Sunday, March 29, 2009

Oh, Hi. Have We Met? I'm Neurotic.

I believe that if you were to ask my husband what his biggest pet peeve is regarding me, his lovely wife, he would have to say that it's maybe that I have too many pet peeves. Like, hundreds of them. Are they even considered "pet" peeves if you have so many? Maybe I just have peeves, then. So I thought really hard to narrow it down to just a few (or five) to keep around, and I am going to try my best to let the other 590 peeves go. Adios, insane need to have my books on the bookshelf in color order from dark to light.

1. The bedsheets. Must. Be. Straight. And the quilt can never touch me in any way, shape, or form. The sheet must be folded OVER the quilt at the top.

2. The rug in my entryway must be centered in the foyer, directly under the entryway light hanging from the ceiling. When it is crooked or off center my eye starts a' twitchin'.

3. Towels folded a certain way, and not into thirds like the husband likes to do it. Although the act of him actually folding a towel is rare, so I don't think I have to worry about this one getting on his nerves.

4. My floors being clean. Because is there anything more disgusting than a sweet, beautiful baby who is covered in clumps of black dog hair?

5. Clutter: My Arch Nemesis. There is little in this world that I hate more than a counter top full of useless crap or stacks of bills or pretty much anything that doesn't belong on a counter top. I don't discriminate either, I hate clutter ANYwhere in my house. But especially on the counter tops. Shudder. Want to give me a stroke? Leave some loose change, a messy pile of paper, and a food wrapper laying on the counter. I promise I will flat line in under 60 seconds.

Saturday, March 28, 2009

Family.

My aunt Lori is in town for her birthday this weekend, and in my family that means that there are lots of festivities on the horizon. Late nights spent in Muh's (the matriarch and grandmother of the family) living room, drinking wine and listening to anyone who is musically inclined in our group of family and friends play the guitar and sing and lots of good, good food. Breakfast gathered 'round the table with anyone who wants to wander in and sit down with the family. And more wine than the local liquor store can keep in stock, I'm sure. Last night was the first gathering of the weekend, and while I can't remember every one's name that was present, I do know that everyone was welcome and everyone had a good time. One of my cousin Amy's friends was there, and something she said stuck with me: "Abby, you come from a long line of strong, exceptional women, and hope you know how lucky you are to have this family that you have." Amen, Maggie. Because for all of our faults, fights, and bullshit, we are FAMILY. And an amazing one at that. I glanced around the room last night and was reminded of our family history, sitting right there in the living room of my Muh's house. Divorce, unplanned babies, fights, mistakes, hard hard times that each of us has gone through at one point or another, laughing, crying, and more mistakes. And we all come back. Through all of the hardships and arguments that have come our way, we always find our way back to Muh's living room on Friday nights, talking and eating and singing. We are free to let our warts hang out there for all to see, because we know that no matter how badly we mess up, or how much we piss each other off, or how screwed up we may be at times, we are always welcomed with open arms and a big (BIG) glass of wine. We may not be the most "normal" group of people, and good Lord we all have our faults, but I wouldn't have it any other way. I would rather have this group surrounding me than other families who sweep issues under the rug all in the name of being polite. Through good times and bad, joy and pain, babies and death and divorce and everything else you can imagine, we are all still family. So, thank you to the exceptional women in my family for giving me an example to follow and all the wine I can drink.


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Tuesday, March 24, 2009

Thanks For Nothing, You Big Lump Of Garbage.

We have a dog. The dog's name is Stu. Mikan rescued Stu from the hands of a cruel and inhumane person almost 5 years ago. Stu was in bad shape, spent a month at the vet, and got all better. Now Stu lays around the house, dropping massive amounts of hair on my floors and slobbering everywhere. The end. Seriously, this is ALL that Stu does. His sole purpose in life (according to him) is to sit near the table looking unassuming while we eat dinner, hoping beyond hope for one crumb to fall on the floor near him. His sole purpose in MY life is to look big and mean and really scary so that people won't break into our house and kill us or steal our things. That's it. If these people who were hypothetically going to murder and rob us KNEW about Stu, they would chuckle for a minute before busting in the door, content in the knowledge that Stu would lick them to death before even growling at someone who came into our house uninvited.

So when solicitors or murderers knock on my door in the middle of the day while I am home alone with two small children, I always make sure that Stu is close at hand, just in case. Just in case said murderer realizes that I am at home alone with two helpless children and decides to try and bust into my house. Because Stu is big and scary. Right? The other day a guy knocked on the door, and I opened it to find a mid-40-ish guy standing there, offering to sell me some steak out of the back of his truck. First of all, it creeps me out that he was just driving around with a truck full of meat. Not sure why, but it did. Second of all, NO. I do not want a STEAK OUT OF THE BACK OF YOUR MEAT MOBILE that costs a trajillion dollars. The conversation went like this: "Ma'am, could I interest you in a fresh cut steak? We're practically GIVING them away today!" "No thanks, I have to go help my husband clean his shotgun in the basement. His BIG, loaded shotgun. And his knives." Okay, I didn't really say that. But I was thinking it. Instead, I slyly motioned for Stu to come over to the door and peek his head out, just enough for the Murderer Meat Man to see that I have a ferocious, killing-machine of a dog who will not hesitate to leap through the air and bite him in the throat if he so much as thought about coming in to the house. So Stu pokes his head around the side of the door, trying his best to look menacing. And the Murderer sees him. And instead of the panic-stricken look of sheer terror that I was going for, Murderer Meat Man looks thrilled and starts cooing at Stu and patting his knee to call Stu over to him for some snuggles. What?!!! How could this be? Murder Man proceeds to tell me that he had a Rott growing up and aren't they so sweet and misunderstood and just lovely animals? And I wanted to say, NO, they are not misunderstood, and THIS Rott will chew your hands off if you come one step closer to me. But Stu cannot even fricking stay in character long enough to strike fear into the heart of strangers, because CUDDLES! PETTING! HE'S RUBBING MY EARS MMM#M^GMGHN@VVD. What I am doing now in my head is thinking of a backup plan. What must I do to let the Murderer know that I am armed and dangerous, since Stu has apparently abandoned the whole Scare Off Solicitors plan of action? Do I need to start answering the door with a butcher knife tucked coyly into the waist of my sweatpants? Sheesh.

So, thank you Stu. For you only had ONE purpose in life, and that was to at least make intruders THINK that we had a big scary man-eating guard dog. And you can't even manage that, you stupid animal. I may as well get one of those tiny, hairless dogs. It would probably be a lot scarier than you, Stu, and it would sure as hell shed less.

I am a ferocious hellhound who will maim and kill you and then....oh wait, a teddy bear!


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Saturday, March 21, 2009

Introducing Sunshine Rainbow Butterfly.

THAT is what I am convinced we should have named Ella, had we known her personality before birth. Good gravy this child is a free spirit, which can be good and bad at times. The good: I LOVE her imagination and the fact that she cannot make it through one single hour in the day without flitting around the house like a fairy and she loves to play pretend games and again with the flitting around. The bad: The child cannot pay attention to anything for more than about, oh, 7 seconds. And that's a generous estimate. Since she is my first kid I have no clue if this is completely normal for a 3 year old girl, or I have a space cadet on my hands who is destined to be the kid in school always gazing longingly out the window, chin in hand, daydreaming about clouds. Don't get me wrong, I love her creativity and her sweet way of being a little bit dippy at times. I just don't love it ALL the time. Like when I'm, say, trying to get her to just get dressed already so we can race out to the car to get somewhere on time. And we do not have twenty minutes to sit around and ponder the intricacies of the pattern on the rug in the hallway and why don't ponies have wings but birds do?

I am more convinced than ever that she should have been named something like Butterfly after today's soccer game. Now, I was just glad that the day didn't involve crying, screaming, or tantrums, so we didn't really mind that Ella seemed more interested in laying down on the grass and looking at the clouds go by than actually playing soccer. We had been talking up the whole "The MOST important thing in soccer is to just have FUN! And do your very best!" thing all week long in anticipation of the game. And think we did a pretty damn good job at getting that through to her, because she most definitely had fun...rolling down the hill, picking clovers, and running up and down the soccer field during time-outs. And, as she pointed out, she was "doing her best" while rolling down the hill. Oy. She did exactly what we asked her to do...she had fun and did her best, just not at soccer. She did play for about 10 or 15 minutes, though, and actually got the ball a couple of times. But then she decided that this whole soccer thing? just wasn't fun anymore and gosh darn it Mom and Dad told me to HAVE FUN. So she ran off the field and started dancing about. Then she ran back onto the field and danced about. And took a bow. On the field. During the game. We're signing her up for dance class this summer where she can flit about to her heart's content, and she may never wear cleats again. Fine by me, my little Moon Pixie Dewdrop.

In the game! Actually playing, sans tears or meltdowns or whining!

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And rolling down the hill.

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HOORAY! Ella got the ball and she's gonna score and...

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...nevermind. She's headed towards the parking lot.

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Wednesday, March 18, 2009

Blessed.

There are lots of reasons that I feel blessed on a daily basis, but there are a few that stand out and are constant sources of joy in my life. Blahbetyblah cheesy cliche about being thankful blah blah blah.

- My kids. Of course. I feel so privileged to be able to be at home with them and watch them grow and change every day and slowly turn into the amazing people they will be one day.

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- My family. We are quite possibly the most functionally dysfunctional group of people that I know, but love every one of them and wouldn't want any of us to be any different. Well, maybe Clay could stand to change a bit, but that's another post.

Ella and Nevaeh having a picnic.

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- My friends. I am lucky to have lots of different kinds of them: The Mommy friends that offer support and friendship not only for me but for Ella, the Single And Childless best friend who gives me exciting stories to listen to all about her fabulous life and adventures, the Mommy Friends Who Just Became Mommies, because it reminds me how sucky those first few weeks are when having a baby and it makes me thankful that I'm done with that for now. Just kidding. But not really, because I really hated those first few weeks of newborn hood.

Friday, March 13, 2009

Bipolar Weather, or A Sign Of The Apocalypse. Whatever.

I am not sure why it always simultaneously surprises and pisses me off when our weather does the same old crap in March. Every single year. One day it's sunny and eighty degrees and we're all hey! this is wonderful and we're going to run around outside with no shoes on and blow bubbles and have picnics and hug a tree. And then BAM, it's freaking snowing and sleeting. And THEN we're all, well dammit. Now what? I'll tell you what: One bitterly annoyed three year old who is forced to stay inside and gaze longingly and dramatically out the window, sighing and saying things like, "I wish that God would put the sun out today." And one mommy who is going stir crazy even though it has only been three days that we've been stuck inside. And Charlie...doesn't really care very much, I guess. I'm pretty sure that the only person who is enjoying this horribly dreary and freezing weather is my mother-in-law who is a teacher and got out of going to school Friday. Because this is the South, and we like to close schools if it rains and drops below 40 degrees at the same time.

We went from this:

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To being stuck inside with all of this:

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And this:

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And this:

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And good God, THIS, because I am only human and there are only so many hours that I can handle pretending that Sleeping Beauty Barbie and the aptly named Bathing Suit Barbie are best friends and are going to slide down the slide that is actually the arm of the chair and OMGBZZZ I think I actually hear my brain cells dying off, one by one.

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Even Stu is getting in on the laying around action.

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Thursday, March 12, 2009

Article.

Anna Quidlen wrote this article in Newsweek about having children. I recently found it in my email inbox after having read it almost a year ago, and I really like it. So I'm posting it here. Because nothing else exciting is happening here for me to write about.

By Anna Quindlen, Newsweek Columnist and Author:

All my babies are gone now. I say this not in sorrow but in disbelief.
I take great satisfaction in what I have today: three almost-adults,
two taller than I am, and one closing in fast. Three people who read
the same books I do and have learned not to be afraid of disagreeing
with me in their
opinion of them, who sometimes tell vulgar jokes that make me laugh
until I choke and cry, who need razor blades and shower gel and
privacy, who want to keep their doors closed more than I like. Who,
miraculously, go to the bathroom, zip up their jackets and move food
from plate to mouth all by themselves. Like the trick soap I bought
for the bathroom with a rubber ducky at its center, the baby is buried
deep within each, barely discernible except through the unreliable haze
of the past.
Everything in all the books I once poured over is finished for me now.
Penelope Leach., T. Berry Brazelton, Dr. Spock. The ones on sibling
rivalry and sleeping through the night and early-childhood education
have all grown obsolete. Along with Goodnight Moon and Where the Wild
Things Are, they are battered, spotted, well used. But I suspect that
if you flipped the pages dust would rise like memories. What those
books taught me, finally, and what the women on the playground taught
me, and the well-meaning relations -- what they taught me, was that
they couldn't really teach me very much at all.

Raising children is presented at first as a true-false test, then
becomes multiple choice, until finally, far along, you realize that it
is an endless essay. No one knows anything. One child responds well to
positive reinforcement, another can be managed only with a stern voice
and a timeout.
One child is toilet trained at 3, his sibling at 2.
When my first child was born, parents were told to put baby to bed on
his belly so that he would not choke on his own spit-up. By the time my
last arrived, babies were put down on their backs because of research
on sudden infant death syndrome. To a new parent this ever-shifting
certainty is terrifying, and then soothing. Eventually you must learn
to trust yourself. Eventually the research will follow. I remember 15
years ago poring over one of Dr. Brazelton's wonderful books on child
development, in which he describes three different sorts of infants:
average, quiet, and active. I was looking for a sub-quiet codicil for
an 18-month old who did not walk. Was there something wrong with his
fat little legs? Was there something wrong with his tiny little mind?
Was he developmentally delayed, physically challenged? Was I insane?
Last year he went to China.

Every part of raising children is humbling, too. Believe me, mistakes
were made.
They have all been enshrined in the, 'Remember-When- Mom-Did Hall of
Fame.' The outbursts, the temper tantrums, the bad language, mine, not
theirs. The times the baby fell off the bed. The times I arrived late
for preschool pickup. The nightmare sleepover. The horrible summer
camp. The day when the youngest came barreling out of the classroom
with a 98 on her geography test, and I responded, 'What did you get
wrong?'. (She insisted I include that.) The time I ordered food at the
McDonald's drive-through speaker and then drove away without picking it
up from the window. (They all insisted I include that.) I did not
allow them to watch the Simpsons for the first two seasons. What was I
thinking?
But the biggest mistake I made is the one that most of us make while
doing this. I did not live in the moment enough. This is particularly
clear now that the moment is gone, captured only in photographs. There
is one picture of the three of them, sitting in the grass on a quilt in
the shadow of the swing set on a summer day, ages 6, 4 and 1. And I
wish I could remember what we ate, and what we talked about, and how
they sounded, and how they looked when they slept that night. I wish I
had not been in such a hurry to get on to the next thing: dinner,
bath, book, bed. I wish I had treasured the doing a little more and
the getting it done a little less.
Even today I'm not sure what worked and what didn't, what was me and
what was simply life. When they were very small, I suppose I thought
someday they would become who they were because of what I'd done. Now I
suspect they simply grew into their true selves because they demanded
in a thousand ways that I back off and let them be. The books said to
be relaxed and I was often tense, matter-of-fact and I was sometimes
over the top; And look how it all turned out. I wound up with the
three people I like best in the world, who have done more than anyone
to excavate my essential humanity. That's what the books never told me.
I was bound and determined to learn from the experts. It just took me
a while to figure out who the experts were.

Sunday, March 8, 2009

I'm Officially A Soccer Mom, Y'all. Oh My God.

Actually, as my sister Tori put it (ever so eloquently...thanks, Tor), I'm more like the mom that SHOWS UP at the soccer game and cheers my kid on as she plays, but is all the while muttering "Screw this crap, it's too early to out here and I want to go back to bed and is it too early for a glass of wine?". But in all seriousness, we had a good time. And by "we" I mean everyone except Ella. We kicked off the morning yesterday with Meltdown 2009 at home because I tossed Ella's jersey and shorts over the stair rails to Mikan downstairs and oh my word Ella wanted to catch her orange jersey and now the day is ruined and life's not fair WAAAHHHHHHHHHHH screaming crying laying on the floor sobbing. I knew at this point that we were in for one hell of a day. So we packed up and headed to the soccer fields. Ella was actually really excited and looked so cute in her "outfit". Yes, I have been informed by multiple people that I should definitely not refer to it as an "outfit", that it is a "UNIFORM" for God's sake. Can you tell that I didn't play many organized sports when I was a kid? As a product of 15 years of dance classes, Ella's just lucky that her mom wasn't standing on the sidelines yelling about how cute her kid looked in her costume. We got to the field where her team would be playing and met up with all of the other parents and kids and the 1,483 people from our families that came out to see Ella play. And oh, she did NOT disappoint her fans. We were approximately 30 seconds into the game when Meltdown 2009 began its second act. Apparently she was under the impression that each kid would have their own ball and it would be just like practice where they all just kind of kicked their balls around and not actually have to try to TAKE THE BALL AWAY FROM THE OTHER KIDS to try to score. This did not sit well with her. Screaming and crying and LAYING on the field commenced. Mikan and I both tried to explain to her how things worked in a soccer game, but she was having none of it. She wanted her turn to kick the ball and could not for the life of her understand why a bunch of parents would sit there and actually CHEER when their kid TOOK SOMETHING AWAY FROM HER. If you think about it, she's kind of right...I've spent the last 2 years or so, ever since she was old enough to grab another kid's toy away from them and bop them in the head with it, trying to teach her how we share and we do not ever under any circumstances NO NO NO never take anything away from someone while they are still playing with it. And all of the sudden, on Saturday mornings, it is OKAY to take the ball away from another kid, and not only is it okay, the parents clap and grin like idiots when they do this to her. So she was a bit confused, I think. When I tried to explain to her that the other team in the red jerseys/outfits/costumes would try to take the ball away from her, she simply said, "That's not very nice." So yeah, I have a kid who totally gets the concept of sharing and taking turns, which YAY. But competitive sports and the concept of WINNING? Not so much yet. Which is fine with me, since she's only 3. I just wish she had had fun (which we kept emphasizing, that she just needed to run around the field and try to get the ball and have FUN! And she replied with a look that said, "What are you SMOKING, lady? You want me to go back out there and get the ball stolen from me again and have FUN doing so? I'd rather have a lobotomy.") But apparently soccer is no longer her idea of fun, as she told Mikan in the car that "soccer is kind of yucky sometimes". So I'm at an impasse...do I make her stick it out for the rest of the season to demonstrate to her that we honor our commitments, dammit, and you had better learn to like it because Daddy wrote a check for $90 for this soccer season and, oh, the costumes are so CUTE! Or, is she too young to understand the concept of finishing what you started even if you are no longer having as much fun as you once were, and do I just let her quit and find something she enjoys? Which, judging by the magnitude and drama of her meltdowns yesterday, may just be some kind of Acting Class For Preschoolers.

It's a shame that she gets so upset at the games, because she really is quite good at playing soccer. As long as she gets her pink ball all to herself.

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Doing well...

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...annnnd about 15 seconds later.

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She's okay again! Phew.


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...and about 30 seconds later.

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Dad trying, in vain, to explain the game of soccer. She's busy looking over at the snack that the team mom brought.

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Charlie was absolutely enthralled by the game. But look! He's turning his head to the left, yay. I'm sure it has nothing to do with the giant, rolled-up blanket that is completely 100% preventing him from looking to the right.

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Friday, March 6, 2009

Torta-who???

Torticollis. That's what Charlie has. I pretty much knew this going into his chiropractor appointment yesterday, but I think some insane part of my mommy-brain was still holding onto a sliver of hope that maybe I was just overreacting and the chiropractor would look at me and say, "My Lord! What a perfectly healthy baby who has no problems whatsoever. Get out of my office, you crazy lady, he's fine." Not so. She actually said exactly the opposite of that: that his neck and spine issues are "really pretty bad". And she must have seen the panic flash across my face, because she quickly added, "But we'll FIX it! No problem at all! Easy!". So she "adjusted" him (if you can even call it that at his age...she basically touched his spine with her fingertips a few times), and stretched his little neck as far as it would go, and told me to do the stretches as many times at home as he would allow without screaming The Scream. And he absolutely loves the stretches. I mean loves them. He loves them so much that he has come to know what to expect as soon as I lay him on the floor, upside down to me, and he gets anxious and starts screaming before I have even laid a finger on him. Crazy screaming, with drool and hands flying every which way and I'm pretty sure that he would be gnashing his teeth if he had any. But we're doing it because I'm fairly certain that if he could speak he would tell me that he does not, in fact, wish to go through life with a sloped forehead, twisted face, and only being able to look in one direction. And I do not care to experience what happens when torticollis is left untreated in a baby, since the chiropractor actually said the words "helmet" and "malformation" in the same sentence to me yesterday. Want to see a mother's heart leap right out of her chest and smack her in the face? Say the words "helmet" and "malformation" to her in relation to her three month old child.


There's nothing wrong with me, fools. I'm like Zoolander...I just can't turn left.


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Thursday, March 5, 2009

That Nagging Feeling Of Dread.

You know that feeling in the pit of your stomach when something just isn't going right with one of your kids? I remember having that feeling to some degree when Ella was STILL not crawling when she was 7 or 8 months old, and almost everyone else's babies were pulling up on the furniture by 8 months and about to take off, toddling and falling all over the house. But I hushed my inner worrier and let her do things in her own time. And she crawled when she was 9 months old, and walked when she was 11 months old. She just needed to do things on her own schedule. But Charlie is having an issue that I cannot ignore and hope that it gets better on its own. He seems to only want to look to his right side (take a look at EVERY single picture of him on this blog, and you will see what I mean), and will definitely only sleep with his head turned that way, which is resulting in a flat spot on the back side of his head. Is this problem VERY serious and life threatening? Nope. But still. It isn't "normal", and that voice inside me that likes to worry and fret about every little thing is acting up again, saying, "OMG OMG OMG, EMERGENCY! Horribly disfiguring neck issue that, if not resolved NOW, will lead to Charlie looking like Sloth from the Goonies." Overreacting: I have it down to a science. But I also refuse to be one of those moms who ignores an issue with their child in hopes that it will fix itself, and then wonders why a year later the problem is SO much worse and didn't get better. Sure, it's easier to think that my child is perfect in every single way and would never have any kind of issue like this, but throwing denial and hope at the problem won't make it go away. So we're off to the chiropractor this morning after Charlie wakes up from his nap. I know that in 99% of babies with this issue, the solution is a simple routine of stretches and neck exercises, but that knowing that doesn't stop The Voice from saying horrible things that I know in my logical brain aren't true. So yeah. This should be interesting. Mikan is leery of chiropractors (okay, that's putting it nicely. He thinks they're total quacks.), and I damn near owe my life to my chiropractor for saving my back 2 years ago when it went completely ALL THE WAY out, so I'm all for going in and letting some guy crack my back until it's all better. But he's agreed to give it a shot and let the quack take a look at his son's neck and try to fix it.

Oh, and also? I am completely convinced that you could Google "hangnail" and there would be horrifying stories of lots of people who DIED from a hangnail. So good God you can imagine what popped up when I consulted Dr. Google about "infant who cannot turn his neck both ways". From the results that I was given, you would think I typed in "Bubonic Plague" or "Ways to make a mother completely and unreasonably hysterical."

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

Mom Friends...

...Are invaluable when you are a stay at home mom. There is NO WAY that I would have made it through the last three years of being a parent if it weren't for my "mom friends". There is nothing better than getting out of the house when you're having a crappy day and meeting your friends and their kids at the park, sharing coffee, conversation, and commiserating about the hardships and joys of parenting. Not only does Ella have some great friends because of the friends I have met, but I have multiple shoulders to cry on when things get tough, and good friends to laugh with when things are going well. Potty training tips, deep discussions on sleeping habits and how we can fix them, recommendations for preschools and pediatricians, complaining about how our husbands are essentially an extra kid for us to pick up after (ha!)...we've shared it all. So, to my friends, thank you. For being there to tell me that things would get better, or to push Ella on the swings when I am busy with Charlie, or just to sit in tired silence while we all chug coffee and the kids run around like maniacs.

Side note: Isn't this possibly the cutest thing you've ever seen, ever, in your whole life?!?! Taken at playgroup today while all of the 3 year olds ran around the house in circles.

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Tuesday, March 3, 2009

Hello, My Name Is Abby, And I'm A Survivor Of Colic.

Hooray! I can officially say that we have survived Charlie's "Colic", whatever the hell that term means. For us, it meant that for weeks on end all of us endured endless hours of screaming and crying and a completely inconsolable baby most nights. I can remember nights that NOTHING I did to help Charlie worked, and I would pass him off to Mikan and go sit on the front porch and cry by myself. I so vivdly remember thinking that this would never ever end and all of us were doomed to a life of tears and screeching from Charlie. And the books and experts and even our own trusted pediatrician all said the same thing: "Eh, you just gotta wait it out. Good luck with that." And I remember thinking "NOOOOO!!!!! I cannot wait THIS OUT! This is a nightmare! I will never in a million years get through this, and there is no way I will still be alive to wait this out until 12 weeks, because the screaming is going to kill me." Only someone who has experienced colic can truly understand how horrifying it is and what a failure it makes you feel like when your sweet, tiny little baby has something so wrong that they just wail and scream and cry and NOTHING will work to fix whatever it is that is wrong. I cannot even begin to tell you the lengths we went to to fix "this"...$8/day formula, different bottles and nipples, sleep positioners, gas drops, softer blankets, different pacifiers, more cuddle time, less cuddle time, more naps (ha!), swaddling him, letting him sleep unswaddled, lights turned low, lights so bright that our house could have doubled for a landing strip, hot water bottles to sleep on, gripe water, baby slings. Oy vey. Mikan and I were like two chickens with our heads cut off, running in different directions saying "There has got to be something to FIX THIS, whatever it is." The level of panic when a certain remedy didn't work was insane, because that meant we were one step closer to admitting that there WAS no fixing "this" or magical cure to be had. And guess what? Turns out? We just had to wait for Charlie to come around and get over it on his own.

But now? Oh, now! Life is a relative Garden Of Eden compared to the last 3 months. Not just because Charlie is smiling...he was doing that in between the glass-shattering screams. But he is HAPPY! About 90% of the day he is actully content and happy! If I seem a bit gleeful about this, it's because I had gotten so used to his old ways that I just thought NO BABY IS HAPPY, AT ALL. EVER. Sure, he still cries and will even break out The Scream for old time's sake now and again, but unless he is tired or hungry or wet or cold, he is HAPPY! And he is such a joy. When I think of life before he came along, it seems like a foggy dream that isn't quite real. I can still remember what we did each day before him, but then I think, "What did we DO all day before him?". He has a personality that is distinctly his own. He usually refuses a pacifier, he is coming around to the idea of being swaddled, he giggles a certain way when I touch his shoulder, his absolute favorite person is Ella, and I have to work harder than a one-legged man in an ass kicking contest to get him to eat. I knew before he was born that he wouldn't be a carbon copy of Ella, but I don't think I was prepared for how completely and utterly different he is from her, in most ways. I can already tell (and have had people tell me) that he is going to be a feisty one, that Charlie. He is constantly moving his legs and arms and almost never ever sits still, even while eating or falling asleep. We've joked that he got my temper and Mikan's ADHD.

Not really sure where I was going with this, except to say that it sure feels nice to be on the far side of the colic mess.

"Look me in the eyes and tell me you think I was once a screaming ball of nightmare. I dare you. My mom is a liar, I tell you."
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