Things I don't want to forget, and that my children won't be able to remember.

A friend of mine keeps this amazing blog about her life, which, like mine, is dominated by her kids these days. (Well, mine is dominated by my kids.  Hers are very little work for me at all, actually.) She writes letters to her babes (almost) every month.  And one of them is almost three years old!  Amazing.  She has super powers, I tell you.  Her kids will have the gift of their mother's reflections on their life every step of the way.  Mine will be able to read stories about how I wish I were a real lawyer, but am glad I'm not a real lawyer, and how I'm tired and I hate dog puke.  Life's a lotto, kiddos.  No promise of justice, and odds are you won't strike it big.

All right! With that uplifting message of mediocrity, I am going to copy my friend a bit as I am in the mood to tell you kidlets all about the things you are and do right now.  Because time is just flying.  And times are so crazy right now, they need to fly.  Your dad and I aren't whatever-one-must-be enough to be parents of tinies indefinitely.  But, these great efforts are rewarded by what I already know will be among the most meaningful moments of my life.  I ain't no Buddha-mama. I don't claim to always be in the moment, nor to always let the tough moments pass through me without judgment or strife. But would you believe I am trying?  I really am trying. (And trying not to try, of course, because that's what it takes. So confusingly simple.) In the spirit of gratitude, here's to my little loves, as they are at this moment, as they will never be again.

 
Edie. My first born.  My little girl.  You are a firecracker.  You love big and fight hard.  You care deeply about others, and love to please, but you do not fall in line easily. In spite of yourself, I think.  Your vocabulary is dazzling, and where you find it lacking, you just invent words.  Hand sanitizer is hanitizer, the tongue of your sneakers has been dubbed the "shoe pit," and when you run out of things to say, you spew nonsense and then insist that it's Spanish.  Back when you had just turned two, you named your feet Tex and Poppy.  And that has stuck.  But the naming continues.  We must keep track not only of what all your dolls and stuffed animals are named, but recognize that after several months, their names may change.  The big white bear was Mary Mary for almost a year.  Now she is Havana.  I don't know why.  But I try to get it right.  You have been telling us for ages that you are concerned about putting your hand in the ocean because "a seal can bite it off."  I really don't know where this fear of seals comes from.  Frankly, we try to sweep this one under the rug.  You are a master of accents.  When you were about 20 months old, you came out of YMCA daycare, where you spent about 45 minutes once or twice a week so your mom could get a little time alone, telling me one day that Oma (a daycare lady with a discernible Southern accent) called you "Eh-Day" but that I called you "Eee-Dee."  This morning, you called me out on my Midwest accent when I said "potty."  You squinted at me and said "It's POtty, mom. You said 'PAHtty.'" Yeesh.  I'll work on opening up my vowels for you.  Tough crowd.  You have been working hard since about 18 months of age in learning everyone's names - including dads and pets.  Your memory floors me.  When we are in the car, you routinely tell me or quiz me on the names of all your friends and the names of the friends' parents.  You are also very interested in how everyone is related, and you've got it down pretty well.  The other day you talked to your Grandma Sally on the phone.  And when your dad came home you said "I talked to your mom, dad."  You've even mastered the fact that both of your grandpas are named Tim.  That was poor planning on our part, by the way, sorry about that.  You've been in school for a little over a month now.  You love it.  It still makes me sad some days but it's where you need to be.  I'll admit, though not happily, that I feel a bit of distance between us right now where school and your little brother came in.  But before school, where there is now distance, there was so much strife and struggle between us.  You are growing up and needed more than I could offer.  So though I miss you, I know these are growing pains.  Yours and mine.

You first note home from a teacher.  At two and a half.  

And you actually like this teacher a lot.  

Lord help the ones you do not like, and there will be some, 

daughter of mine. I am in for it, aren't I?

 
Because of school, you have a host of new traditions.  Before we eat, you now ask (ahem...demand) that we put our hands in our laps, and then we all must say four times, "We are thankful."  It is absolutely lovely and has given us a small moment in time to take a deep breath and smile at each other during the most chaotic part of our day.  Another dinner time favorite is "jokes."  We all make up jokes these days, at your request (ahem...dire insistence).  These jokes all involve the dogs doing silly things together.  And the punchline always involves a bodily function.  It gets big laughs.  You pick out your own clothes, and this can be challenging, but I do my absolute best to not interfere.  I do draw the line when you climb up into your closet and ransack summer clothes that I packed away in a box, and attempt to wear a tank top on a 50 degree day. You think that time is cyclical, and tell us about when you will be a baby, and that one day when you are a mama we will be kids and you'll take us to the zoo.  Your dad and I go to sleep most nights laughing about and marveling over the things you say and do, Edes.  You make our heart so full.

Eli.  My sweet little boy.  Oh how I cannot get enough of you.  I don't know you that well yet, because you are only three months old and still have worlds to show us about who you are.  What an honor it is to witness.  You are just the snuggliest baby ever.  You love to sit cradled in my lap, stare right into my eyes, and talk and talk and talk.  You have chattered at us since you were only four or five weeks old, and you truly respond to us! It's amazing. You adore your sister (and she you).  She is like a celebrity already in your eyes.  You have the most incredible laugh.  All I want to do is hear it.  I would not want a record of all the dumb things I do to try and make you smile.  Lately, I have to be careful about looking at you too much when you are nursing, because when you are in the right mood, just seeing me cracks you up so much that you pop off and milk goes everywhere.  And then it is so hilarious that I keep doing it anyways.  And it's a mess. As your conversation habits imply, you already want to be part of the action.  If we try to put you in your bouncie seat while we eat dinner, you shout at us until your dad picks you up, plops you in his lap, and eats with one hand.  You are pleased as anything after that.  You love your baths - as long as I don't wait until you are too tired!  And it's a rather small window, love, so I don't always get it right.  You kick and splash the water, and stick your tongue out as you arch your neck to get your head further in the water. As sweet as you are, you can certainly dish it out when you are unhappy.  And good on you for that, sonny boy!  That's how your sister has trained us.  You deserve your shot to be heard as well.  Your current move is swiveling on your stomach like a break dancer on your crib.  You tend to get your little head pressed up against the bars.  If you'd give me a little warning about what you were up to, I could prevent this more often than not.  But you prefer to work covertly until you are in a real jam.  You are so close to grabbing your feet and to grasping toys.  Which reminds me that I have a mess of toy sanitizing to do before you begin the everything in your mouth phase... When I am holding you, I feel so warm and complete.  I used to doze off when holding or nursing you all the time during your first few weeks.  And that's not like me at all.  I never fall asleep without concerted effort.  But you were like this soft, warm little slumber magnet.  My thoughts would quiet and my body would relax, and there we'd be, dozing together.  That you are already three months old - quickly going on four - blows me away.  Thank you for choosing us, Eli.  I can't even say that I look forward to all the good times in the future, because honestly I can't wish away these moments for anything.

Drowning in a sea of cupcakes

It went in a blue cupcake.  And it came out a blue... well... you can fill in the details.  It was some scifi sh... Yeah.

Edie just got invited to a birthday party.  Another birthday party.  And now that she is in preschool, there will be another, and another, and another.  We were told (warned?) before moving here that Nashville was a friendly place.  And in the sense that people intended it, that is certainly true.  Strangers are wont to chat you up, or holler "that's a cute baby you've got!" from across the street.  But in a sense that we didn't fully expect, we've found ourselves in a genuinely open-hearted community where we've made more friends in the last year than ... ever?  Yeah.  Ever.  We selected our neighborhood carefully for a place where we'd fit in (Google terms: over-educated + sort of hippies + babies + enough money but not a lot of money + Tennessee = East Nashville).  And while East Nashville is delightfully nonhomogenous, we've generally fit in well. 

You see, the hub and I met when we were 18.  In the dormitories of the University of Michigan.  Me, a native Michigander who did a terrible job ranking dorm preferences so I ended up stuck in North Campus in the engineering/music school-dominated abodes.  He, a math and circuits loving Iowan with hair that covered his eyes and just a rocking hemp necklace.  It wasn't love at first sight (he had to pretty much work his way through every friend, roommate, and relative I had before he settled on me), but we were attached at the hip from early on.  And by junior year, there were bells, on the hill, and we finally heard them ringing, etc. Since then, we have lived in no less than ten (TEN!) separate abodes, in three states, and two countries.  We are each other's constant.  And thus, even more than your typical married couple as best friends, we have often been each other's only and best friends.  This whole having lots of friends thing is new territory. (One day, after several people had stopped to say hello to me in Will's presence, he looked at me with narrowed eyes and said "You're really popular." in a tone that connoted his willingness to go to the police if I were in fact now a meth dealer.)

In keeping with my comfort zone of not knowing anyone, I even resisted joining a neighborhood moms club for the first several months I was here.  The cost of joining was twenty dollars.  The personal obligation was nothing.  But the idea that I would just meet a bunch of people that I would like enough to want to spend time with so easily seemed absurd.  So I wrote them off as some type of Stepford sorority for awhile and just be'd by myself.  It took me a long time to find a (comfortably) small handful of awesome moms/friends in Germany and it had been sad to leave them and exhausting to think of starting over.  Mostly for the two year old's amusement, I joined last February, and now I am stuck with a massive amount of friends among truly some of the best folks I've had the pleasure of knowing.  It's a real burden.

And these people we've met and confoundingly like a lot? They've pretty much all got kids.  Oh, and here's the kicker: I genuinely like their kids, too! And I don't just like all kids.  Seriously. I mean I love them all because they are children and humans and therefore deserving of love.  But, like them all? Notsomuch.  The kids of these great people, though, are these cool, funny, darling children.  But every last one has a birthday.

Edie has never had a birthday party.  Her birthday has been celebrated in low-key family ways.  There have been desserts and a couple gifts.  Last year, the grandparents came down and we all trekked to the playground down the street.  And that's been great.  But she's wise to the whole thing now.  When's my birfday, momma? It's my birfday soon, mommy! I will have a party! Your birthday is in January, child. That is not soon at all.  And who, pray tell, is throwing you this party?

And now we've got another kid.  And unless I start really offending people (because offending them a little is clearly not enough to make them write me off, according to my field research), he is going to get invited to birthday parties.  We are talking roughly one a weekend until I am old and grey - presuming that my birthday bash lifestyle makes me old and grey over the course of the next decade.

I am not proposing that we stop birthday parties.  I must concede that the parties themselves are in realm of delightful.  Just feeling like I am on the edge of jumping into a balloon-filled rabbit hole.  And before I do - because even me and my heart o' stone will - I am taking a look behind me.  To the lazy Saturdays of getting brunch with Will at I don't even know what time because my life used to not be ruled by the iron fist of naptimes.  To the simplicity of sending a birthday card that I carefully selected from a bookstore where I spent awhile perusing, instead of mass ordering birthday presents from Amazon Prime because my children will eat my soul if I take them on too many errands.  Days when I looked in the mirror for more than just to check for lettuce in my teeth and then to scowl at my weird hairdo or puffy eyes. 

And Will and I do still enjoy the benefit of our ease together from almost eight years as a couple before we had kids, and the shared history of so many new starts made hand-in-hand.  Well, I still enjoy the benefits, anyways.  I have learned over the years to amuse myself wildly by teasing Will about absurd things.  I did a killer monologue pretending to be him ordering dinner alone at a Subway the other day. I was in stitches, I tell you.  Friends? We didn't need no stinking friends!


But we've got friends in spades now, and it's time to pay the birthday piper.  Bring on the sugar highs and lows, because we're here to party.

Transitions

Two year old's shouldn't be this pensive.  But Edie didn't get that message.

 
After posting about Edie's troubles at school, I reviewed what I'd said and I think the day's frustrations obfuscated the heart of the matter;  it's not as if I am anguished over her not napping - if she could not nap and be ok, I'd be peachy keen.  School, as such, isn't the issue.  Edie loves school.  Her lack of sleep, however, is hurting her ability to be a kid who can be at school.  And her lack of sleep is caused, I believe, by a deep-seated insecurity about the world; a constant sense of disquiet which - while always lurking under the surface - has now reached a full boil since her brother was born.  I have felt for sometime that when Edie acts out when I need to take care of her brother, she is experiencing not jealousy or anger, but sincere grief.  But though my heart breaks for her, I am in the middle of so very much that my cup is not always full enough to be there for her during her bouts of (loud & raging) sorrow.  All of this is a roundabout way of saying that at this time, I need her in school because of the way she acts at home, but the way she acts at home is caused by the same inner-turmoil that is preventing her from being at school.... and round and round we go.

I am currently reading Raising Your Spirited Child in my never-ending, though frequently faltering, attempt to be the parent I want to be.  This book doesn't purport to be for everyone, but instead for those of us with so-called Spirited Children.  Before I had Edie, I would have most likely judged this book to be a self-fulfilling prophesy for ineffective, neurotic parents.  I don't feel that way now.

The Spirited Child, so the story goes, is a child who is more intense, more sensitive and alert, and just more, more, more.  There are several characteristics of these children, all of which Edie meets, some to staggering degrees.  And the greatest of these: difficulty with transitions.  Transitions being changes; any variance from what was or the status quo.  Check plus for that one.

Edie and Changes: A Case Study

From birth, Edie did not like anything outside of her comfort zone.  She could fall asleep no where but in her own house, under controlled conditions.  Her pediatrician warned me when she was just a few weeks old that my baby was not good at "shutting off."  That she seemed unable to turn away from stimulation and relax, instead compelled to follow everything around her with all of her senses, quickly becoming overwhelmed and overwrought.  It took me sometime to figure this out about her, and so I expected her to do what other tiny infants did.  For example, when she was tired, wouldn't she just fall asleep?  The answer, I would find, was no.  And I soon had a two month old baby who was awake for hours and hours at a time, with bags under her eyes, and hours-long screaming fits each day.  She rarely smiled or laughed, and instead just seemed exhausted with existence.  Breast feeding was one of the few places in which she found comfort, and I am so glad for it.  As my midwife pointed out, when a baby is nursing, she knows she has nourishment, warmth, and her mother all right there.  So it's the best place to be.  Indeed, for Edie, I believe it was essential to her thriving.

We figured out the sleep stuff, though it meant a lot more of training me than training her.  I truly stayed home for months on end, leaving for dog walks and essential grocery trips, all with Edie in tow, and all with her in a baby carrier able to nurse at will, or at least have her meltdowns against my chest.  We did not eat out, we did not play with friends, but she became rested, I became attuned to her schedule and helped her to sleep.  Will and I did attempt to get Edie used to her dad putting her to sleep, mostly because I was going to have to leave on a trip by myself for 5 days when she was six months old.  That trip, one I am still glad I took as it was for my little sister's wedding, was nevertheless totally heart breaking. Each time we had Will put her to sleep, I would leave the house to avoid any confusion, and he would painstakingly recreate the bedtime experience.  And each time, when I would return, the experience was so catastrophic that my husband could not speak to me about it until the next day.  It went like this: Edie would have her wind down with daddy, get her pajamas put on in her dim room, take her warm bottle of breastmilk, begin to fall asleep while he rocked her, and then as if a ghost were shaking her awake from the great beyond, Edie would lose it.  She would wail in his arms, choking on tears, spitting up her milk, and continue in this manner until she literally passed out from exhaustion, usually an hour and a half later.  Edie was capable of this at four months of age, and her sweet father continued this tortuous exercise once a week for two months in our sincere attempt to get her used to him before my trip.  No progress was ever made, and once the trip was over, I put Edie to sleep for every nap and every night of her life until past her second birthday.  Do you guys ever get a sitter so you can go out an enjoy Munich? well-meaning friends would ask. No. We do not.

Fast-forward to nap consolidation, and Edie and I did enjoy ourselves in Munich.  We made friends, played in every park and playground, dined in many restaurants, and just made sure we were always. home. for. sleep.  Challenging, but doable, and we did it.  As she got older, we noticed her sensitivity to change in other ways.  At a year old, she had a line up of stuffed animals in her bed memorized, and you'd better get it together if you wanted her to sleep.  Edie was fiercely attached to a particular blanket (so we bought three more of them).  When I rotated her crib 90 degrees to improve the flow of the room when she was about a year old (I am clearly a glutton for punishment), she was inconsolable for a day.  As the time approached for our move, we decided to shield Edie from the chaos as much as possible.  She was eighteen months old when we moved.  So for the weeks leading up, as we sold items, and packed up this and that, we confined the mess to our bedroom and kept her out.  The times she managed to peek her head in, she was aghast and battered us with her baby-sized questions? Whas-sis? Whas-dat, mamma?  Will took down one item in her room before I left Germany with Edie, leaving Will to deal with the movers and join us in the U.S. a few days later.  It was a small shelf with hooks on it.  That night, as I went to put Edie to sleep, she could not settle, pointing at the void where the shelf had been, asking me about it and her towel, which normally hung on it.


Transitions, on the whole, have not gotten easier.  After we moved to the U.S., she became upset at any and everything changing.  She cried when the moon when behind the clouds so that she could no longer see it.  Edie begged us for "meow, meow," with tears pouring down her face, when a neighborhood cat walked away out of eye sight.  Trains coming, and then, sadly, going, were causes for meltdowns.  These days, when I change her sheets, she spends five minutes fawning over every new detail, thanking me and commenting on each change.  Her teachers tell me she cries when either one of them goes on break.  She yells at me with true indignation if I drive her father's car or wear his shoes.  I recently replaced the bottle of soap in her bathroom, and weeks later, still hear about that.  I bought a new stroller this weekend, and even though we are still keeping the old one and promised her this one was just for when she AND Eli needed to be in the stroller at once, she was thrown for a total loop by its existence and had to be cajoled, begged and bribed (perhaps strong-armed, too) to get into the new wheeled-beast.  My daughter notices if I change my shirt, wear shoes she hasn't seen in a few weeks, buy new cereal, or put out a fresh box of tissues.  Edie doesn't want to go to sleep, doesn't want to wake up, please don't make her put down that toy, and god forbid you need to get her into the car. 

That Edie has difficulty with transitions is no surprise to learn, but I've never pondered on it specifically before.  We've done pretty well with coping strategies, from empowering her with certain choices to always giving her a heads up about upcoming changes in the day or in life.  As far as her brother's existence, she was at my side through each of my prenatal visits.  They were performed on my couch, and my midwife would generously let Edie be as much a part of them as a two year old could be.  We explained that a baby was coming, and I believe all of this preparation did do something.  But it wasn't going to be enough for Edie.  You can't prepare any kid for a shift so jarring and fundamental as having to share your mother's world with another human being of equal rank.  And you especially can't expect my Spirited Child to like it.

The Root of It All: A Look in the Mirror

One interesting part of reading this book is that it's made me reflect on my own nature.  And, news flash, me - you are the WORST at transitions!  It's difficult to describe, but even down to the most mundane, I feel an utter sense of dread and inertia at the prospect of many even minor changes. Even when those changes are bidden by me, totally inevitable, or routine.  I still cry when leave my parents' house after a visit.  I had insomnia for a period of time in college due to my inability to cope with the fact that days kept slipping away into nothing and nighttime meant the end of yet another.  As a child, I would stay in the car after arriving home for a prolonged period, continuing to read my book or just sit awhile.  I still did this before we had children - much to my husband's frustration, and only do not these days because it is simply impossible.  No matter how tired I am each night, I have to be dragged to bed because I just don't wanna.  When friends or family come over, I find myself being cold and averting eye contact - totally in spite of me begging myself to act nice! - until I have a chance to adjust to their presence.  I spent the first year of my marriage telling my husband that we'd made a huge mistake and we should just end it now.  And then I would have nightmares most nights about losing him. (My crazy brain couldn't figure out which change was scarier with that one.) I experience pit-of-my-stomach grief when a good book ends.  And when my children were born, it is now clear to me that a lot of what I felt was neither sadness nor happiness, but simply a rush of emotion that I was not equipped to deal with because the change that had just occurred was so huge.  For days (weeks?) after Eli was born, I often found myself in tears and if asked why, I could only manage that it was all "so much."  And I didn't mean the work, or the lack of sleep.  It was the bigger picture shift.  It was, and is, hard to put into words.

So, um, sorry little girl.  Mommy didn't do you any favors with this one.

The Prognosis?
Well, let's be real.  I read this book in 5 page increments because that is all I have the energy for. It ain't over yet. BUT, I feel good about it.  Right now, I don't have my plan of action in place.  What I am appreciating, though, is a sense of forgiveness that it has allowed me to bestow on myself.  And then when I consider the fact that in the past three years I've lived in California, Germany, and now Tennessee, utterly starting from scratch each time, going from zero to two kids in the meantime, I try to cut myself a little slack because this way we've been living has been hard on me.

I must forgive my own frustration.  I am starting to forgive my imperfect parenting, and acknowledge that Edie - though easier than many children in certain ways - has presented me with challenges in this respect.  I do forgive Edie for her inability to process change - and will continue to remind myself of this.  I will try to forgive myself for being so triggered by seeing her react in ways that I see reflected in myself.  And in the process of forgiveness, the dam starts to come down and I am a tiny bit better for it already.

We still have a way to go. But we're getting there. We've got to get somewhere, what with impermanence inconveniently defining existence and all.  And I will not be buying any new furniture or dying my hair a new color in the meantime.

Puke-tastic Wednesday

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Sad sack in penguin jammies.  

I've been picking up some legal work lately and it's been taking up a lot of my spare time.  Which is to say, the moments that I am not utterly needed by one or both of my children, I sit down to draft a motion or two.  I love being able to contribute financially, even though it's not a whole lot.  I like being able to keep my resume honest, and to exercise my brain a bit.  But I do not care for being stretched so thin some days that I am not good at, or pleased about, the too many tasks at hand.

It's not that I never have time to work.  I do, though it means forgoing all hobbies and most relaxation.  The main issue is that the work of a caretaker is totally unpredictable and allows for no putting off.  The inferior design of our offspring does not end with their chillingly floppy necks at birth, or the fact that as infants passing what is essentially high-pressure poop water requires strained grunts. Children also lack snooze buttons. And child who is hungry, tired, hurt, or sick needed you five minutes ago.

Today was Edie's last day of school for the week.  She attends Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday.  I miss her in a way, but truly life with her at home all day everyday was unmanageable.  And I love having some time alone with the shiny new baby.  This is only her third week at school, and despite its notable challenges, school has been a good thing.  And though it’s only her third week, I’ve gotten real used to this set-up.  Playing lawyer while Eli sleeps, and when he wakes, cuddles and luxurious stroller walks through my neighborhood, basking in the company of a child who has not yet learned to fill the air with “Mama, mom, mommy. What’s that? Where is that guy going? Are we going to a friend’s house? Where’s dad? What did you say? Mom? Mommy? Mama?!”  It’s all been working out pretty well.

So I was less than pleased when Ms. Preschool Teacher called me this morning less than an hour after Edie was dropped off to tell me that Edie seemed sick.  I knew that I had sent the kid to school with some minor sniffles.  I did.  And I had some hesitation.  But another human child defect is that their noses run like 50% of the time.  This obviously has a lot to do with the fact that they spend a great deal of time acquiring every germ in a five-mile radius.  Don’t put that in your mouth! you will beg.  And then they will put it in their mouths, and look at you with dead eyes, as the bacteria which once coated the floor-Lego at Target gets transferred to their bloodstream.  But it wasn’t the sniffles that earned me this phone call.  It was projectile vomit.  I wanted to pick up my daughter immediately, of course.  But more than that, I wanted to rewind back to the happy place where I was drinking coffee, wrapping up two projects, and contemplating one of those lovely unhurried days where you clean your house with a song in your heart – instead of as fast as you can so you can retain some dignity when the visitors arrive.  

When I came up to the door, Edie was there, dazed and pukey. “Mama, I did vomit.”  The teacher warned me that there was vomit on her shoes.  And on the sweater she’d warn.  This was in addition to the clearly visible vomit all up and down the child’s shirt and pants.  And it was just a warm-up for the heart breaking and disgusting day we were about to have.  Suffice it to say that the mini steam cleaner we bought paid for itself many times over. But the thing is, though super sad and nauseous Edie needed 100% of me 100% of the time, Eli needed 100% of me about 33% of the time, and then work needed me sometime.  But sometime today.  Because outside of my personal Groundhog Day vortex, there are deadlines. 

There was a magical moment when Eli was sleeping and Edie, in spite of her best efforts, drifted off for about twenty minutes.  I was able to return the work call that I’d gotten earlier while I was driving home with a screeching three-month old and a pitifully sick and sad two year old.  Watching that call come in, avoiding even touching the phone lest I accidentally answer it (and almost certainly turn it onto speakerphone instantly), makes me feel like an imposter.  

There were less magical moments, like when I was rubbing Edie’s back as she let loose into a bucket and Eli woke up, screaming himself into a sweaty rage as he waited to be rescued.  I did manage to finish everything I needed to as my alter ego, Lawyer Lady.  And I was glad to be here for Edie, to wipe her face and to answer her question “why am I sick, mom?” over and over again.

I have days that I wish I worked.  But I don’t have any days where I wish I wasn’t here with these kids.  A break now and again?  Absolutely.  Armed with my steam cleaner, though, I feel really lucky. 

Things I Hope Are Funny One Day: Googling "family therapist" before 9 a.m.

Apparently, every one of your dear friends and family members assuring you that your daughter will be a good pupil is not a force strong enough to make it so.  I got word yesterday from Edie's preschool teacher that Edie is being less than cooperative.  I'm not shocked.  But I am disappointed. And exhausted.  I'd noticed the teacher's demeanor go from sunny to stoney over the last few days, but, you know, she's a young gal about the town.  Could be boyfriend troubles? Or her shoes are too tight?  No.  It's my kid.  Word is, Edie won't nap and so she's over-tired and thus she's hell on wheels in class.  I'm not sure what to do, but I know that there is a waiting list a mile long to get into this school so something better change fast.

So, she refuses to nap at school. But how do you get a child with supernatural no-sleep abilities to sleep? THIS IS NOT RHETORICAL. I REALLY REALLY WANT TO KNOW!!!  Edie stayed awake through international travel at 18 months, she could skip naps for the entire day by a few weeks of age if she did not have access to perfect quiet, my boobs, and her own bed.  When we took her to the US from Germany at 11 months, she slept so frighteningly little during the entirety of our stay that when we finally returned home, she had lost her voice from crying and her first night back went to sleep and didn't wake up but to nurse once for EIGHTEEN HOURS. These days, to make up for her nap deficit, I am racing to make dinner early, so we can get her wound down, and then in bed, at 7 pm.  But best laid plans are not enough, and she still keeps herself up until nearly 10.  We are trying. so. hard.  Even Will, the calmest, most loving man and dad I know, cannot keep his cool anymore.

A big part of me is beating myself up.  I know I have not been the mom that she needs.  But a small part of me thinks that this has been unreasonably hard.  Her brother is three months old.  She is two and a half.  News flash, child: your long term memory can no longer reach a point before your brother's existence!  She spends the day alternating between hysterical (and I mean hysterical - sounds I have never heard that manifest just utter confusion and dispair) crying, flagrant disobendience, and heart-breaking clinginess - "mommy, are you happy?" "mommy, can I hug you" "mommy, are you tired? You're not sad, mommy. You are just tired."

And while I typed, I got the second call from preschool.  Come and get her.  Nothing is working.  The class can't function with Edie going on like this.  Her brother is waking up now, and I should put him in the car seat and race there.  But I don't know what to do once I get her.  I'll go in a minute. I will.  But I am scared of the day ahead.

I think I need to talk to someone about this.  I don't think Edie needs help from someone else.  She needs help from me.  But I need some new tools.  Because I am at a loss and losing more of both of our sanity each day.  Full time three month old, part time legal work from home, a nearly expelled from preschool two year old, and now some therapy.  Next up: Santeria. 

Oh my Edie.  You are my most sensitive, special, wonderful little girl.  Let's get it together, hon.  My heart is breaking.  Mom's coming now.

Take my furbabies. Please.

You can't squeeze blood from a stone, dog.  You just can't.

Hey there! Are you a parent of one or more young children?  Got yourself a dog, too?  Then I know a little secret: You hate your dog.  “Hate” is, of course, a very strong word.  And quite reductive.  But I think you’ll find if you make a long list of all the things you feel for your dog, and then weigh them out, selecting the one that resonates strongest with your inner most feelings, you’re going to land on hate.  (And you are going to want to sum it up, because believe that with the endless boring kid stories that you subject the world to, no one wants to hear more than one word about your dog.)  You see, hate does not imply indifference; you can’t hate what you don’t care a lot about, and so it allows for bursts of pity, remorse, and even love.  But, yeah, you hate your dog.

And why wouldn’t you?  Your life is filled with doing disgusting things for children who you would walk through fire for.  Your reward is little sleep, no social life, and the psychological torture that any peace you may happen upon can and often will be ripped out from under you at any moment, day or night.  So when your dog, say, walks around the house vomiting at the exact moment you were going to sit down to shovel in a meal during the twenty minutes of reprieve that you were only probably going to get anyways on account of the children, it is not blasé indifference that you feel.  It’s hateful rage.  Because what you do for your kids, you just do.  You may have moments of feeling overwhelmed, but you soldier on.  Your dogs become so very… optional.  But you opted for them.  And now they’re yours.  And they are river-dancing on your last nerve with their smelly, flea-riddled, veterinarian bill inducing antics.

While I still love them on sporadic occasion, I used to love them full-time.  Loved, loved my dogs.  I was far more likely to attend a function if it was dog-friendly.  I chose restaurants in walking distance with patios so that our dog could sit at our feet while we dined.  They made me laugh, slept in my bed when my husband was out of town, and were on my mind frequently when I was apart for them.  Now, I knew that I wanted kids one day, and I don’t think I ever had any true delusions that my dogs would somehow stay equal in my eyes.  Any thoughts I had like that I at least had the sense to keep to myself, because the rational me knew it wasn’t so.  But what I couldn’t and didn’t see was how the similar work of pet ownership – though vastly less demanding – would so frequently require sanity that I simply did not have to offer.

As a disclaimer, I walk my dogs daily.  When we go out of town, we get an in-house dog sitter.  Their kibble is of the finest caliber.  And my kid loves them, which wins them many a bonus point.  But not a day goes by when the burden of their existence does not give me pause, and there are many days when I want them to take a long doggy walk off a short doggy pier.  There is currently a pile of puke in the EXACT CENTER of the floor underneath my large and heavy bed.  I spent a goodly amount of time with a Swiffer, roll of paper towel, and an arsenal of cleaners, yet I know it is only 90% clean.  I have to live with that fact until my husband and I make time to move the bed and scrub the floor.  And yet I can turn my head and see the vile perpetrator of this act lounging her smelly self on my never-to-be-really-clean sofa, just resting up for the next time she can steal food that I beg her to drop because I know it will make her sick and then it does make her sick.  *Shudder*

If you have dogs and no kids, and you one day want kids, I understand that you will not agree with me.  And that is fine.  Because I don’t need you to believe that I am right.  The thing is, I am right.  But I won’t ever say “I told you so.”  There are so many lessons that you’ve got to learn yourself.  So feel free to give me a call when you are ready to admit that you hate your dog.

Eli's Birth Story

 The last days of my pregnancy were filled with more calm relaxation than anticipation, even though I didn’t go into labor until six days after my due date.  During that week, my oldest, two and a half year old Edie, started a month-long summer parent’s day out program.  It was her first preschool experience and although it was only two days a week, I was nervous that because its start date coincided so closely with my due date, Edie would feel pushed out and displaced.  But the baby gave us an extra week during which Edie not only adjusted to school but emerged as teacher’s pet. Not to mention that this bonus week gave me my first two Edie-free days at home ever that were not filled by studying for the Tennessee bar.  The first day she was in school, I walked the dogs, rested, cleaned and organized.  The second day, house eerily clean and organized, I was able to go to the gym and get a new haircut.  This haircut was apparently a major departure because when I arrived in Edie’s class to pick her up, she stood next to her teacher, squinted at me and said “Is that you, Rachael?”.  Very funny, my little comedian. 

Later that evening there was a dinner for the neighborhood moms club I’m in.  I hadn’t rsvp’d for it, given that I thought I’d be home with a tiny baby on that date.  But in a fit of the closest thing to bachelorette-dom that I imagined I would be feeling for quite awhile, I decided to attend.  So after my day of a workout without having to leave a teary-eyed child in YMCA daycare, an hour alone in a salon, a nice dinner sans kids with my whale-like self somehow squeezed into what was never meant to be a little black dress, and at least ten different moms at the dinner commanding my unborn child to be born already, contractions started as I walked to my car around 10 p.m. that night. 

I didn’t tell my husband at first when I got home because they were gentle enough that I thought they could fade away.  But after we went to bed, they were strong and regular enough for me to feel certain that baby was on the way.  So I rolled over and told him I was having contractions, but nothing urgent, so go back to sleep and I’d text Susie, my midwife, to let her know.  He heard “go back to sleep” loud and clear.  Sleep didn’t find me that night, but I was able to rest and to stay in bed until about 6 a.m.  I felt happy and excited, but also determined to let these early contractions pass through me without counting the seconds between each one or letting my mind run amok.  Though the birth of my daughter was a healthy and in general a lovely experience, it was long and draining.  Like many first timers, I let my adrenaline get the best of me from the first contraction and in retrospect I believe that clenching anxiety gummed up the works.

Around 6 or 7 in the morning, I called my midwife, Susie.  We had a regular check-up scheduled for that afternoon at 1:30 p.m. but we decided that she should stop by earlier.  For weeks, maybe months, Edie had often danced around me yelling out “Susie! Susie! Come get out Tummy Baby!”, just sort of shouting it into the wind, hoping that this alleged baby brother or sister would finally make an appearance.  It seemed like today would be that day – though I didn’t tell Edie that Tummy Baby seemed imminent.  I did not want to get her all worked up and her well-being was my only nagging concern.  We don’t have any family in or near Nashville, so we were counting on my mother-in-law driving in from northern Indiana as fast as she could.  Set to arrive at our house about noon, Will and I had a lot of time to kill with Edie, and a lot of contractions to disguise as mommy playing the brand new freeze ‘n’ breathe game.  It became obvious that having Edie around wasn’t doing much good for anyone, so I called our dear friend Carolyn who rearranged her morning so that she could watch Edie for a few hours.  Will dropped Edie off and told me that she went in without so much as a peep about her mom’s absence.  This was among the first of many leaps in independence that Edie would make surrounding her brother’s entrance into this world.  And it made me feel that intense mix of grief, pride, and joy that I never knew until I became a mother.

My morning at home was rather calm, all things considered.  Susie came by at 10, and confirmed that things seemed to be progressing well.  I was about 4 cm dilated, contractions were regular but still manageable.  Because she had another appointment in the neighborhood, Susie left for awhile, ready to return when I needed her.  For his part, Will was there for whatever I needed but he let it slip that maybe he wouldn’t hate a trip to the gym.  I asked him to keep his phone on and told him to get going; I could certainly appreciate the anxiety he was feeling with our world about to get turned upside down again.  I think we both needed a moment alone.  For my part, I started off pacing up and down my hallway to get the contractions going stronger, but eventually found myself swinging on our back patio on a fairly mild Tennessee summer morning.

Will picked Edie up on his way back.  We gave her lunch and then – in a move that truly solidifies my status as a control freak – I rocked Edie to sleep for her nap, singing lullabies through no less than four contractions.  I wanted so badly to hang on to the final threads of normalcy and my obsession with Edie getting enough sleep could not be quelled even by active labor.

Soon afterward, Susie returned and my mother-in-law arrived.  Though we were all quiet as mice, Edie could not be fooled even in her sleep. She uncannily woke up less than half an hour after I got her down.  But Edie’s short nap was just as well, because it was getting pretty clear that this baby was going to arrive in the near future. I was not mobile at this point, but Edie came in my room to say hello to me and then got her real thrill when she saw that Grandma Sally was here to play.  As I lay on my bed while folks scampered around in the house, Edie cried out and then I heard her dad say that she’d gotten a splinter.  Edie and Susie had gotten very close throughout my prenatal care, and upon hearing her cry Susie tried to make a pit stop to help her little friend out.  I truly didn’t mean to steal the show from Edie’s splinter, but I began to groan in my room and Susie decided to abandon splinter duty for now and instead focus on getting her assistant, Cindy, here.  Edie and her grandma left to go play at nearby Ugly Mugs café.

Susie examined me again and I was at 8 cm at around 1 p.m.  Now the endorphins were flowing and I was rendered totally drunk with that surreal birthing sleepiness.  The bed hadn’t been prepared, the birth tub hadn’t been filled, Susie hadn’t changed into her scrubs, and I was still wearing my sun dress.  But this baby was coming.  My labor was getting intense at this point and I was getting close to the transition phase.  Being in active labor in the middle of the day was a totally different experience than my first time, when I labored throughout the night and gave birth near sunrise.  This time, I was much more able to be fully present and not just exhausted and overwhelmed.  At this point, it was all very primal.  I felt like an animal that had wandered off to lay down in a field to give birth.  When my water broke, I muttered “Oooh. That was my water.” sounding not at all unlike Eeyore.   The intelligence of the process was a lot clearer to me than the first time, and Susie’s reassurance and quiet support kept me at ease.

Before it was time to push, Susie and Cindy offered the birth tub to me, saying it was really my last chance to move.  I shot that offer down immediately.  I don’t curse, have negative feelings toward people, or even shout that much while giving birth.  But I have very strong opinions on being touched or moved.  My loving husband tried to rub my shoulders and was told something like “I love you. Thank you. But you must stop.”  At this juncture, moving was not an option for me.  Susie did manage to get me to roll onto my side, though I whined a bit about even this amount of jostling.  

Once I was in a good position, it was time to push.  I was left almost entirely to myself during this process, which for me was perfect.  A few directions, suggestions, and words of encouragement, but mostly it was just me and baby.  I tried with everything I had to stay with the contractions – not to shirk away and just wait until they passed.  But instead to connect with the baby, focusing on this new person who I finally got to meet.  As we got toward the final pushes, Susie and Cindy laughed about the head of hair my kid had.  And though I don’t think I would’ve believed this before it happened, I was relieved to feel the crowning begin because I knew we were so close to being done, and I knew that I could muster up the final effort to help my baby out.  There was a short spell of odd quiet when the baby was first out, which I later learned was because his rather short umbilical cord was partially wrapped around him so that it took a bit of wiggling to get him into my arms.  But within a few moments, Will told me that we had a son – just as he’d been the one to tell me that we had a daughter.  And then I got that little boy in my arms.  As soon as he saw me he let out a short but powerful cry, and then settled on my chest.  It was 3:43 p.m. and we had our son, who we named Eli Robert.

It is hard to find words for what I felt when my son was placed in my arms.  When Edie was born, I loved her completely but I was so scared.  It took me time to set aside my fear of being needed so completely by this helpless human being and learn to revel in the experience.  But with Eli, though I had apprehensions about managing life with two kids, I was ready for him.  Finally meeting him was like standing under a waterfall, just totally consumed with gratitude and bliss. 

Edie came home shortly after the afterbirth was out.  Instead of bounding in like usual, she came into the bedroom cautiously; my sensitive girl could no doubt tell how sacred this moment was.  And I was in heaven in my own bed, with Eli in my arms, Will at my side, and now my first born there with us.  Edie absolutely glowed as she leaned in to inspect and kiss this tiny boy, as we told her “This is Tummy Baby, Edes. His name is Eli.”  For days she marveled in that fact - “You don’t have a Tummy Baby anymore, mom.  Eli is Tummy Baby!”

Evening was upon us, so Will ordered some pizzas and Susie and Cindy stayed for dinner.  I felt well enough to sit on the couch with Eli, close to my family and birth team who were having a little pizza party.  We took some more pictures.  I thanked Susie and Cindy again and again, though never enough, for seeing us though Eli’s birth.  Will put Edie to sleep that night, which was a first – he’d never done so with me in the house.  She complained for a moment, but quickly relented and was even asleep at a decent hour.   My quiet Eli had roused a few times to nurse but was generally in a peaceful slumber on his birthday.  And I even got a few hours of sleep that first night, mostly with Eli dozing on my chest as I lay propped up on a pillow, or with him curled up against my side.  If I could’ve frozen time, I would have, just for a bit, to savor those moments before all of the endless small things in life add back up and cloud what’s real and important.