Tag Archives: Little Ones

Little Despots

Just a couple of reminders:

You have ONE MORE DAY to enter my drawing for a beautiful vintage fabric clutch from Bee Gee Bags. If you haven’t entered yet – do so now! I’ll do the drawing tomorrow evening after work.

Also – check back next week for a very special Materialistic Monday (that sounds a lot like “a very special Blossom” doesn’t it…this will be much better). I’ll have a short interview with Ontario artist Janet Hill. It will be short because her dreamy images speak for themselves. Can you tell I’m excited about this one?

I’ll be skipping Materialistic Monday this week to participate in a little virtual party of sorts. Thoughtful Issa asked a number of us to contribute our own parenting advice to soon-to-be-mom-of-two, imommy. Even though I was thoroughly made fun of the last time I did something like this, I just really love giving unsolicited advice, I mean imommy.

I thought I’d use the advice column format that my Uncle Dick came up with for this post. So welcome back Oliver and Mrs. Hood!

Dear Mrs. Hood,

I am a 1 1/2 year old boy. About three weeks ago, my parents brought home a couple of babies (I’ve now accepted it – apparently, that’s what they are). We had a rocky start, but Mom and Dad finally seem to be adjusting to the new family dynamic (you were right – soon enough, they won’t even remember what it was like not to have two other children in the house). Here is the problem though. The twins have been plotting to actually replace me. They look innocent, but it’s becoming increasingly evident that they want to usurp my position as the most important person in this family. Seriously, I’ve started watching my back. They demand to be held at all times, which means that I am often asked to play by myself while they are having some bogus need met like ANOTHER bottle or ANOTHER diaper change. Who eats and poops this much? They’re totally doing it on purpose. Also, they pretend they don’t see me no matter how many funny faces I make for them, how many blocks I throw at their heads, etc. They never crack a smile – not even when Mom does that hilarious bit with the bee (that’s really her finger) buzzing around until it attacks your tummy. They barely register any of it. What are they? Robots? (Now THAT’S an interesting idea…) But back to the point. I just find it hard to locate a shred of familial spirit in these “siblings,” and I wonder if they are just biding their time until they can get rid of me altogether. Right now, it’s not looking good. I’m considering telling my friend Jonas to call the police if I disappear. What should I do Mrs. Hood? I just don’t know who to trust anymore.

Sincerely,
Paranoid on the Playground

Dear Paranoid,

First of all – let me assure you once and for all that your newborn twin siblings are not out to get you. It may seem like they are trying to replace you, but that is only because they are now doing all of the things that you once did as a baby. Things that in spite of your obvious “big boy now” status, are still fairly recent for you. The reason that the twins do not seem interested in you is that they can’t see very far, they have very little control over their limbs, and as I’ve told you before, it will be several more weeks before they are even able to smile. It is a known fact that newborn babies can seem rather boring to other small children. They can’t play with you yet, but that will change very quickly. Although it sounds like an awfully long time, in a couple of years, they really will become constant companions for you. And you will appreciate their friendship (well – most of the time…hopefully). In the meantime, you just have to be patient – with your newborn brother and sister AND your parents. My advice is that you are honest with your parents about your feelings. If you’re not comfortable talking to them about it (or if you can’t because – you know, you don’t really speak in sentences yet), write them a letter (based on the same premise as the previous ones that you’ve written to me: that you can actually write a letter even though you are barely able to recite your ABCs.) Tell them that you need them to put aside special time for you when the babies aren’t around. This might be during one of the times that the twins are sleeping and you are not. Maybe each of your parents can take you out at separate times. If they talk to you about how only you can do fun things like play at the park or go out to eat, then they will be reminding you that you are special and could never be replaced by a baby. Inform them that they will have to “baby” you a little too, and let you regress a bit. It’s only natural. This may be the first really hard thing that you’ll ever have to do – but believe me when I tell you that you will be stronger for it. It will create an opportunity for you to start thinking of yourself as a big kid. And all of these accomplishments can be very empowering. Don’t spend another minute worrying about your place in your family. You will always be the first baby – no matter how much of a big kid you are. As long as your parents make time to focus on you, and let you go through some growing pains, you’ll all be just fine.

Sincerely,
Mrs. Hood

If you’d like to see more posts like this (of course you do – what’s more interesting than mommy blogger advice?), go vist: Anymommy, EatPlayLove, ForADifferentKindofGirl, Insta-mom, Issa, Marinka and Psychmama. Those are the only ones I know about – but Issa should have a full list posted.

Toddler Confessions

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In honor of the twins’ birthday this week, I’m going to give them the mic. They will be taking over this Friday Confession. I’ll have to translate for them since they don’t really “talk” so to speak – but I’ll try to keep it honest.

First, we will hear from Eleanor:

Hello! My name is Eh-ni-ner [Interjection from Mom: This is how Eleanor pronounces her name]. I am pretty much perfect, but I do have one little fault. I’m just the teeniest bit of a princess. I demand to be the center of attention at all times, and whatever you have? I want some. Of course this is entirely justified as I’m in a word, fabulous. I’m terribly multifaceted though in that I’m what some of the neighbors call, “a tough cookie.” I fall down a lot (oh yeah – another flaw: I’m kind of a klutz), but I don’t waste much time crying. If I’m having fun, I can shake it off. Regardless of what may seem like a tomboy personality though, I really am quite the girly girl. I will only wear one pair of shoes. They are silver mary janes with little bows, and they are so “me.” Mom tries to make me put on these clunky brown shoes (must be a throw back from her past) and insists on calling the horrors my “school shoes.” Well I don’t go to school yet, and if school requires wearing shoes that Mom preferred back in “the olden days,” then I’ll pass. I have a reputation to maintain you know.

ANYWAY – I have also recently become addicted to barrettes. I call them “pretties” which seems to make everyone laugh. But when Mom first started putting them in my hair, she’d say “so pretty!” She didn’t say “so barrette!” What was I supposed to think? Mom says that she’s just excited because I was more or less bald until a month ago. I prefer to say “follically challenged,” but George is signaling to me that it’s his turn, so I won’t get argumenative about it. So…in conclusion…what were we talking about? Oh right a confession. I don’t really have one. I pretty much perfect.

Take it away George:

Right, thanks Mom. Hi there (big wave). HI…..hi……..hi (still waving). [Interjection from Mom: We could be here all day. He loves saying HI and BYE, and no one can out wave him. So I’ll get this started. “Hello. My name is George, and I am weird.”] YES – that’s right. I’m weird. Sorry about that – I just really like waving. It’s kind of my thing right now. But you know – like Mom said, I am weird. First – I’m obsessed with toothbrushes. I love them – and I want to brush my teeth pretty much 50 times a day. My parents have to hide all of the toothbrushes since I am a climber. And when I do have a toothbrush in hand? I dare you to try to take it away from me. You will find it next to impossible to prize it from my iron tight grasp. And if by some miracle you do? I will blast you across the room with my super human shrieking. I’m not kidding, you may have some temporary hearing loss. At the very least, you will drop the toothbrush.

The other weird thing about me is that I have just this week become extremely attached to a pair of shoes. They are lime green Vans that are just a little too small for me. Here is a picture of me in me half dressed for bed – still wearing my Vans:

Aren’t they rad? Vans are a West Coast thing, and people say “rad” on the West Coast. Or that’s what Dad told Mom when she said that they didn’t match anything (I mean – he said that Vans not matching your outfit is a West Coast thing – he didn’t say rad). Dad is getting a bit long in the tooth to say things like rad. Have you met my parents? They’re really old. They’re not rad. But they are very patient with me. And they’ve let me wear my lime green Vans every day this week, even though they don’t match anything. And now they let me wear them to bed. Well they kind of have to. Because if they don’t, I’ll scream. And I’ve already explained the consequences of that. So that’s pretty much it for me. I’m just weird.

Thanks kids! I can’t think of a good closing for this, so I’ll just go play with the little ones now. Playing with the twins generally looks like this:

Make Mine a Double: Part II

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We last left off the evening of October 9, 2006, with me driving to the hospital with amniotic fluid soaking through my pants and into my car’s upholstery. How’s that for an opener? Didn’t catch the “Part I” post? Maybe you should read that first.

Back to the story. I was very lucky in that I didn’t start having painful contractions until I arrived at the hospital. It was only when I was sitting in some light traffic, that I started thinking about the fact that I might not be able to drive if my barely perceptible contractions became more intense. I was definitely rethinking that decision to let Giacome finish my blow dry before leaving for the hospital.

Ideally, Chris would have been driving me – but it was important that I go to the hospital immediately since I was definitely going to have a c-section (George, “baby A,” was breech). And Chris had to drop our 18 month old, Oliver off with friends before coming to meet me.

It was a little anti-climactic when I first arrived. I drove around for a bit looking for a good parking place, and then I stopped to give someone directions on my way into the building. Once I reached the reception area, I had to wait in line behind people who were interrogating the receptionists about whether it was possible to order vegan meals from the cafeteria. Okay – I just totally made that last part up. But I did have to wait in line behind a bunch of people that did not have blood pouring out of a gunshot wound OR amniotic fluid streaming down their legs.

Eventually I was sent up to Labor & Delivery where I finally got a little service! Actually – it was a bit disconcerting because when I provided my name, the nurse said, “oh – your doctor just called. She’s very worried about you.” I asked if I should be worried about me. She clarified that since surgery was necessary, they wanted to check me out right away. So off I went to triage.

Here is where the pregnancy crazies come into play. The young nurse who “checked me out” said, “oh yes – I can feel that head.” Now – this made me very excited because last I heard, George (who was positioned to be the first one to come out) had his little heiny jammed firmly into my birth canal. Could he possibly have turned? Could I skip the whole major abdominal surgery thing and have the twins the old fashioned way? I was really getting psyched about this.

Then my doctor arrived. She is great and I trust her implicitly, but that woman is strictly no nonsense. I told her about the miraculous head sighting (or feeling), and she gave me one of her famous looks. “Kate,” she said, “it is almost impossible for that to happen now. They have very little room to move at this point.” But I wanted my fantasy to be real, so I begged her to check – just to make sure. She agreed to go get the ultrasound equipment, and I could literally feel her eyes rolling as she walked away from me. Long story short, the nurse gave me false hope. She felt George’s butt, not his head.

Shortly after my disappointing news, Chris arrived looking like he had just parachuted onto the front lawn of the hospital. He was excited though and I needed some positive energy in my little corner of triage. Then I noticed that he only had one bag with him. I had packed two. Was it the bag with my skincare products and my toothbrush and my comfy socks? No – it was the bag with my DVD player and my books and magazines. I asked him if the other bag was in the car, and he said, “what other bag?” I said, “um, the one sitting right next to this one?” Nope – didn’t ring a bell. I expect that when I called to tell him my water had broken, he didn’t register anything more than, “water broken…blah blah blah…hospital…blah blah blah…Oliver…blah blah blah…bag.” Oh well – at least I could watch some Gilmore Girls if I got bored.

As much as I really was dreading the surgery part, I was happy to see my anesthesiologist and get the news that it was go time. The contractions were becoming more than uncomfortable. And Chris was starting to get on my nerves, all windblown and positive with only one suitcase… Men.

Since I had expected to have a c-section, I knew what to expect. I kissed Chris and told him that I’d see him in the OR. He had to scrub in. Then the anesthesiologist and I walked down the hall together. Which seemed weird. I was kind of expecting to be wheeled in on a gurney. Or to at least be pushed in via wheelchair.

The next thing that I remember finding a little unnerving is that when I lay down on the operating table (which was so thin I thought I might fall off – is it me or do you picture something more along the lines of a dining table?) I was completely stripped below my chest. I don’t know why this would surprise me since I’m familiar with the area where they make the incision. But I just didn’t picture being naked. Especially with strange men wandering around talking about sports. Everyone seemed a bit too jovial for my liking… What did they think this was, Gray’s Anatomy? Were they going to be too busy flirting across my blood and guts to notice that I was bleeding out? No – I wasn’t overly fond of the banter. I wanted them to come to MY surgery with their A game.

Anyone who has had a c-section before may have noticed that I skipped the part about having a needle poked into my lower back to administer the spinal block. It wasn’t my favorite part – but it was over quickly enough. Let’s leave it at that. But the actual effects of the spinal block made me want to jump up and run screaming out of the room (if I could actually move my lower body that is). They had positioned me so that my knees were up in the air, and then suddenly my lower body just disappeared. But I knew that my feet were on the table and my knees were bent. BUT I couldn’t feel them. This made me ca-razy! But once they moved my legs back down so that they were on the table again (couldn’t feel it – but I knew they were doing it – eeeeww!), I felt better.

I also noticed that the numbness reached up to my chest and I was finding it hard to breath. Of course that could have been due to the general sense of panic, but the numbness didn’t help. Finally I couldn’t stand the jokes and the sports and the numbness and the tiny table and that fact that I was AWAKE for all of this, and I pulled off my oxygen mask and clutched the arm of the closest nurse. I dragged her down so her face was right next to mine and said, “listen – I just need to tell someone…I’m REALLY SCARED.” She kindly patted me on the shoulder, replaced my oxygen mask, and told Chris who had just entered the room to come hold my hand.

And then it started. I of course couldn’t see what was going on since there were about ten inches of sheet screening my view. But Chris had to actually avert his eyes since he was sitting up. He was given instructions to stay facing me if he didn’t want to “see anything.” Chris and I are pretty much in agreement when it comes to the inner workings of the human body. We never want to see anything.

Most of the procedure was a blur – but suddenly, there was George with a full head of dark hair. He was pink and screaming – and he looked nothing like my first baby. So it was kind of like having my first baby – if that makes sense. I had never seen anything like him. Chris went to go look at him as they started to pull Eleanor out. She looked a little bizarre since she was up in the top of my uterus and didn’t get washed off the way George did when my water broke. She was covered in vernix – but she looked more like Oliver did when I had him (just a little light brown hair on her head). But she was a girl and that was new to me. Chris watched them clean her off and saw both babies get weighed. Born at 9:23 p.m. and 9:24 p.m. (respectively) George was 5 lbs. 11 oz. and Eleanor was 5 lbs. 12 oz. They were so tiny.

It was at this point that Chris decided to come back and talk to me. Big mistake. Or it wouldn’t have been if he turned back the way he had come: facing me. Instead he went in the other direction, and got a perfect view of the intern inspecting my uterus (outside of my body) and then shoving it back in. A nurse had to grab his arm as his legs started to buckle. He didn’t actually faint, but he almost did. Now that’s an image that will haunt your dreams. And he wasn’t too keen on what he saw during the “regular” birth of our first son. You know how the doctor says you have to wait six weeks before you can have sex? Six weeks after I had Oliver, Chris looked at me and said, “I’m not ready.”

Stop making faces Chris – that last line is crucial to the story. Well maybe not – but it’s really funny.

So that’s it! We got to hold our babies and take a picture and then all kinds of drama began the next day. But that is a story for another day. Today is a birthday. And while I’ve never been one to get sentimental the miracle of birth – I’m VERY sentimental about the birth of my own little angels.

Happy Birthday George and Eleanor. I love you so very much.

Make Mine a Double: Part I

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Exactly two years ago (give or take a week), I looked like this:

And yes – it was just as uncomfortable as it appears. And what is even more outrageous is that I remember looking at that picture and thinking it was “flattering” – that it made my stomach look less gigantic than it actually was. So apparently, I was even bigger in real life. People who have never been pregnant before can pick themselves up off the floor now. It’s not like that happens overnight. You do have some time to get used to it.

Enough about my enormous stomach though (shut up – I mean then, not now!). I am showing embarrassing pictures of myself as an opening for the story of the birth of my twins. It’s their birthday! On October 9, 2006, at 9:23 p.m. and 9:24 p.m. (respectively) I gave birth to George and Eleanor Hood. They looked like this shortly after they departed my body:

And no – they were not nearly as angelic as they appear. Actually, they were perfectly sweet babies – it’s just that there were two of them. And having had one newborn already – I knew the difference between one screaming baby and two screaming babies. It’s simple math: 2 x 1 baby = 1 seriously deranged mother. But that’s another story.

On the morning of October 9, 2006, I had a feeling that the end was near. While my scheduled c-section (my “baby A,” George was breech) wasn’t supposed to take place for another week, I just didn’t feel right. And of course I was already four centimeters dilated and showing some “signs” that are TMI for even this blog. Also, we had just moved into a new house three weeks prior and I was still carrying my 35 lb. 18 month old up and down the stairs. This probably helped to speed things along.

The bags were packed and waiting by the door and I was finally resigned to the fact that George was not going to turn over for me, and I would have to have my first experience with surgery. Awake. One word: barbaric.

We were as ready as we were ever going to be – and I decided that I would spend the day trying to wrap things up at work, even though it was a federal holiday and the office was closed. It’s like I knew…

I won’t get into the details of the day – mainly because I barely remember them. But at about 5:00 p.m. I was ready to leave. I felt the urge to do some errands, so I called Chris and told him that I would be running late, and that he’d have to do Oliver’s bedtime routine (which he was more or less covering already in preparation for my post surgery limitations). Then I was off to the mall.

First stop – the cosmetics department at Nordstom. I was running low on concealer, and you know – this is a huge priority for someone that expects to be sequestered to their house for several months. I have to look good for the mail man and all. Then I headed over to Suissa, a hair salon where I had a history of success with random stylists (I’m notorious for being a walk in client).

When I arrived, the receptionist smiled at me and told me that I was the third expectant mother to come in that day. My first thought was that I hoped the others were as far along as I was and also sporting ill fitting maternity clothes that hinted at a penchant for inappropriate belly baring. I didn’t want to be “the big one” when they talked about the run on pregnant ladies that day. She told me that Giamcome would be able to take me immediately. (I don’t remember his name – but I once had another stylist named Giacome, and I think it suits my no name guy.)

Giacome? Not that much of a talker. But that suited me well enough, as my mind was racing in fifty different directions, and I didn’t mind NOT playing 20 questions with him as he pretended to be interested in my pregnancy. But one persistent thought running through the rest was that I was starting to worry about incontinence (don’t worry – this isn’t a story about incontinence – but it’s relevant in context). All day, I had been feeling a little…well, loose – for lack of a better word. I had never experienced incontinence before, and I was wondering if this was an early sign.

It was while my hair was being washed that I had the first pang of concern. There was definitely something going on down there – and I was feeling extremely grateful for the long black gown that covered my legs. At this point, I was thinking that I might look as if I had just had accident – or more accurately, that I looked like I HAD had an accident. But at the end of the day, I’m an optimist, and I hoped that it either wouldn’t show once I was standing up – or that maybe it would be dry by the time I had to unveil myself.

The haircut was uneventful. It was looking exactly like what I had requested and Giacome continued to play the strong silent type. But about ten minutes into the blow dry, something rather significant happened. I suddenly knew that I was not experiencing incontinence. I had my water broken for me in the hospital when I had my first son, and while this was not the same, there were definite similarities. It finally dawned on me: I wasn’t peeing my pants – I was going into labor.

I had never spontaneously gone into labor before. My 9 lb. 2 oz. first born was a week late and I had to be induced. And I was expecting a scheduled c-section for the twins. So I was completely unprepared for the slapstick situation of having my water break during my blow dry at the Tysons Corner Suissa where I was a goddamn walk in for god’s sake. Oh my god! Damn!

But I’m nothing if I’m not practical. And I never panic. So I quietly weighed my options as Giacome continued to smooth and straighten my hair. I had done this once before, and I knew that I had some time before I actually went into real labor. At this point I wasn’t even having contractions. Oh what the hell – my hair was only half done, and I figured that it wouldn’t hurt anything if I just let him finish. I deserved to have perfect hair for my first surgery. Awake. BARBARIC I tell you!

Plus – I kind of needed time to figure out what I was going to tell Giacome. I couldn’t imagine that this was something that happened every day at Suissa. So when he finally finished his last flicks and fluffs, it was time for me to break the news. I said, “so Giacome…I have to tell you something. I THINK that my water may have broken.” He looked at me blankly – and if he did say anything, I don’t remember what it was. At this point I was beginning to wonder if he was actually mute.

Then I stood up and he removed the vinyl drape. And that’s when I realized that my water hadn’t really broken yet – it was just starting to break. It was only when was vertical and gravity took over that it really BROKE. All over. With sound effects. I was truly in a sitcom from hell. And as an added bonus, that morning I decided not to wear the black pants that I had sported every day for the past two months. No – I was feeling “khaki.” And there was no camoflauging the river of amniotic fluid running down my legs.

Giamcome looked me. I looked at him. And then as if we had the same thought at the same time, we both looked at the chair where I had been sitting. Thank god it was the usual fake leather. I can’t even imagine the humiliation of leaving a soggy chair in my wake. I guess I expected more of a puddle – but maybe my pants absorbed most of it. All that was left was what you might find after a very sweaty person in shorts got up from a vinyl seat. And in silence, stoic Giacome switched on the hair drier and commenced to cleaning up my mess.

The receptionist’s desk was conveniently located directly behind me, so I grabbed her attention and explained that I’d have to settle up rather quickly. And I would have to use her phone because – of course – I left my cell at home that morning. I called Chris – told him to get the bags, make the necessary calls, take Oliver to our plan A person, and if she wasn’t home, to our plan B person. And then I was ready to go.

The receptionist was incredibly sweet and asked if there was anything she could do for me. I couldn’t really think of anything… She wasn’t a doctor, and she had already helped me with the walk in appointment… And a pedicure was definitely out of the question. So I said that I thought not. But then she offered to get my car for me – and that sounded like a great idea since I seemed to be losing gallons of amniotic fluid with every step I took. And I was pretty sure that I’d needed to keep some in there for another hour or two.

After some discussion about where I may or may not have parked (pregnant women NEVER remember where they park), I told her to “walk in that direction and just start clicking.” Eventually she’d hear the “beep-beep” noise.

While I was waiting outside for her, strategically covering my soaked pants with my purse, it occurred to me that I hadn’t called my doctor. Rookie mistake! And I didn’t have my cell… so had to again rely upon the kindness of strangers. The only person in speaking distance was a touristy looking guy who I think I remember as being Japanese (I know that there were characters on his phone screen instead of letters/numbers). Either way – he definitely didn’t speak much English, and I could only hope my appearance made up for any confusion over the translation for “broken water.” Apparently it did since he handed the phone over without any questions.

Just as I signed off with my doctor’s answering service, the receptionist peeled around the corner in my car. I handed the man back his phone and realized that I had never said goodbye to Giacome. Seems like we should have hugged or something. But it was too late, and it didn’t seem appropriate to hug the Japanese tourist. We didn’t have quite as much of a history, and you know – I was really wet.

With effusive thanks to the receptionist and the tourist, I was finally on my way to the hospital. As I drove off into the twilight, I wondered what my story’s cast of characters would make of my cameo appearance in what seemed to be just another ordinary day at the salon. Would they reminisce about me in months to come? Would they wonder what happened to me and wish me well? I didn’t know – but I didn’t have time to think about it. My real journey was only just beginning…

Cool ending huh? Like something from a really bad romance novel. Yeah – I just kinda went with it.

What’s that? Yes – I said “ending.” Have you noticed how LONG this post is? It’s definitely a “to be continued.” I’ll finish up tomorrow. And here are a couple of spoilers: I realize that when you have surgery you have to be naked, and Chris almost faints. In that order. But the two are not related. Till tomorrow then…

I’m that Mom: Part II

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Yesterday I started a list of reasons that I’m not winning any awards for mother of the year. I had to cut it short because I was starting to feel depressed. Or more accurately, because I wanted to stretch this material for a couple of days to free up more time for work, I mean, my kids. Here are ten more things that make me “that mom.”

11. I’m that mom who threatens my three year old with naps even though he hasn’t napped in over six months and I have no intention of following through.

12. I’m that mom who will finally break down and offer my children candy if it will make them submit to my will.

13. I’m that mom who will bring my kids out to run errands before cleaning the magic marker off of their arms and legs.

14. I’m that mom who says I won’t let my kids taste raw cookie dough because “it’s not good for them” – when what I really mean is that I’m afraid that they’ll find out that it is in fact, much better raw. Then I eat some when they’re not looking.

15. I’m that mom who will let my toddlers play with things they shouldn’t (i.e. our cell phones, the dishwasher, the clean laundry, toothpicks) because I’d rather have them be happy and quiet than screaming while I try to assert my authority.

16. I’m that mom who will wait until Monday morning to realize that I have no clean school clothes for my son and then madly search through the dirty clothes for something that can pass for clean.

17. I’m that mom who will trick her son into leaving the (dreaded) pet store by saying, “I bet John and Cheyenne [John’s dog] will be out playing ball when we get home.” I’d rather deal with the consequences of that later in my own house where it doesn’t smell like gerbil poop.

18. As a continuation of #17, I’m that mom who will let her son believe that we are going to the park or the pet store, when we are actually going to Target or daycare. I don’t TELL him that we’re going where he thinks we are – I just don’t tell him that we’re NOT. So it’s not a lie as much as an omission. Right?

19. I’m that mom who answers my daughter’s thousands of calls for “MOMMY!” with “ELEANOR!” instead of just saying, “what is it honey?” And then she answers my “ELEANOR!” with another “MOMMY!” And because I find this incredibly entertaining I just continue the cycle until we end up enacting a personalized game of Marco-Polo. Except we’re not in a pool. And she knows exactly where I am.

20. I’m that mom who believes that ice cream is the solution for everything. For my children – and myself.

I’m That Mom: Part I

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I have a running list in my head of things that fall under the “what not to do” category of motherhood. Not that I’m saying I’m a bad mother. I do many things well. I’ve had uncounted triumphs, moments of genius and mental high fives. But I often fall short as well. At the very least I’ve had to look at myself from time to time and say “not your personal best, Kate.” Here are some examples:

1. I’m that mom who lets my three year old eat Goldfish crackers for breakfast when we’re in a rush – because “it’s just easier that way.”

2. I’m that mom who allows my nudist children run around in underwear all day as long as they stay inside (although I sometimes have to retrieve them from the front lawn).

3. I’m that mom who doesn’t even bother trying to force my kids to eat vegetables at dinner anymore. They eat them for lunch with that magical woman at daycare – so that takes some of the pressure off.

4. I’m that mom who lets my toddlers believe that Tic Tacs are “candy” and that they’re a BIG TREAT. They will find out about Reeces soon enough.

5. I’m that mom who accidentally locked myself and my twins IN my three year old’s bedroom with him on the outside (you can click to read what happened but if not, don’t worry, we all made it out without tragedy).

6. I’m that mom who hoisted my three year old over a chain link fence rather than walk a mile carrying him while his “accident” soaked through my shirt. More on that one another day…

7. I’m that mom who sometimes skips every other page of the longer bedtime stories because I’m tired and hungry for my own dinner which is at that very moment sitting on the kitchen counter getting cold.

8. I’m that mom who may know the children are doing something in the other room that I expressly told them NOT to do, but pretend I don’t see it so I don’t have to deal with it.

9. I’m that mom who will yell at my children and then hug them and tell them how “good” they are. Just to stay consistent…with the inconsistency.

10. I’m that mom who let my three year old grab all of the tampons that fell out of my purse onto the floor of the car – just because it was easier to let him have them than to try to take them away. Then I had to fight him to get them back once we arrived at the grocery store and I discovered that he had systematically opened each of them and ripped them to pieces. THEN I had to explain everything to my husband when he arrived home with wads of cotton clenched in his hands. Yeah…that was me…

I think I’m going to make this a “to be continued” post. I have more to add – but I like to keep my lists down to ten points apiece. (Plus I’m having a busy week at work and don’t have much time to write my usual novels.)

So come back tomorrow for ten more things that make me “that mom.”

The First Mommy

10 Replies

What pregnant mother doesn’t imagine a day when her baby will look into her eyes and say “mommy?” It’s one of the things that we most anticipate and most take for granted. When we think about our unborn child, we don’t consider any of the potential obstacles and challenges that he or she may face. We just picture that cherubic face, shining with love for us and a sweet little voice saying “mommy.”

My babies of course did not select “mommy” as their first word. I was pre-empted for “ball” and “teeth” and “daddy.” You would think that out of three children, at least ONE of them would humor me with an early “mama.” But apparently, that’s not the way they roll.

As I’ve mentioned before, my oldest son Oliver has had some speech delays. While he did start using words at the usual age, his progress was a bit on the slow side. After having him tested at age two, he qualified for a county funded pre-school (so while you say “oh no – speech delays…” I say “oh yeah – free preschool!”) And his teachers have worked with him on some of his more quirky habits like jargoning (which basically means speaking in gibberish) and making up words.

An example of these quirks was his bizarre tendency to say “yo-yo-yo” before something he wanted, like “yo-yo-yo cookie!” During this phase we called him a little rapper and spent countless hours amusing ourselves with imitations (because that’s the way WE roll). He’d also replace real words like “mom” or “mommy” or even “mama” with made up words like “mo.” So, yes – for about a year, my first born son called me “mo.”

Chris, of course thought this was hilarious and encouraged it: “Oliver – where’s Mo?…Oliver – listen to Mo…Oliver – keep calling your mother ‘Mo’ even though she doesn’t like it – because I’m sadistic and like to torture her when all she ever asked for was to be called ‘mommy’ by shining cherubic faces…” You know – that kind of thing.

While I didn’t exactly encourage “mo,” I lived with it and just hoped that he’d grow out of it someday. At the very least, I would not allow “mo” to become my official name in the family. Dammit – someone was going to call me mommy!

The first day that I brought Oliver to school was pretty hard on both of us. He was so little (only two!) and I had never left him anywhere new before. He’d been going to daycare since he was three months old. It was unthinkable for me to just hand him to strangers and then walk away. But I had to. And then I had to listen to cries of “Mo! Mo!” as I took the longest walk of my life away from him.

The end of those three hours could not arrive fast enough. Even though I was busy at my office less than a mile away, I felt like I hadn’t taken a breath since I had let go of his hand (something I hadn’t experienced since the first day I left him at daycare). When it was finally time to collect him, I raced into the school wildly scanning the crowd for his little blond head and orange jacket.

When I finally did spot him, he sat with the other little kids, looking confused and forlorn. Not crying – but heartbreakingly unsure of what would come next. Then his eyes met mine, and his cherubic little face broke into the brightest, most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen. And then he said “Mommy!”

I have no idea what changed. Maybe the teachers referred to me as “mommy.” Maybe the other kids talked about their mommies. But for some reason, I finally stopped being “mo” and started being “mommy.”

Thank god!

As for George and Eleanor? Eleanor is a typical girl in her constant chatter. She started calling me mommy once she really began talking. And apparently, it’s her favorite word. It’s also the soundtrack of my life: “MO-MEE! MO-MEE! MO-MEE!” Be careful what you wish for – right? George is only just starting to call me mommy, but chooses to pronounce it “Ma-MY!” Of course he also calls Chris, “Da-DY!”

We find this insanely adorable. Weird. But adorable. Which I personally find to be an apt description for all of my children.

*This is part of the “Writing Motherhood” writing challenge and giveaway over at Mommyvents. Post a link to your own post in the comments section and you can win a copy of “Writing Motherhood.”

Why I Worry About My Son

23 Replies

I need to stop telling people that my three year old is potty trained. Because without fail, he will have an accident within an hour of my boast. He doesn’t even have to be present to hear me say it. He just knows. And then he has to show me how very wrong I am. As a result – I have a hard time trusting him when he tells me that he doesn’t have to “go pee pee.” I have to actually check to see if he’s wet. So in effect, I’m constantly grabbing his crotch. Obviously I have my reasons (to check for pee pee), but I can’t imagine what sort of message this is sending him. I have to try to back off a little since I worry that it may have long term effects on his personality. He could grow up to be an incredibly skittish person…or just have no sense of boundaries.

I also wonder if it’s normal for him to like being naked so much. He’s always stripping down when we’re at home (but not out in public thank god), and I’m lucky if I can get him to keep his underwear on. I really hope that grows out of this. I don’t want him to be “the naked guy” when he’s in college. You know that guy – he can be out at a bar, at a party, just hanging out at his apartment – and somehow by the end of the night, he’s naked. And of course, it’s really funny at the time, “hey – look Oliver’s naked again…Oh don’t mind him, that’s just Oliver. He’s always naked…” Or even better – he’ll be thirty years old, and at a party, and out of nowhere he’ll whip off his clothes and try to get everyone to go streaking with him. And he’ll interrupt Snoop Dog’s performance to announce that everyone is going streaking and to follow him. And then his wife will pull up next to him in her SUV and demand to know why he’s running around in nothing but his sneakers. And he’ll realize that he’s the only one streaking, and get into the car. And then he’ll embarrass his wife by mooning her friends and asking if she thinks KFC is still open. I just don’t see any good coming of this…

And in addition to being naked all the time, he is very handsy. You are probably thinking that he gets this from me with all of my crotch grabbing – but that’s not what I mean. He literally cannot keep his hands to himself. Or his feet. If he is sitting on the floor and you are walking by, you can pretty much guarantee that he is going to try to attach himself to your leg – like a husky baby octopus. I’ve already mentioned that he is freakishly strong. This means that when he does decide to wrestle with you, it’s next to impossible to shake him off. I don’t know how many times I’ve crouched down to pick something up off the floor, only to find that I can’t get back up with the weight of a 50 lb. three year old clinging to my back. I can try to lean from side to side in hopes that he’ll lose his hold – but he’s tenacious. For the most part, all I can do is use all of my strength to stand up so that I can use my arms to peel him off. Of course now his brother and sister have gotten into the act, so I’m usually trying to stand up with Oliver on my back and George and Eleanor on either arm. So I now have to execute this feat supporting approximately 100 lbs. of child. It’s very challenging, and I often think we must look like some bizarre Cirque de Soleil performance.

But I suppose some of his “quirks” could be useful later in life. Maybe his lack of inhibitions will translate into a healthy self confidence. At the very least, “naked guy” was always pretty popular. And physical contact is a good thing! We should feel comfortable with giving and receiving physical affection (even if it’s in a Lenny from Of Mice and Men kind of way…). Nakedness and affection are both perfectly normal, natural things – that I hope to god he never decides to combine while in polite company. Especially not if he has to go pee pee.

This is What Crazy Looks Like

22 Replies

Parents
Kate (36*)
Chris (35*)

Children
Oliver (almost 3 1/2)
George (almost 2)
Eleanor (almost 2)

*I included the ages of the children as a frame of reference and then decided to do it for all of us. Just like Us Weekly and People Magazine. They always do that. I don’t know about you – but I find something very reassuring about knowing how old people in magazines are. So what the hell – we’re old.

A Little Background:
It’s Sunday. The day started at 7:30 a.m. (which is a miracle since it usually starts at 6:00 a.m.). Chris left on Saturday for a business trip. I am alone with the kids for the day – and while it’s sunny, it’s also too muddy to play outside.

Oliver: Play Doh please!

Kate: Okay – let’s all play at the table. Sit in chairs. No Play Doh on the floor.

Eleanor: Pway Doh!

George: (Drags a chair over to the TV to play with the buttons.)

Oliver: Snakes!

Kate: Okay – let’s make snakes.

Eleanor: Nakes!

Kate: Oliver – put your Play Doh back on the table. George – that’s too loud. Come back to the table.

Eleanor: Tay-boo!

Kate: (Moves both George and his chair back to the table as he shrieks like he’s being dipped in a vat of boiling oil.)

Oliver: More snakes please!

Kate: Okay – let’s make more snakes.

Eleanor: Nakes!

Kate: George, I said stop it. Come back to the table. That’s too loud. (Moves both George and his chair back to the table.)

George: (Emits a sound that bursts dog eardrums throughout the neighborhood.)

Kate: Okay – who poopied? I smell poopie.

Oliver: Candy please!

Eleanor: Caddy!

Kate: No candy. George did you poopie? Hey – Play Doh stays on the table!

[Omit approximately 30 minutes of more of the same.]

Kate: Okay – that’s it! No more Play Doh. Oliver – do you have to go potty?

Eleanor: Potty!

Oliver: No…

Kate: Let’s go try. George and Eleanor, you come too.

Eleanor: Too!

Kate: George – I said that’s enough. Stop playing with the TV. Let’s all go upstairs.

Eleanor: Dairs!

[Omit the 15 minutes that it actually takes to get everyone upstairs.]

Kate: Okay Oliver – come on, lets go potty.

Eleanor: Potty!

Kate: Pee Pee first.

George and Eleanor: Pee Pee!

Oliver: (Stands at the potty and pees.)

George and Eleanor: (Try to position heads directly under the “flow” in hopes of getting the best view.)

Kate: Hey – that’s too close! Okay Oliver, let’s go potty now.

Eleanor: Potty!

Oliver: (Sits on the potty.) Candy please!

Eleanor: Caddy!

Kate: No candy.

George: (Muffled shrieks of delight from another room.)

Kate: George! Where did you go?

[Everyone moves from bathroom to master bedroom where George is jumping on the bed.]

[Phone rings.]

Kate: (Answers the phone.) Hello? George get off the bed!

Chris (on the phone): Hi! It sounds a little crazy over there.

Kate: Oh – you know, the usual. Eleanor get down!

Eleanor: Down!

Kate: So what are you up to? Oliver? Where did you go?

Chris: I’m looking for Starbucks but it’s not here. They said I should go to…

Kate: OLIVER! Get out of the shower! Put that down! Oh my god – it’s all over the place….NO! Don’t do that – you’re going to slip…

Chris: What happ….

Kate: Oliver just spilled soap all over the shower stall and now it’s all over his legs and all over the floor and…OLIVER! Get off the bed – you’re getting soap everywhere!

Chris: Okay – it sounds like you’re busy, so I’ll let you…

Kate: Okay bye! (hangs up)

Eleanor: Bye!

Kate: Okay Oliver (back to being calm Mom) let’s get that soap off of your legs so it doesn’t get all over the bed. George and Eleanor, get down (takes George off the bed and puts him on the floor).

George: (Screams and flails – then hits a note so high that glassware can be heard shattering throughout the house.)

Kate: Eleanor (puts Eleanor on the floor), you too.

Eleanor: Too!

Kate: I smell poopie. Eleanor – did you poopie? Oliver! What did I say? No jumping on the bed – get down!

Eleanor: Down!

Kate: George! (Lunges for George as he starts to climb back up on the bed, but trips and bangs head on the corner.) Ow! Shit!

Eleanor: Sit!

Kate: (Takes a minute to recover and then looks up to see all three kids now jumping on the bed.) Okay – everyone get down NOW. I said NO JUMPING!

Eleanor: Dupping!

Kate: (Changing tactics.) Hey – who wants to watch Curious George?