2 Tiny Tyrants

The Awe and The Wonder

2012-09-21T09:30:00.002-07:00

The other night, Thing 2 was finally asleep, and a very tired Thing 1 had just been tucked into bed. I sat by her bed, and talked about the day, and what she is going to dream about (flying in the clouds with dragons and Kipper the Dog). She was staring half asleep into the distance, her buzzing internal energy mellowing to a soft hum, her face peaceful in the glow of the nightlight as she hugged her stuffed dog.

As I looked at her, I suddenly had one of those strange revelation moments as I fully thought about the fact that she was my daughter. This beautiful child with her wild blonde hair and her huge eyes and her ridiculous cackle of a laugh. The 2 year old that can tell you about molecules and dinosaurs and wants to know what a horizon is.

I felt like the last time I really LOOKED at her was over a year ago, before I was pregnant with Thing 2, when she was just starting to walk and talk and was in love with her bears at the zoo.

I was overwhelmed with this feeling that I had missed the last year and half of her life. While I had been distracted by morning sickness and postpartum and a newborn and working and moving, she had become someone new.

Then I realized: It's happening! I am nostalgic for the little baby stage! I am thinking 'wow that went fast! I need to treasure these moments!' It was a strangely melancholy feeling.

I sat there until she fell asleep, just staring at her face, trying to make sense of how this amazing person could have come out of me, and now be so separately and entirely her own self.

Before I know it she will be in school and then college and then off on her own.
Sigh.

(I totally can't wait!)

Metaphysical Toddlers

2012-08-23T10:05:00.001-07:00

Conversations with a precocious two year old go something like this:

"Where does milk come from, Mama?"

"I don't know, where does milk come from?"

"Milk comes from cows, Mama! Where does cows come from, Mama?"

"From mama cows."

"Where do clothes come from, Mama, where do clothes COME from?"

"Clothes are made in factories out of fabric."

"What is FABRIC Mama?"

"Fabric is made from threads we get from plants and animals."

"Where do animals come from?"

"Momma and daddy animals make baby animals, and those grow up and make more animals."

"Like Mia?"

"Sure, yes, like Mia."

"Where does WATER come from, Mama?"

"Water that we drinks comes out of the ground in pipes."

"Oh. But where does water COME from Mama?"

"Water goes up to the clouds as vapor, and then rains down, and goes back into the ground, and comes back up in pipes. That's called the 'water cycle'. "

"Da water cyyycle. But what IS water, Mama?"

"Well, water is made up of Hydrogen and Oxygen molecules."

"OXYGEN is an el-u-ment!"

"Um. Correct. Very good sweetie."

"Where does OXYGEN come from Mama?! Where does OXYGEN COME FROM?"

...

"That is a really good question honey. Go ask your papa."

Making People

2012-07-21T20:12:00.001-07:00

My youngest brother, who has never been around children (and has been over-exposed to mine) has seemed disturbed and confused by the fact that Thing 1 continues to do bad things even after I have told her not to.

For example, my parent's Old Kitty is sadly now Very-Frail-Not-Long-for-This-World-Please-Don't-Touch-Him-Or-Else-He-Might-Break Kitty. Which means that her favorite kitty is suddenly off limits and not to be bothered. Or hugged. Or picked up. Or pushed. Or scared. Or spoken loudly around. This is hard for a small Tyrant to understand, and as a result she hears, "Be gentle to kitty! Gentle! Leave him alone! Don't touch the kitty!" around a million times a day.

After the ten thousandth time, this young man just shook his head and looked at me,
"Why does she do that? I mean, what's the point? You've told her not to. She knows she'll get in trouble. WHY does she keep doing it?"

Errrrrr.....

This got me thinking about the intensive training it takes to make babies into fully functioning human beings. I have come to the conclusion that repetition is the main tool.
For example, when my toddler sweetly states, "Thank YOU!" that is the result of being prompted a hundred times a day for several years before her first voluntary response.

Do you see how she is resisting pulling everything off of all the shelves in her reach? We worked on that for probably a year straight, starting when she first became mobile. Every day all the DVD's and books were on the floor dozens of times. Then we would pick them up. And I would say, "Don't pull the DVD's down. NO." She would nod solemnly - and then do it again a half an hour later just incase maybe the rules had changes.

Not all children are quite as stubborn as mine. Some babies hear, "NO!" and their world ends and they never EVER want to hear it again so they behave like little angels.
( I have only heard rumors of these children, please, if you see one, send me a pictures so I know they are real.)

Children like mine push boundaries constantly because they want to do and know and experience EVERYTHING. RIGHT NOW. Which is wonderful and exhausting and challenging and means that I will be telling her the same things OVER and OVER and OVER again for many years. I guess as a mommy I have to look at the long term results of this training, and not focus on the short term repeated offenses.

As to why does she do the bad things she does? Best I can guess it's because becoming a person is fucking hard work. Similar to the time commitment needed to learn a foreign language while training for the olympics and preparing for life on a space station.

It is good to remember how hard it all is when a little person is behaving badly.
It's probably not just because they are evil little minions.
(Probably.)

Red Alert

2012-07-19T20:58:00.000-07:00

If at some point in your life your diabolical children are sitting quietly, playing together like little angels, while educational television hums soothingly in the background, you may think, "Hey! I bet I could sit down for a minute and check my email for the first time today and maybe just let my high red alert simmer to a pleasant yellow."

When this happens, don't do it. Just. Don't.

Because as soon as your back is turned someone (Thing 1, I'm looking at you...) is going to find the one colored pencil you missed when you grabbed them from Thing 2's grasp earlier before she could shove them down her throat. (It will be the red one. It's always the red one.)

Then they will systematically cover as many square inches of your parent's new plasma flat screen TV with intricate scribbles and designs. Even if it means scaling the wall of toy pianos, lego wagons, small stools, and rocking horses you have carefully constructed around it.

Yeah, it's not worth those five minutes of semi-relaxation that you desperately needed. The time-out and scolding are going to be at least 15 minutes total. The cleanup from Thing 2 dumping the last dredges of your coffee cup all over the table while you were disciplining her sister will cost you another 10. Not to mention the frantic wiping off of the TV before your mom sees it so that you can at least pretend to be a good parent.

Don't get lulled into a false sense of security.

They are waiting for you to show weakness.

Don't let your guard down.
Be vigilant.
Be ready.

Thy Mother's Name in Vain

2012-07-11T21:02:00.003-07:00

For the last few days I have been waking up to a tiny hand patting my face as a new little voice lisps sleepily, "MaMA mama MAma MAMA Mamamamamama!"

Thing 2 has spoken her first words! They make me smile before my eyes have even opened. No matter how brutal the night, no matter how many marathon hours of teething-baby-nursing I have sat awake for, nope, doesn't matter. She said my name sweetly therefore I love her.

It has made me think of that old quote,

"Mother is the name for god in the lips and hearts of little children."

-William Makepeace Thackeray Vanity Fair

(When I first read this I was young and single and thought, "Whoa, that is so deep and beautiful. Mothers are so powerful and strong and worship-deserving." This was before I realized that while Mothers are indeed powerful and strong and worship-deserving, they are also fucking tired burnt out exhausted needing of showers and drinks. Still. It's a nice quote.)

However, being the "god" of children has it's downside. Thing 2 is in that new-convert stage of awe and devotion. I provide her with the miraculous booby-juice and 24 hour care. I wipe her little bum, I bounce her to sleep. I am, if I do say so myself, fairly awesome. And since she is doing very little wrong just yet, I am also very benevolent.

Thing 1, on the other hand, is in that disillusioned stage of a devotee. She wants more from her god than just cuddles. She wants popsicles. And ponies. And sometimes hot air balloon rides. When this god doesn't answer the way she wants, she is not very happy. Apparently her god has some rules and requirements for all this bounty. When she disobeys, well, she gets a little fire and brimstone action.

She is also realizing that she has options. She can make choices about obeying or disobeying. Maybe she doesn't need a god. After all, she can reach high shelves and climb on chairs and open doors and count to twenty and tell you all about 4 out of 7 planets. She is reaching demi-god status herself. As a result, she has started using the name of her god with a little less reverence than before:

"MOM! Mooooooom! MOMEEEEEE!!!! MOM! MOM! MOM! Mommy! MOMMY! MOOOOoooooooooooooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMM!"

It can be like sandpaper on my eardrums. There are days, I have to admit, that I absolutely hate that word.

But then after a really rough day, Thing 1 will find me, crawl into my lap, frame my face so gently with her tiny hands and whisper, "Mamma. I love you. I love my Mama."

My heart will melt, and just like that she is a tiny baby again lisping my name for the first time. I play my role of long suffering parent to my prodigal daughter, and hug her, and kiss her, and tell her I love her too.

And forgive her for all the times she has taken my name in vain.

"NO!"

2012-06-14T19:43:00.003-07:00

Two year olds have a hard time processing major life changes. Like recently moving. Which we just did.
Instead of saying, "Hey, this is weird that you have totally upset everything that I am familiar with and taken me away from the only home I can remember. I am having a hard time adjusting and am feeling sad and anxious," they start scratching anything with skin that gets within their reach and doing the exact opposite of everything they should do.

As a result, there has been a lot of "NO!" going on the last few days.
Thing 1 attempts to lift Old Kitty by the tail while Old Kitty is trying to eat dinner - "NO!"
Thing 1 tips over her sister who is just starting to pull herself up on everything - "NO!"
Thing 1 drinks large gulp of juice, gargles it, grins at me, and let's it dribble all over her shirt - "NO!"
Thing 1 locks herself in the bathroom - "NO!"
Thing 1 drinks a half a cup of coffee - "NO!"

This much negative enforcement (lots of talking down, talking up, bribing, positive reinforcement, and occasional time out included) takes a toll on my brain. I don't want to once again explain to my child that hitting is wrong and we need to be gentle. I want her to remember when I explained it twenty minutes ago.

This morning she looked at me after a very firm "NO!" for deliberately dumping a bag of cheerios on the floor and said, "Ooooooh, I make Mama SAD. My fault. It's MY FAULT again!"in completely faked remorseful tones.
Which made me laugh out loud and completely defeated the power of my "NO!"

Then, this afternoon, we had a truly grueling series of "NO!"s:
"Momma! Want a chip!"
"NO!"
"Momma! Want to ride da cow!"
"NO!"
"Momma! NEED a popsicle!! I NEED IT!"
"NO!"
"Momma! I push MIA! It's FUNNY! It IS!"
"NOOOOO!!!"

As we were washing our hands after a diaper change, she looked at me and said,
"Momma! Want to brush my teeth!"
And I naturally replied,
"NO!"
"Momma, PLEASE. My teeth are FUZZY. Please brusha' my teeth?"
"NO!"

Pause.

Did I just tell my child not to to brush her teeth?
"Ok. You can brush your teeth. THIS time."

Nice save.

Sometimes, even in the midst of a tidal wave of negativity, there may just be a good idea. It's important not to get overwhelmed so that I don't automatically say "NO!" and miss out.

After all, maybe tomorrow she will want to pee on the toilet, eat all her healthy food, go down for a nap without complaint, clean the windows, and take a bath on her own. You never know.

The Horrible Truth

2012-04-16T10:54:00.004-07:00

You want to know a terrible secret? At least once a day I have the mind numbing revelation that I should never have had children, and that there is now nothing I can do about it. Having children is one decision you can't undo. They are permanent.

These moments don't always last long, for example, this morning's revelation happened when Thing 1 suddenly decided to bolt into a stranger's yard while on our walk, throw herself dramatically on her back and start rolling in circles. I tried verbal parenting like all the good books recommend, but my child was staring blissfully at the sky and had apparently been temporarily struck deaf.

I had Thing 2 strapped to my chest, but I managed to haul her limp sister up with one hand, expecting the owners of the house to appear at any moment demanding what the ruckus was about and sending their pitbull after us.

Thing 1, of course, screamed and thrashed as only a two year old can, kicked off both her boots and sent her hat flying into the bushes. I did an impressive squat with a shoeless toddler under one arm shrieking that I was "Squiiiiiiiishing" her, an infant trying to get away from the noise by arching backwards into my collar bone, and retrieved the scattered clothing with my free hand.

Then I walked two blocks home with my child hanging upside down and her sister kicking me in the groin, grinning fiercely at any of my neighbors who were also up as early as I was. And there it was, the burning certainty that I had gotten myself in over my head.

There is no time to dwell ofcourse, because there are clothes to put away and food to prepare and messes to tidy and babies to nurse. that time

But I know it was there - That horrible, brutally honest moment when I imagine what my life would have been like if I was kid free.

This doesn't mean I don't love my kids. It doesn't mean I wouldn't die to protect them. I think it just means that they are little and demanding and I am very, very tired.

I just hope that there are parallel worlds, and in one of them I slept in this morning, took a long shower, shaved my legs, read a book with coffee, paid all my bills in my awesome home-office, am now painting a picture before meeting up with some friends for dinner where we will discuss our love lives and then catch a late showing of the latest blockbuster.

Maybe that makes me a bad mom - but this blog is about telling the truth, even if it is horrible.

Mandatory Contact

2012-03-19T09:57:00.001-07:00

Today we will discuss another malady affecting parents of young children everywhere. It is called "Mandatory Contact", and it affects 10 out of 10 parents. Mandatory Contact for mothers begins immediately after conception, and for fathers immediately after birth. It involves being in constant physical contact with your child for 10 months while they reside inside of you (it is surprisingly hard to put down a fetus), and being constantly available for contact after that (you can put down a newborn....for a few minutes...but it is usually more peaceful not too.)

If there is lactating going on, contact is even more intense and paralyzing (See Lactation Paralysis entry). And if you have more than one child, the amount of minutes spent in Mandatory Contact with another person goes up exponentially.

It might not sound like a bad thing. In our suppressed society, physical contact is constantly craved. I remember being single and living on my own and really wanting someone around to cuddle with. Silly, silly me. I should have been sprawled out in my meticulously cleaned living room laughing at the amazing peaceful quiet. Little did I know.

I am one of those hippie descendants who grew up in a house where you could always crawl in with Mom and Dad when you had a bad dream, and I foolishly followed their example. Therefore, my daily dose of Mandatory Contact starts around 1:00 am when Thing 2 starts waking up to eat. I pull her into bed to feed her (I have become an expert at the nurse and doze.)

About the time she is settling into a deep sleep, Thing 1 pops out of her bed with a spine chilling cry (have I mentioned that she has night terrors?), followed by the thump thump thump of tiny feet running to my side of the bed. I do an impressive scoop and roll so that Thing 2 is now on the other side of me and not getting crushed by her sister, who has crawled under my covers and jammed her head between my shoulder blades. Thing 2 is not a fan of these late night acrobatics, so back to nursing she goes, while Thing 1 attempts to dig a hole under my rib cage and wedge her head in it. I can't slide forward without shifting Thing 2, and I can't lean backward without suffocating Thing 1. I call this the mommy sandwich, and after 5 minutes of it my muscles start screaming while I stare at the ceiling in the dark.
Once Thing 1 is finally asleep again, I try to move her back to her bed. Which always wakes Thing 2 up, and we start all over again. Eventually morning comes, involving Thing 1 sitting up and saying "Time to WAKE UP! JUICE TIME!", and my breaking Mandatory Contact with Thing 2, only to be claimed by Thing 1's little hands pulling me to the kitchen. We get juice. We change diapers (perhaps the most unpleasant of all Mandatory Contacts.) Then we sit on the couch with Thing 1 pressed against my side (perhaps the most pleasant of all Mandatory Contacts) while I read a book or two.

Then Thing 2 wakes up. Which involves a great deal of contact for the rest of the morning as we change diapers, burp, eat, wipe vomit off of chins, balance on hip, put down, tickle, pick up, burp, face out, face in, bounce, put down, wipe vomit off of chin, cook egg for Thing 1, put down, wrestle Thing 1 into chair, change diaper, catch Thing 1 and put back in chair, pick up, eat, wash applesauce off of Thing 1's ears, pick up, bounce, etc.

Thing 2 has decided that nursing should be a full contact sport, involving pinching, pulling, punching, kicking, triple lutz and headstands. While I find her physical feats impressive, I often feel slightly bruised afterwards.

This goes on all day. My body is no longer even remotely mine, except for those few precious minutes a day when I lock myself in the bathroom. Although, even then, there is a 7 out of 10 chance that one of the babies is in the room with me, and an 8 out of 10 chance that if they aren't, they are screaming right outside the door.

Finally the day is done.The little sticky people have been bathed. And we all lay down on the bed and read a book. With one girl in each armpit. Glued to my side. I get one to sleep and gently peal her away, and carry the second out of the room to bounce her to sleep. Then I finally lay her down on the couch and collapse onto the other one, free for a moment. No TOUCHING. Thank God.

Good Day

2012-03-10T18:44:00.000-08:00

Today I felt, perhaps for the first time since Thing 2's birth, that I managed to successfully parent both my children, showing them equal affection, and taking care of ALL their needs. Crazy, I know. The weather was creepily balmy for March, so I strapped on the tiniest Tyrant, wrestled boots and coats onto the least tiny Tyrant, and marched down the street to the school playground. Thing 2 cooed and drooled all over her bjorn, gasping and shuddering when wind hit her face, and was basically in a blissed out sea of over-stimulation.

(The sucky thing with having winter babies is that you are trapped inside for months on end, not only by the dark and cold, but by the desire not to expose your tiny new born to the elements. By the time spring comes even the baby has cabin fever, and she doesn't even know what she's missing!)

Thing 1 met a slightly older man (he had just "changed" four) who was hanging from a rope bridge and claimed to be Peter Pan (Thing 1 and I had our doubts), and somehow, miraculously, when it was time to leave there was no tantrum throwing. I might have used ice cream as an incentive. Parenting a two year old is like running the mob. It's all about bribery.
On the way home she asked me if she could go to school.

"When you are more grown up."
"Mia grow up too?"
"Yes, Mia and you will grow up together."
"Grow up to-ged-er. Momma grow up too?"
"Sure, Momma grow up too."
"When you go to school will you learn how to read?"
"Yes. And learn 'bout da SATURN. And da VENUS. And da JUPITER. And da MAAARS! Yes. And da MOON. Yes. When I grow'd up I hold dem in my HAND."
"They are too big to hold in your hand. Do you know where planets lives?"
"On da wall?"
"No, they live in outer space."
"With Wall-E?"
"Yes. With Wall-E."
"And EEEeee-Vaaaa?"
"Yes. And Eva."
"Yes. Sometime we get a Wall-E?"
"Sure. When you are grown up."
"Yes. That will be good."

Yes, that will be good.

"Cheers"

2012-02-21T07:10:00.000-08:00

One of the most rewarding things about being a parent of small children is that time around 10 months of life when you finally can get some payback for all the sleepless nights, the scream-numbed brain, the chewed on fingers, and the dark circles under your eyes. It is that magical time when your child is finally old enough that you can start training them to do/say ridiculous/cute things for your own personally amusement.

It was around this time that we taught Thing 1 to use a big girl cup, and how to "cheers". She would grip hers with two little hands, clink it againstmy cup, and declare with a delighted grin, "Cheews!" Freakin' adorable.

But she didn't stop there, oh no. She decided that if you can cheers two cups, you should be able to cheers any two items that are similiar. Like forks. Which results in tiny fork sword-salutes during meals. Or crackers. Which results in extra crumbs on my floor. It is also possible to cheers blocks, shoes, washclothes, crayons, and teddy bears.

Who knew? I will be sitting at my desk writing something with a pen when suddenly a small hand clutching another pen will appear in front of my face, "CHEEWS Mommy! Cheews the pens!" clink! It has became an excuse to have a tiny celebration about even the most mundane things. As if all her joy in discovering life is contained in that little moment when two objects connect.

Yesterday I was bouncing Thing 2 to sleep on Serenity, the Yoga Ball. To offer moral support, Thing 1 decided to get her beach ball out, and bounce her doll to sleep as well, crooning, "Hush-a baby. Ooooo, it OK baby. Husha bye." (also freakin' adorable)

When Thing 2 finally stopped screaming bloody murder and passed out, Thing 1 stood up, walked over to her, and ever so gently clunked her baby doll's head against her sister tiny sleeping noggin. Then, she grinned at me and whispered, "Cheews!"

Cheers, indeed.

Rage Against the Remote

2012-02-05T11:27:00.000-08:00

I have irrational anger issues towards inanimate objects. Trying to put more than two brooms into a closet sends my blood pressure through the roof. All those handles come to life and pounce, taking turns springing out of the closet and aiming for my head. They keep falling at different rates and angles until I hyperventilate and slam the door, kick it a couple of times, and leave them coiled inside ready to attack the next person to open it. And don't even get me started on tangled coat hangers. *shudder*

Recently, I have noticed this panicky rage sets in when attempting to navigate know-it-all dvd menus - especially if I am trying to hold a sleeping baby - which is how today started.

I had just gotten Thing 2 to sleep (after she screamed bloody murder for 50 minutes and Thing 1 ran in circles chanting: "Hush a baby! LOUD SIREN BABY! Siren Baby! Baby Mia LOUD!!"), when Thing 1 realized she hadn't watched a show all morning. Oh, the humanity!

So I stood up, did an impressive balancing act with the limp 12 pound infant on one arm, and got the DVD out with my other hand and my teeth. I opened the player while balancing the DVD on one finger, put it in, and almost lost my grip on a twitching Thing 2. Not wanting to jostle her more, I turned the TV on with my toes, and made Thing 1 get the DVD player's remote out from under the couch;

"Sweetie, can you hand Mommy the remote? Under the couch, honey. No. Not under the table. Under the COUCH. Are you listening to me? Can you look at Mommy? See where I'm pointing? ....Honey? LOOK! THERE'S A MONKEY UNDER THE COUCH! Oh, and can you get the remote? Awesome, thanks."

Finally I pushed play, dropped the remote on the table, and sat down as slowly as possible. Crap, forgot about the commercials. I leaned forward and snagged the remote with my pinky, hit skip and settled back. Damn it, no I don't want your stupid FAST PLAY that isn't remotely fast. Got remote out from under my arm and tried to hit main menu, but missed and hit eject. At this point Thing 1 was escalating in volume and frequency, Thing 2 was starting to twitch, and I was starting to get tense. I frantically pushed buttons until I got us back to main menu, and selected play all.

This is when that condescending menu decided to just MAKE SURE that I really, really wanted to play ALL the episodes. Are you sure you don't want to play them individually? or non-stop? 'Cause those are other options if you want to arrow down and select those menus!

The Mr. Hyde in me wanted to grab the DVD player and shake it uncontrollably and then perhaps throw it off of a tall building and watch it smash in a parking lot. But I am a grown up now. I have children. That is simply not what we do. And I live on the ground floor. The smash would be really unsatisfying. Totally not worth it.

So I took a deep breath, pushed the freakin' button ONE MORE TIME, and got the show started.

And then, when Thing 1's back was turned, I hurled the remote across the room. Oops.

It's the little things that keep us sane.

Poison Control to Thing 1

2012-01-28T07:56:00.000-08:00

This morning Thing 1 was quitely playing on the floor, so I let myself blissfully snuggle back up with Thing 2 in the bed. I was half drifting back to sleep, when I heard a little voice say,
"Meh Meh? Peas?" (Meh Meh is her word for Medicine. She can say "phalanges"now, but will she say "medicine"? Hell no.)

I cracked one eye open enough to see Thing 1 hovering near the edge of the bed rubbing her gums. Ah, teething. "In a minute", I murmured. I heard her scurry around the room, and settle into her favorite hiding place under Thing 2's bassinet. Assuming she was safe for the time being, I allowed myself to shut my eyes again for a few more seconds.

A short time later (long enough for a dream about chasing my children through Star Wars, only to realize that the baby in my arms had turned into a puppy, which I decided was ok since I wouldn't have to teach it how to talk), I heard that delightful little voice declare, "Mmmmmmm Meh Meh all gone! I LIKE it! MmmmmHmmmmm I do! Find'a da Meh Meh, I drink it ALL GONE!"

I jerked my head of the pillow and saw through blurry eyes a tiny fist holding a very empty container of children's tylenol in front of my face. Oh. My. God. I just allowed my child to poison herself so I could dream about Star Wars and puppies. I flew out of bed sputtering incoherently.

Thing 2 was blinking slowly wondering why I was being SO LOUD, Thing 1 was standing on her head with her eyes shut in a vain attempt to become invisible, and I was googling poison control. I told the woman what happened and she said,
"Yep. She'll be fine. Just don't give her any more."

It felt rather anti-climatic for the amount of adrenaline in my system. No emergency room? No vomit inducing? No leaping tall buildings? Umm...fine then...I guess I'll get dressed or something.

I put the medicine even higher up (child proof my ass, they obviously never met my child), and had an intervention with Thing 1 about how much she has to live for.

Now I am keeping a wary eye on Thing 1 (half expecting her to pass out or get the munchies or SOMETHING), and removing the blanket Thing 2 has managed to wrap around her head. No suffocating today, kid. If my children would stop trying to kill themselves, I would like to finish my coffee.

Hairless Wonder

2012-01-11T13:01:00.000-08:00

It's that time again. That moment in postpartum when my scalp has an identity crisis and looks around going, "Why on earth do we have so much HAIR? We don't need hair! Get rid of it! Get rid of it!! Shed Shed SHED the HAIR!" Yup. Having a baby makes my body decide that it should look like Patrick Stewart (not a bad look, if you are a mature classically trained British male actor).

One minute I have long thick pregnancy hair, the next I am standing in the shower staring at a fistful of recently shed locks wondering if I should just shave my head now to save on clogged drains in the future.

I am normally "blessed" with an abundance of volume in the hair department, so honestly it isn't that noticeable to an outsider, but when my hair line starts receding it does something to me psychologically. I freak out. I feel like Samson (which I guess makes Thing 2 my tiny Delilah...), without all my hair I am just not as kick-ass.

With Thing 1, I chopped it all off in a vain attempt to be in control of my body again. Pregnancy had made me feel a little like I had been invaded by aliens. I had NO CONTROL. My brain loved coffee. My body said, "Nope! You HATE coffee! You are going to throw up now!" After all those changes (most of which I have already started blocking out) I was so excited to have the baby OUT of me. Time for this body to be MINE.

Or not.

Why had no one told me making milk could be painful?? Like, stick a knife in your nipple painful? Or about boob stretch marks that looked like a rabid raccoon had attacked them? Nope, no one mentioned those (although they do fade, so there is some hope). And the weird moles/skin tags/hairs/etc that sprout when your body says, "TOO MANY HORMONES I am going to explode of I don't grow something RIGHT NOW!!!!" BAM! skin tag. Awesome.

I was ok with the fact that I had more curves, but then I realized my RIBS had grown. WHAT?? Yup. Your ribcage can expand with prenancy and NEVER GO BACK. Why isn't that highlighted in the Mayo Clinic's Guide to Pregnancy?

And then....my hair fell out.

It was like the final insult. I had even heard about this one, but that didn't prepare me for suddenly being able to see so much skin when I pulled my hair back. Hormone fueled panic plus scissors equaled pixie cut. Not my best look, but atleast the showers were shorter and the shedding less noticeable.

This time around I am trying to resist the urge to chop it all off, just to show my body that I am now above such trivial (whimper) things.

Hair. Who needs it?

A Ball Named Serenity

2012-01-06T18:57:00.000-08:00

It has been one of those days. One of those "shake my fist at the sky, throw furniture out the window, bang my head against the wall, baby is asleep only when being held and in motion and has somehow managed to throw up more milk than she has drank" days. So, instead of grumbling about the trials of motherhood, I am going to tell the tale of a BALL.

A ball we have named, "Serenity."

Serenity grew up at a department store. There was nothing magical about her youth. She always assumed she would be bought by a health conscious vegan person between the ages of 18 and 50 who would use her at the most once a day, and then give her all her holidays and evenings off.

But the god of yoga balls had other plans for her.

When the store opened that fateful day in August, she had a sense of impending doom. She had been pushed to the front of her shelf, so there was no hiding when a very VERY rotund woman (seriously, did she eat balls for breakfast??) came around the corner with a look of frazzled desperation in her eyes. She barely seemed to notice Serenity before tossing her between a box of #5 diapers, a nursing bra, and a jar of Nutella.

For months she sat un-inflated, still wrapped in her plastic shopping bag. Then one day she was fished out from under the couch where she had been accidentally shoved, ripped out of her box, and hauled to the basement where she was filled with air. She was sure that now she would be taken to the magical healthy food person, with her tidy Ikea decorated apartment. Right?

Oh, poor Serenity. Instead she was greeted by a truly terrifying, ear splitting sound. A sound somewhere between a fire engine and a donkey killing a cat. Two people sat on her (one was tiny, but VERY LOUD) and BOUNCED. Oh the indignity. They didn't even pretend to be doing crunches. And then the tiny loud one VOMITED. ALL. OVER. HER.

Soon she realized the screaming noises were getting quieter...and quiter.....and stopping...and the woman was expressing in the warmest way how very VERY much she loved the yoga ball, and Serenity decided it wasn't such a bad life.

Which is how I came to be sitting on a yoga ball named Serenity, bouncing Thing 2 to sleep and typing this with one hand.

I would say that 90% of my day is spent here. She works hard traveling from room to room as needed, is refilled with air weekly, is currently streaked with remnants of urped up milk, and is making it possible for me to bounce Thing 2 and eat/read/check my email. Who needs a desk chair?

(Of course, we haven't told her the tragic tale of her predecessor yet. The Yoga Ball who was stabbed with a pencil through the heart by Thing 1, the very child she had bounced to sleep so many times. Very "Giving Tree".)

Hopefully, Serenity will live a long happy life bouncing Thing 2, ending with a peaceful retirement in the back of my closet. She will certainly of earned it.

ABBA, ABBA, Everywhere...

2012-01-03T19:35:00.000-08:00

I never meant for my home to become invaded with ABBA music. It was all just an honest mistake.

When Thing 2 was born we shortened her name to "Mia" so that Thing 1 could pronounce it easier. Thus the arrival of "Baby Mia" unfortunately coincided with my sister renting "Momma Mia". Thing 1 loves anything with singing, dancing, and apparently huge sequenced costumes. Once she realized that this movie was named after two of her favorite people, and that there was even a song sung specifically for them, she fell head over heels in love. It has been continuously requested. To make matters worse, it was one of her Christmas presents (one of her favorites, naturally). So now it is always available.

Almost any conversation can remind her of it:

Mention how we need more MONEY and suddenly a small voice will chirp, "Money song? Watch Momma Mia?"
Refer to something we did LAST SUMMER, or having a DREAM, or EMOTIONS, state TROOPERS, or TAKING A CHANCE and the same thing happens. Especially if we mention Momma and Mia in the same sentence, which at our house can be quite often since Thing 2 is usually glued to my chest.
"Where are Momma and Mia?"
"Da Momma and da Mia? Mamma Mia? WATCH Mamma Mia?"
Even Winnie the Pooh will bring it up.
"...bears love honey and I'm a - "
"Honey? Honey honey song? Watch Honey honey song? WATCH'A MOMMA MIA? PEEAAS?"

Apparently Momma Mia is like the Kevin Bacon of movies, if you pay attention everything can be traced back to ABBA songs. It's a little disturbing.

Which is why I am walking around this evening humming "Money Money", and banging my head against the wall. That music is like velcro on my brain. Who would have thought I would have a two year old obsessed with feel good 70's Swedish music? I should have named my second child Jane.

Sweaty Mouth Prevention

2012-01-01T21:31:00.000-08:00

The reason why Thing 1's face smells so fresh and clean this evening (in a manly, musky sort of way) is because while I was attempting to get Thing 2 down for a nap this afternoon, she found her way into the bathroom. She had climbed onto the toilet, found a stick of men's deodorant, and had just removed the cap when I found her,

"Smells like Daddy!" she informed me with delight, nodding emphatically, "YES, smells like Daddy!"

She then proceeded to RUB the deodorant onto her cheeks, nose and mouth while I stood frozen in horror.

"NO! We do not put that on our faces! That is not lotion!" I shrieked while attempting to remove the deodorant from her hand without smearing more on her person, fish the cap from behind the toilet where it was making friends with the dust bunnies and replace it, and lift Thing 1 down from the toilet with one hand while holding a fascinated Thing 2 with the other. "We DO NOT put that on our FACES!"

As I was desperately looking for a clean washcloth, Thing 1 stood staring at me in the doorway of the bathroom with giant innocent eyes.

Then she LICKED her deodorant smeared lips and said, "Mmmmmmmm....I like it! I LIKE IT!" nodding emphatically again. "Smells like Daddy. Nummy. I LIKE it! More?"

"No. Wash your face." I said as I tried not to gag and handed her a soapy washcloth.

She looked at it for a moment, shoved it's soapy goodness in her mouth, and began sucking noisily.

"NOOOO!" I wailed, "Don't suck on it! WASH WITH IT!"

Then she dodged out of my frantic reach and ran from the room, declaring to the house at large; "Mmmmmmm!!!! I LIKE IT!!!! NUMMY!!!! I LIKE IT!"

Which is why, if you were to kiss my daughter good night, you may have caught a whiff of Irish Spring mixed with Old Spice.
At least she won't have a sweaty mouth.

The Itchy Beaver

2011-12-23T09:28:00.000-08:00

Thing 1 picked out a new show from the library all about nature and animals with cute animation. Excellent. I like nature. I was a PBS kid. Educational programming will make my child a future genius. Right?

Little did I know the parental humiliation this show would cause. I hold it responsible for Thing 1 running around in a public library with a delighted grin declaring, “Find da Itchy Beaver! Itchy Beaver! FIND DA ITCHY BEAVER. SCRATCH’A DA ITCHY BEAVER!!” while respectable librarians and homeless gentlemen and mothers of superior children looked on in horror and judgment and contemplated calling social services.

The facts are these:

There is a character on the show named “Benita”.

“Benita” is a Beaver.

A female Beaver. (That alone is inexcusable for the creators of children’s shows.)

There is an entire episode devoted to the Itch that Benita the Beaver cannot reach.

That’s right, she is an itchy Beaver.

She needs some help to reach that itch.

Izzy the owl helps out her gal pal as best she can.

Sammy the (male) Skunk tries to scratch it for her, but his hands are just tooooo soft. “Ooooo Sammy, that tickles!” (true quote in a ridiculous high pitched voice.)

It becomes imperative that the Beaver learn how to scratch her own itch to be truly satisfied. Hmmmm…..

I realize that it is my dirty mind filling in the gaps and trying desperately not to laugh out loud every time we watch it, but the writers of this show are obviously 15-year-old boys that have the munchies and are giggling maniacally at their own cleverness. All I know is that Mr. Rogers never scratched any itchy Beaver - not even in the Land of Make Believe.

Keep the Diaper Bag Packed

2011-12-22T13:53:00.000-08:00

When I was 8 months pregnant with Thing 2, I was exchanging horror stories with a coworker who was pregnant with her first. She is one of those women who runs marathons and grows all her own food and serves on committees and probably is really a body snatcher from another planet. Realizing I was a straight shooter, she asked "What is the hardest thing about being a new mom?"

I said, “Sacrificing all personal agendas. Like going out when you want. Or going anywhere when you want. Or just going. Anywhere. To do anything.”

She looked politely puzzled, “I have heard that is hard. Why is that? I mean, you keep a diaper bag packed and ready to go, so why can’t you just walk out the door?”

I blinked at her out of my sleep deprived eyes. “Ummmm….hmmmm….good question…why hadn’t I thought of that, just keep the diaper bag packed….good idea…”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that THIS is what happens when you try to go somewhere with an infant:

You wait for the infant to wake up.

You dress the infant in clean clothes. The infant thinks you are trying to kill it by exposing its skin to the air.

You feed the infant. As stated in previous post, you are paralyzed while nursing and can do nothing else.

You lay it down so you can get dressed. This is when you realize that all your clean socks are in the dryer. In the basement.

With infant on hip you dig out infant jacket from behind couch, and attempt to put on your shoes.

You get one shoe on and grab your purse. Infant vomits the excess milk you just fed it all over its outfit, must change their clothes.

Put on second shoe and infants jacket/snowsuit/hat etc. while infant cries and you mutter over and over “It’s ok, you’re ok, Mommys here, your ok, it’s ok…”

You place the unconvinced infant into their car seat and look for the purse you were just holding.

You find the purse under infant's dresser and look for pacifier.

Infant is strangely quiet when you enter the room, and you think you might just make it out the door.

You get one arm in your coat when you hear the grunting. Yup, here comes the poop face. You want to ignore it. You do. But you know that if you do the chances of fecal matter leaking through everything are greatly increased.

SO you take infant out of car seat, strip off snowsuit/coat/hat etc. Remove your coat. Remove recently clean infant clothes. Remove blow out diaper. Clean butt, feet, legs, and back of child. Put on clean diaper. Throw out soiled diaper and 200 dirty wipes. Wash hands. Find clean outfit. Put outfit/coat/snowsuit on infant. Find shoes. Grab purse. You are going NOW, damn it. You are an adult and you will not be defeated by this very very tiny pseudo person.

Pick up infant. Infant smiles at you and throws up down your cleavage. This is when you look at the clock and realize that in 15 minutes it will be time to start putting infant down for second nap. Which is exactly when you would be arriving at the grocery store if you left RIGHT THAT SECOND. Which isn’t going to happen unless you go with warm squishy vomit in your bra. You and infant stare defiantly at each other. You take off your shoes, change your shirt, sit down with your now sweetly cooing infant and decide that you really don’t need bread.

So yes, it is a brilliant idea to have that diaper bag packed and ready. If you get to the stage where you are actually walking out the door. And you didn’t run out of diapers late last night and use up the two you keep in the diaper bag. Or have a toddler to dress too. And you don't care if you are wearing socks.

Lactation Paralysis

2011-12-21T09:54:00.000-08:00

Today I would like to raise awareness for a little known condition in new mothers. Particularly those that decide to breastfeed. No one ever warns you about it. Not the midwives. Not the nurses. Not the doctors. Not your own mother who really should have said something, except I am pretty sure she has blocked out the first 16 years of all her children’s lives.

It is called “Lactation Paralysis”.

At first I didn’t notice it because I didn’t have the energy to do anything but sit on the couch/bed and wonder how I was still alive after pushing a human out of me and then sleeping 4 non-consecutive hours a day for two weeks. But as my energy began to return, I became aware of thing around me.

Things like the dirty diapers under the couch keeping company with a petrified apple core. And the soda bottle on the bookshelf. And the books on the floor next to the laundry basket full of clothes that may or may not be clean. And the family of empty toilet paper rolls that had moved in under the bathroom sink. None of these things would be hard to fix. 15 minutes of cleaning tops. Easy. Right?

This is when I notice that I CAN’T MOVE. Why? Because there is a tiny human being attached to my breast for a half an hour, every two hours, all day long. So I stare at the apple core, the fine layer of cereal crumbs on the floor, the coat that has fallen off it’s hook, the toys and cds that are having a mixer under my dining room table, and panic begins to bubble. I have to move. I have to clean. I want to clean. I'm a clean person. I can’t live like this. I start to making to-do lists in my head, because I am holding Thing 2 with my right hand, and I can’t write a list with my left hand.

I take deep breaths and force myself to stare out the window and think about green meadows and unicorns and Jedi Masters. I wait for her to go to sleep. Then I attempt to lay her down. Her eyes fly open as if to say, “Psych! Just kidding mom, I was never really sleeping because I have GAS!”

By the time she has burped my mental list has been transformed into a blazing mental scream of “MUST MOVE! MUST CLEAN! PLEASE GOD LET ME CLEEEAAANNN!” And then another adult enters the room, and casually tosses something where it DOESN’T belong, and I turn into a psychotic weeping bundle of paralyzed nerves.

The good news is that lactation paralysis doesn’t last forever. My mind can’t maintain that level of stress for long, so I slowly stop caring about anything while nursing except that I am actually keeping her alive and that is probably more important than dusted bookshelves. As she gets older, the paralysis begins to recede, and I discover I am able to do things with one hand.

Like anyone recovering from a serious illness, progress is slow. Most of this post, for example, was written after Thing 1 decided it was a good idea to break out the xylophone while Thing 2 was trying to sleep. Which means my right side has been lactation paralyzed while I laboriously typed one handed with my left. For someone who can type 70 words a minute with two hands, it has been a special kind of torture. BUT I DID IT, GOD DAMN IT! Because I refuse to be a victim. I conquered lactation paralysis once before, and by golly, I can do it again.

Zombie Children

2011-12-20T19:52:00.000-08:00

I once believed I would never let my children watch television until they were, say, 12 or so. Then I was stuck at home with a new baby for three months in the dead of a Minnesota winter and figured she didn’t even know what was going on yet, so it didn’t count. I stumbled onto a cartoon network, and I noticed my colicky-baby-from-hell-Thing 1 was alarmingly NOT screaming, but staring zombie-like at the screen. At that moment I decided I would rather have zombie children than, say, werewolf-banshee children. And here we are.

The day now begins with “JUICE TIME!”, followed by “Watch’a Show! Watch’a Show! Mommy, Watch’a Show!”, at which point I sleepily ask, “What do you say?” in a vain attempt to redeem my parenting.

Thing 1 then turns long suffering eyes on me as if perhaps my hearing is already going and yells, “WATCH’A SHOW!!!”

This is when I break out my best mom voice, “How can you ask nicely?”

Comprehension: oh, right, that trick; “Please,” with an angelic face and a sign language gesture to sweeten the deal. Sigh.

This morning was Back Pack Jack from the library (I do not recommend.) all about trucks, recycling, garbage removal, etc. Unfortunately, the only 10 minutes she likes is when they crush cars. Naturally. As I stumble around (with Thing Two wailing on my shoulder because the lactose gas in her stomach is obviously trying to murder her), attempting to use the bathroom and check my email, every 10 minutes there is a heart wrenching cry from the living room, “Smoosha da cars? Smoosha da cars. Skip to Smoosha the cars?! PLEASE! SMOOSHA DA CARS?!” By now she has found me and is staring at me with intense desperate eyes. Must. Smoosh. A. Da. Cars. Here is where I really fail as a parent. Instead of teaching my child that she needs to watch the show until the end or find something else to do, I push the damn skip button right back to that smooshing car machine and buy myself another 10 minutes.

As I finally get a clean shirt over my head and am looking for some pants, Thing One finishes her juice, and begins hyperventilating and running in circles yelling, “More Juice! More Juice. More Juice? MORE JUICE! GIVE ME JUICE OR GIVE ME DEATH!!!!!" I am heading for the fridge when Thing Two expertly turns her head and vomits down my clean cleavage, and I contemplate faking a nervous break down so I can go somewhere quiet.

The Things That Start My Day...

2011-12-20T18:16:00.000-08:00

This is a typical morning at our house. Thing 2 starts having incredibly loud, grunt inducing gas about an hour before any living thing should be awake (5:00 am). Thing 1 leaps onto the middle of the bed and start spinning in circles like a hyper house cat. At her arrival Thing 2’s eyes pop open and her face crumples into the beginnings of “I don’t know what the hell just happened but I am damn sure not happy about it” screaming mode, so I scoop her up in a vain attempt to get her back to sleep.

Upon seeing Thing 2 nursing, Thing 1 begins to dance and chant gleefully at the top of her lungs, “Nurse on Booby! Nurse on Booby! Baby Mia! Nurse on Booby! Touch’a Baby? Touch’a Babies EYES? Touch’a Booby? Please? PLEASE TOUCH’A DA BOOBY!” At which point I inform her that she cannot, in fact, touch my booby, all the while shielding Thing 2 from her sister’s well intentioned but possibly fatal advances. At my denial, Thing 1’s lower lip begins a truly impressive quiver and huge tears well up in a precursor to full out hysterics. This is when I stumble to the kitchen for the life-saving-first-sippy-cup-of-apple-juice-in-the-morning and drops it in front of Thing 1. She shrieks “JUICE TIME!!”, pounces on it like a giddy pyro who has been handed a fire cracker, and catapults off the bed.

Obviously feeling left out of the action, Thing 2 has an explosive case of diarrhea. I fantasizing about staying in bed - while searching for the new diapers under the clean laundry piled next to the bed and trying to untangle my feet from the three baby blankets that have somehow come to life and attacked - but deep down I know, once Thing 1 has awoken Thing 2, there is no more sleep for mommy. Not until that magical day when Thing 2 no longer wants to “nurse on booby” and Thing 1 can get her own damn juice. Oh magical day. You are my own personal unicorn.