made goldfish crackers swim, swim, swim and *MUAH*! Fish kiss!

We counted. We sang songs. We read stories. We went out for short walks.

Now, with little tiny, sweet, precious L in our lives, we TRY to still do those things. L sleeps much like newborns tend to do (as in, all the time if I’m not tired, and what feels like never if I’m exhausted). I have time for E. I talk to him and play with him maybe even MORE than I used to do, whilst feeding or changing L, because I’m so worried that E will end up being left out.

And E, he is the sweetest, most observant, most intelligent little boy I have ever met, and I’m absolutely terrified that one bad day, one too harsh word when all he’s trying to do is help, will ruin him for life.

He just gets so…so…SAD, when I have to get really stern with him.

And as for spanking him?

Clint and I always just assumed that we would spank our kids when they deserved it. We never really discussed what sort of behavior in a child actually warrants a spanking, but we figured we would just know when E needed a spanking. But then, through the first year, it made zero sense to us to swat his butt for things, because come on, he was still just tiny.

Now that he’s turned two, we still can’t see spanking him for anything. Partly because he’s still just tiny (albeit less tiny than he was a year ago…HEY, that means I’m doing something right!) and partly because he IS so tender-hearted.

So what do we do for discipline? Because let’s face it, we have a TWO YEAR OLD, and try as we might to be patient with him and let him explore his world, there are times when I want to tear my hair out and just let Clint handle it (actually, I never want to be the mom who passes off all discipline to Dad, thereby turning him into “the bad guy” or instilling any kind of fear into E of his daddy).

Anyway, this isn’t about toddler discipline (although you may think otherwise from the last few paragraphs). This is about…

Do you know, I don’t remember what I started this out as. And I even read through what I wrote.

Huh. Baby brain is still in full swing, I see.

Just to really throw my readers for a loop…

I can’t keep still. I had a C-section, for crying out loud, and from the time I came home from the hospital, all I want to do is things I’m not allowed to do.

Like vacuuming the ceiling. Oh, yes, I did. I held the vacuum in one hand (about two feet off the floor to make the hose reach the ceiling) and vacuumed cobwebs with the other. I don’t advise this for anyone who has just had any kind of surgery, by the way.

But darn it, I have so much stinking ENERGY since I had L! I absolutely cannot just SIT. I suspect this has a lot to do with how much weight I’ve lost since I first found out I was pregnant last spring (yeah, yeah…don’t worry, the pregnancy was fine, and L is perfectly healthy). Also, I absolutely cannot obey the rule about not lifting anything heavier than L. I HAVE to lift E. And he is a good twenty (twenty-four) pounds heavier than his baby sister.

Anyway, it’s been almost three full weeks since the C-section, and I know I’m supposed to chill for another three, but…

No.

All I want to do is clean my house all the time.

Speaking of which, this is kind of really strange behavior for me. I mean, I never really MINDED cleaning my house before, but this is a whole new side of me.

I get up around seven, as usual (although these days that’s only after a long night with L). I get E out of bed and feed him. I feed L while I have my coffee. I do the facebook thing. And then, by eight o’clock, I am washing the dishes. And vacuuming.

And HEY, would you look at that, I just had a package delivered by UPS, and it’s the comforter and sheets I ordered last week to replace a set I loved that my stupid, stupid cats tore apart (fake silk and cat claws…bad mix), and so I now end my ramblings.

Lucky you.  Oh, and here’s L at two weeks…

P.S.- By the way, I refuse to be held responsible for anything I say that makes no sense at all.

Who Wears Makeup for a C-Section?

Oh, yeah. That’s right. ME.

It’s not like it sounds- and I know it sounds like I’m one of those super frilly-fru-fru girls that can’t go a day without makeup. Really, what happened was that I woke up really early that morning, because E woke up really early that morning, and so I had extra time to kill before Clint and I drove into town to the hospital for them to do the slice and dice (I said that on facebook last week, and was told I’m a sicko).

Anyway, so, what with nerves and all, I occupied my hands/time by putting on some eye shadow, mascara, and eye liner. So it wasn’t even like it was a full face of makeup. I’m not THAT ridiculous.

Usually.

My mother-in-law (a.k.a Super Woman-more on that later) stayed with E while Clint and I went to the hospital. We got there just before 6 a.m. and checked in through the ER. A nurse led us to a room, insisted that I pee in a cup and get naked for hospital gown purposes (worst piece of ‘clothing’ in the entire world, I swear), and within minutes had stabbed me and put an IV in. Blood was drawn, and my mother showed up before anything interesting had even happened, followed closely by my best friend and both kiddo’s god-mother (if you didn’t catch that, I meant she’s the same person. Bear with me, we have a nasty cold going around in our house and I’m short on sleep). I can’t remember who else/how many other people might have showed up before I even went into the OR.

And I wasn’t even on drugs.

The C-section was scheduled for eight o’clock, and probably around 7:30, I think I started freaking out. The silent kind of freaking out, where I was more focused on my nerves than what was going on around me. I’m pretty sure Clint’s mom showed up with E in tow around then, and I think that a nurse might have put those horrible stocking things on me that help with circulation and I hear that E really, really didn’t like that. As in, he touched my toe and I twitched and he screamed and scared the Happy Juice man (er, anesthesiologist) bad enough that every time they saw each other after that, the poor guy was a little wary.

Even if he was scared of my little screamer, he’s pretty much my hero because when I had E, it was a different guy giving the epidural, and I got stabbed with that needle about nine times. This guy? One shot.

Thank you, Mr. Happy Juice man.

And oh, the fascination of not being able to feel half of your body! You know, when you know it’s only temporary.

Clint was with me the whole time, and we were chit-chatting and people were making jokes, and looking back, the whole thing seems totally surreal. I do remember that the baby didn’t want to come out, and so somebody was putting a hell of a lot of pressure on my stomach to get her out. The doctor had to use the suction thing on L’s head. I don’t think that’s real normal for a C-section. Apparently, it was warm and cozy in there and I don’t blame her for not wanting to come out.

Although I’m very glad she did. She’s pretty cute.

And then I threw up on myself. Wait, no, that came right after they showed me my tiny little girl (6 lbs, 10 oz) and let me kiss her on the head.

And then I threw up on myself.

And then there was the recovery room, where I puked some more and was very glad my mommy sneaked back to see me even though she wasn’t supposed to, and I vaguely remember that I woke up in my own hospital room and there were people everywhere.

The best friend was stuck in a corner a lot, I noticed in between groggy, blurry wakeful moments. I didn’t like that. She says that at some point in my conked-out state, I mumbled something about wanting to knock somebody out. Possibly I was angry at everyone for shoving her in a corner. Who knows? I was on drugs.

I spent that entire day sleeping/waking up to mumble things that almost nobody heard/throwing up at random. The nurse wouldn’t let me eat anything until I’d proven I could handle some apple juice, but I kept telling her I would quit puking if they’d get some food into my system. I don’t know who won, but I remember that HEY, after I had a turkey sandwich and some chips, there was no more throwing up.

Thursday morning, they got me up out of bed and I took a shower. And then I wanted to be home. Yeah, barely 24 hours after being sliced and diced, I was ready to leave. Not because I hate hospitals so bad, but because I felt so good. Barely any pain, walking was pretty smooth, I could stand entirely straight.

Completely different experience from the C-section for E.

They wouldn’t let me leave until I’d been there a full two days. But, lo and behold, we made it home with our little girl and I can’t lift anything over 7 pounds which means that Clint’s mom, a.k.a Super Woman, has been a life saver (probably I should tell her that). It’s rough not being able to lift our son (I dunno, a 30 lb. two year old is only a little over my lifting limit, right?).

Oh but hey, enough chatter, here’s a couple of pictures.

Ha! My eye liner stayed put.

 

Proud daddy 🙂

 

E was pretty nervous about the whole thing, but he likes his baby sister.

More pictures when/if I get to them…

Yay! L is a week old now!

Bursting at the Seams

…Almost literally, it feels like. As of Wednesday, I was 38 weeks pregnant. Which means that I am now very large, very tired of being very large, and having one hell of a time with simple things like rolling from one side to the other when I’m trying to fall asleep.

Clint, of course, is amused by my lack of mobility. He says really helpful, encouraging things like, “Hey…you look pregnant.”

Thanks, dear.

This week, I’m nesting. People have been trying to tell me since Christmas that there are things I should probably try to get done sooner rather than later, but did I listen? No, because…!

A) I’m a procrastinator

B) The more anyone tells me I need to be doing something, the less likely I am to even attempt it

Which left me with a whole lot of projects to get done before February 6th, and I really only started doing them yesterday. Because I like to add excitement (panic) to my life, you know.

So, I have done what seems like a zillion loads of laundry. I even folded most of it. I set up L’s crib with crib skirt, bumper pads, quilt and all, even though she won’t be sleeping in it for a couple of months. I deep-cleaned the bathroom yesterday, using a toothbrush in spots and scrubbing the inside of the toilet with a pumice stone. Because apparently, in my crazy pregnant lady mind, ‘sparkling white’ was just not good enough for the inside of a bathroom fixture that catches…

Well, anyway, I didn’t stop at ‘clean’.

Possibly the strangest thing I’ve done was actually dusting the entertainment center. Yes, weirder than putting my hand into a toilet.

It has occurred to me a time or two, whilst vacuuming the house, that if I would just run a dust cloth over everything AS PART OF VACUUMING…there would be no dust anywhere. I vacuum every day. Hmm.

Anyway, after Wednesday the 6th (cripes, THIS WEDNESDAY), for a little while at least, I won’t have to worry about it.

I’ll be…not sleeping. Trying to walk without hurting my incision (C-section, remember). Feeding tiny children. It’ll be like I’ve just had a baby or something.

And then, just about two weeks later, E turns TWO!

Which means I’ve got to decide if we’re having a birthday party for him or not. We have to do something, of course…he only has one second birthday. I just know that I won’t feel up to going all-out for it, so it’s really good I have a lot of people I can impose upon to help me out (‘impose upon’ isn’t really right- these people would probably love to throw a party for my kiddo(I think)).

And now it’s time to hunt down any dirt remaining in the house and KILL. I mean, get the toothbrush out again.

If I can still bend without like, having a baby or something.

Keep Calm and…right, that’s not working for me

I’m on the verge of going into panic-mode over the impending arrival of our little girl. You know, like I haven’t been expecting this for approximately nine months. Well, eight, really, but who’s counting?

Besides me. And my husband. And our families. And the doctor.

Do you know how much work it is to prepare for the arrival of a baby? If you’ve never had a baby, you can probably only take a wild guess, and you’d probably be wrong. Not that I think you’re stupid, of course, but see, I’ve had a baby already and was still unprepared for the preparation of this second baby.

What I’m saying is, don’t have babies. They’re just terrible.

I’ve tried to separate in my mind all the projects/prep work into two categories- Finished, and Someday We Might Get This Done.

Under the Finished category, we’ve chosen a name! So instead of being Baby Number 2, she will, from here on out, be referred to as L, or any other cute nick names that spring to mind after I’ve seen her little baby face.

In 17 days. Or is it 16? Wait, I thought I was actually counting.

Also under the Finished category, Clint has finished with the two coats of primer that were necessary for a room in the basement to be turned into a guest room, mainly for my mother-in-law, who will be here to help us get/keep things under control. Hopefully. I mean, hopefully she will be here, not hopefully she will help. I know she’ll help. It’s just that there’s this whole annoying jury duty obstacle she’s trying to work around.

Like I said, hopefully she’ll be here.

As for the jury duty I was supposed to have last week, they postponed it for me, due to me sneaking up on my due date. Which means they’ll probably call me in for real at the earliest, and second most inconvenient time they can find for me.

Under the Someday category falls…everything else.

Sorting through E’s room and clothes. Sorting through L’s clothes and setting up her crib. Arranging our bedroom in a way that makes sense for a baby and bassinet to move in with us for a couple months. Actually painting/decorating the guest room.

Actually having this baby.

Oh, hell. I’m freaking out.

 

Whaddya Do?

The other day, little Mr. E was having one heck of a meltdown. I don’t remember why, really, unless it had something to do with the beginning of the day when he kept kicking his own baby butt (it involved a lot of really silly moves that resulted in him landing flat on his back and pouting…like trying to pick up a basket that he was standing in). At some point during his screaming, I said, “Hey! Quit freaking out, kid!”

He didn’t quit.

And so I scooped him up and plunked him in his crib with no toys so’s he could get calmed down before I did something rash, like start screaming and crying myself.

He did calm down, although once the crying stopped, he started in with his old stand-by; rocking against the side of his crib to move it across the room (honestly, I have no idea how he manages to NOT knock it over).

I don’t like it when he rocks like that. My mommy brain goes into over-drive, imagining all the terrible things that could come from a nearly two year old child exerting so much force against a piece of furniture that shouldn’t hurt him, but could easily do so if abused too often. Wood snapping and stabbing him. Cribs falling on his head. That sort of thing.

So I went in to get him, but as I opened the door, he let out a shriek that caused approximately twelve separate levels of pain in my skull.

Without considering my words or the age of the recipient of them, I yelled, “What the hell are you doing?!”

E stopped rocking and threw his arms up in the air and yelled back, “FREAKING OUT, MAMA!”

Oh…but of course. I should have realized.

Days like that one, I wonder two things:

1. Why, oh why did I have a kid?

2. How can anyone NOT want kids when they’re so much fun?

Oh, and also “Whose kid IS this, anyway?!”

 

 

All Aboard the Crazy Train

Ever have one of those days where you put your hand into the pocket of your hoodie and pull out several pieces of wilted lettuce?

No?

Huh. Well, maybe that’s just me, after allowing Mr. E to run around the house shredding lettuce. This was, of course, after initially having handed him the entire head of lettuce, which he proceeded to throw like a ball. Maybe that was a bad idea.

Yesterday was a constant test of my patience. E was giving me whiplash with his going from screaming and crying to talking and laughing and back again in under five minutes. There was a lot of yelling on his part, mostly because I kept accidentally saying the word ‘cookie’ in a conversation with my sister.

Yeah, E knows all about cookies, and once the idea is introduced in our home, there is no peace until a cookie has been had. It’s the same way if someone says the word ‘bath’.

Instant melt-down mode. Cripes.

Of course, we didn’t have any cookies available, although even if we had at that point, E wouldn’t have gotten one just for screaming his head off about it.

Then again, there’s not a lot I wouldn’t do to avoid hearing him scream like that, so maybe I’d have given up and given in. I did, late in the day, take E to the store for a cookie. After the fits seemed to be over.

On Tuesday, I had a tummy-check appointment. Everything looks fine with our little girl, and I’m scheduled to do the horrible glucose test in a couple of weeks, plus getting a Rogam shot. That one is thanks to my blood type being negative, just in case baby girl’s is positive. Not fun stuff, but it’s kind of whatever at this point.

After the doctor, I took E to Walmart (of course I took him with me, what was I going to do, send him to work with his dad? That’s actually pretty tempting…). Amazingly enough, there were zero issues inside Walmart that were Walmart’s fault. The worst that happened in the store was…well…

Waiting in line to check out, there was a tiny, shrivelly old woman standing nearby. She had on a thick, fuzzy brown coat, and super-sized round glasses, and a red hat. I didn’t even notice her until E started pointing at her and saying, “Monkey? Monkey?”

Um, no kiddo…and don’t point, it’s rude!

The lady might not have heard what he was saying, but she saw him pointing at her and so she smiled and came over to pinch his chubby cheek the way old women seem unable to resist doing.

Outside at the car was where the trouble started. We have automatic locks. We don’t have a fancy new car or anything, but everything is automatic. I unlocked the doors, and while I was buckling E into his seat, I heard weird clicking sounds. When I stood up, I saw the trunk had popped open. I wasn’t even using the trunk, so that was odd. Then more clicking, and I watched the locks pop up and down on all of the doors for a minute before I went and slammed the trunk closed.

Just as I turned to get in the car, there went the trunk again. I slammed it, it didn’t even latch. I slammed it, it popped open. The doors were still going psycho. At that point, I realized I should probably pull the fuse that controls the locks, so I opened the glove box and was immediately overwhelmed- way too many fuses. No idea which one to pull.

So I settled for getting back out, slamming the trunk of my obviously possessed vehicle again, kicking the door, and yelling, “Where’s an exorcist when you need one?!”

Funnily enough, as soon as I started the car, all the craziness stopped.

However, unbeknownst to me, there was a lady sitting in the passenger seat of a truck just one space away from where I’d parked, and as I was getting into the front seat, she asked if I was okay. Quite aside from scaring me half to death because I didn’t think anyone was around to see my little episode, I didn’t know how to answer that. So I smiled sheepishly and drove away.

Thank God it was just a Walmart parking lot, instead of the one at the grocery store I generally shop at.

On a completely unrelated note, how much bacon is acceptable, or rather, necessary, for one BLT? Two slices? Three?

And, if you cook up most of a package of bacon, and there are complaints that there is not MORE bacon available, so you cook MORE bacon…

Is it acceptable, or rather, necessary, to kill the person who requested MORE bacon and then only ate ONE of the extra slices, leaving three behind that nobody else will eat?

It was shortly after this that I discovered the lettuce in my pocket. Really, it’s no wonder I’m losing my mind.

A Whole New Worry

Because I wasn’t already concerned enough about the impending arrival of our daughter, my brain kicked things into over-drive the other night on the worrying-about-everything front.

I had a dream that our daughter was here, she was a few months old, and I was so glad to have a little girl that I ignored Mr. E. Not just ignored him, really, but neglected him. I was irritated when I had to stop holding the baby so I could change E’s diaper, or get him a drink. Or look at him.

I woke up feeling utterly ashamed of and horrified at myself. Not that I think I could ever really love one of my children more than the other, but oh my head, now I’m worried.

Because, I mean, she’ll be a baby. Totally helpless, happy to be held and snuggled, not getting into everything and making me chase her around all day. Well, for a while, it will be like that.

Plus, a girl. Before I got pregnant with E, I had only ever pictured myself being a mother to a girl. One girl. Because that was all I assumed I could ever handle. Obviously, the Big Guy in the Sky disagrees, but that doesn’t really make me feel more confident that I can be anything like a good mother to both my son AND my daughter.

What if I do start ignoring E? Or snapping at him all the time as though I don’t even like him and he’s just a burden?

Granted, I don’t feel anything like that right now. In fact, right now, and pretty much every day, I feel overwhelmed by how much I love E and enjoy his baby company.

Totally loveable. What am I worried about?

But what about when I’m in pain after a C-section, and my hormones are even more whacked-out than they are now, and I’m holding the daughter I always wanted in my arms, and E is climbing the walls and throwing his toys and pinching his sister?

A while back, long before I was even considering a second baby, my mom and I had a conversation about parents having a “favorite” child. I have both a sister and a brother, and I remember growing up, when we’d demand to know which one of us was the favorite, our mom would say things like, “You’re my favorite eldest child”, “You’re my favorite son”, “You’re my favorite middle kid”.

Well played, Mom. Well played.

And then she asked me, “If you had another little E, do you think you’d love one of them more than the other?”

Of course not! Differently, sure, as they’d be different people. But not unequally.

So what’s the problem, then? What am I so worried about? Do I really think it would even be possible to not love Mr. E just as much as I do right now (watching him spin in circles, grinning like a goon)?

I guess, honestly, I’m more concerned that I won’t be able to spend as much time with him, whilst caring for an infant. I love my days, spent solely with E while Clint is at work, and I love our mornings, evenings, and weekends, just the three of us (oh, and those horrid, awful cats, too…). It just seems like we’ve finally developed some sort of a balance, a comfortable routine, for our little family.

A newborn baby will really throw it all out of whack.

What if, God forbid, I resent the baby? You know, for showing up here and taking over? Because she will; it’s what babies do, when you bring them home. They become this tiny little tyrant, demanding all of your time and attention.

All of this is really hard for me to imagine, though. Truly, I can’t imagine myself not being head-over-heels crazy about Mr. E, ever. And I can’t imagine myself not being completely in awe of my little girl.

Stupid subconscious, getting me all worked up about nothing. Right, no more baby dreams for me.

 

Grumble, Grumble

Sometimes, getting through a single day is enough of a work-out and brain teaser without adding into the mix the crazy mood swings of pregnancy. But when those hormones start flipping out, so do I, and today has so far been…

Well, I threatened several times to turn Clint into Mr. Potato Head. Which would be fairly normal, except that I wasn’t kidding. There were two more potato plants in the garden (blue potatoes, an experiment by a family member that didn’t work out very well), and I was supposed to dig them up ages ago.

Of course, I didn’t. And so today, Clint asked me (again) to pull the blue potatoes. At which point all the threats and grumbling started. Clint, in his infinite wisdom, took off to go do some kind of project that involved getting to listen to his iPod and drown me out.

Good plan.

I yelled at Mr. E. Not just trying to get his attention, either, but actual, angry, frustrated, I’d heard way too much crying yelling.

For goodness sake, he’s not even two yet. What is my problem?

Oh, right. Pregnant.

I didn’t have my normal pot of coffee this morning, and I had to drive 30 miles to go to the grocery store with a caffeine headache, and…and…

WAAAHHH!!!

That pretty much sums it up. And that’s ridiculous, because it’s not like I’m having the worst day ever or anything. I almost wish I was (so totally kidding, really, I don’t need that right now) just so I’d have a good explanation for why I’m so angry, weepy, irritated, and just plain worn out.

Although, right at the moment, I feel great. Possibly due to the huge mug of coffee I’m working on, or that E is down for a nap and isn’t fussy-facing at me, or because Clint is outside working when I’m not (I did at least dig the potatoes up…there were a whopping TWO of them).

Guess I’ll take advantage of the momentary peace and go outside and enjoy my coffee in the sunshine.

 

Ruining our Children, One at a Time

When Mr. E was first born (in fact, even while I was pregnant), and for quite a while after, I would get extremely riled up and offended about all of the unwanted advice being thrown at me and Clint. What we should do, what we shouldn’t, all the things other people did with their children and how it was the only ‘right’ way to raise a kid. If you’ve been with me a while, you might remember a couple of posts on the subject of ‘super moms’ and how much I like them.

Now, at just about the 20 month mark of E’s little baby life, I still get the unwanted advice. Granted, people have given up on me as far as breast feeding or cloth diapers go, and for the most part, people keep their mouth shut about things like what I should/shouldn’t be teaching him at this stage. I’d like to think that last bit is because they can see what a little budding genius we’re raising here, but it’s possible that people who know us have figured out that we don’t listen to their advice, unless, miraculously, it coincides with what we want to do as parents.

Sometimes, though, we just can’t win.

Sources say (and by sources, I mean one or two people who have good intentions and love E tremendously but are just not the mama (or the daddy))…

Sources say that E is hearing the word ‘no’ way too much. He must be, they say, because that’s his Number One Favorite Word to say. To everything. Sometimes, it even fits the question he’s asked. Usually, the saying of the word ‘no’ has nothing to do with anything but whatever is on E’s baby mind…and yikes, that could be anything.

To this, I try not to snarl at people. Because, I mean, the kid is a toddler. He’s going to be told ‘no’ a lot. I try to change it up a bit, with ‘uh-uh’ or ‘cripes-kid-sometimes-I’d-like-to-sell-you’. But really, ‘no’ is more effective (er, sometimes), and he understands what it means, even if he can’t use it in a proper sentence.

Some sources say that I’m supposed to be covering E with a blanket when he goes to sleep. As in, he might just possibly wake up a frozen babysicle if I don’t? He wears warms jammies, but apparently, the blanket is a must.

That experiment went oh so well. The blanket ends up on the floor outside the crib, or wadded up in the corner. E doesn’t even really like to play with blankets.

Other sources don’t agree with the sleep schedule we have for E (and I use the word ‘schedule’ rather loosely). Did you know that having a set bed time for a child is only for the parents’ own convenience? I didn’t, either.

I mean, yes, sometimes I find it to be very convenient to put E to bed by 8 p.m. Other times, by 7:30. If we’re not at home, by 9:30.

I find it’s a lot more convenient for me to end a 12-hour day of taking care of a toddler with going to bed myself.

And naps? Do kids need naps? Or is that another parental convenience we’ve contrived in order to make our lives baby-free for a couple hours in the afternoons?

Absolutely. I only put E down for a nap because if I don’t, he’s the crankiest little monster I’ve ever met, and it’s MUCH easier to be a happy mommy when I’ve got a happy baby.

So, yes, all for my own convenience. Totally.

He looks pretty messed up to me…I mean, who looks at pictures of chickens?

Somehow, in spite of all this, I don’t believe we’re screwing up our kid. Well, scratch that- we probably are, in some way, perhaps by feeding him peas and carrots for breakfast one day, and an Oreo or two the next. Sometimes for lunch, he eats a tortilla. He gets time-outs (although he doesn’t actually understand them yet) when he throws a fit, or won’t quit touching breakable, expensive things that we can’t afford to replace no matter how much E really needs to “explore his world”. Sure, busting a laptop or Xbox would be very stimulating, but…

Yeah, we’d rather not go there.

Ever since E stopped having two naps a day, in the late afternoon, he gets a 30-45 minute ‘baby break’ (also for my own convenience, yes?). He has his nap from about 11 a.m. to 1 or 2 p.m., generally. Around four o’clock, he turns into the Incredible Baby Hulk, but there’s no chance in hell of him going to sleep again (unless he’s sick). So, he gets a toy and/or a book, and plays in his crib.

Sources say this is not a good idea.

I say, okay, YOU come handle it better, then.

I’d like to think that I’m getting better at dealing with other people’s opinions on how I’m messing up my son. I’m beginning to realize that every parent deals with this, and every parent is probably, in some way, shape, or form, “screwing up” their own children.

And that’s alright with me.

But shush about my parenting skills, or I’m going to do something that someone (not me) might regret…

 

Double Baby Drama

I’m already six months pregnant. I don’t really know how that- no, no, I do know HOW it happened, I’m just having a hard time wrapping my brain around how fast the time has gone. It seems like one day, I was worried about why Mr. E wasn’t walking yet, planting flowers in the yard, and losing weight. The next…

PREGNANT.

Yikes.

It didn’t really seem real to me, all summer long. I mean, except for the nausea, occasional up-chucking for no apparent reason, and the daily vitamin. But last week, during the ultra-sound when they told me we’re having a little girl, things started clicking into place.

Baby.

Another one.

Girl.

A little sister for Mr. E.

Two babies in diapers.

Expensive.

Speaking of which, how is it fair to charge the same price on all sizes of Pampers, when you’re getting less and less diapers? Why does a box of size 4’s cost the same as 1’s, and you get something like half as many? Maybe my math (or memory) is off on that, but the point is, if I’m only getting 80 diapers instead of 100, shouldn’t I pay 20 diapers worth LESS?

No?

I could switch to cloth diapers. But then, I could also spend the rest of my 20’s washing cloth diapers, and to be perfectly honest, just not interested. I’ve got three years before I’m 30, and I fully intend to use those years not cleaning the kitchen when I ought to, instead of being elbow-deep in diapers that I don’t want to wash and don’t know how to fold.

Really, don’t babies produce enough laundry already, without the extra-ickyness of cloth diapers?

Also, I just asked Mr. E if he was upset with me for using disposable diapers, and you know what he has to say about it?

“Die? Die? No no no!”

So, there you have it.

Now that I’ve been derailed by diapers…

Oh, right. Baby girl. My due date is February 13th, but since it will be a C-section, it’s really more like February 6th. Which means I get to be hugely and uncomfortably pregnant for less time, yeah?

Meh. At that stage of pregnancy, everything is just varying degrees of awful, anyway. A week more or less won’t matter, except that if I go in on the 6th, I can be home by the 9th, and have just enough time to get to where I can walk without crying, then plan for E’s birthday.

Note to self- if more babies are in our future, don’t have them in February.

We’ll have to get another crib. The plan, I think, is to find another one just like the new one E has, because both munchkins will be sharing a room for now, and…and…

Why does it matter if everything matches, anyway? Does it, really? E’s crib matches the changing table (stroke of luck…or genius, I’m not sure which), so the new crib might as well match both.

I really need more crib sheets. For both cribs.

I need girl clothes. None of my friends have baby girl clothes. Bigger girl clothes, sure, but not the onesies and jammies I need.

What I really need is to relax. I know time flies, but really, three months is plenty of time to get things together.

I mean, it is if you aren’t…me. Good thing I’m surrounded by responsible adults, eh?

Mr. E is now lying on the floor, cuddled with a Pillow Pet (dog, it looks like), so I think it would be wise if I took the opportunity to snuggle with him (E, not the dog pillow…or both, whichever).