Have a good day, little monkey!

 Ze Monkey Lunch Box

This morning, my little Edie starts preschool.  It's a part-time gig, from 9-1pm twice a week, but it's a lot for us.  I am excited for the toddler-free time - though soon enough it will be time filled with a newborn.  And I think that Edie is really going to like it.  My daughter loves to learn. And she relishes stopping foolishness, micromanaging, and speaking her mind.  Perfect teacher's pet!

Excitement aside, I am really going to miss her!  We've been two peas in a pod since she was born.  It took me almost two years to have her baby sat, and we've only been apart for entire days for me to take the bar exam and for a couple difficult - but admittedly cathartic - solo vacation weekends away from her during this pregnancy.

Soon after you have your first born, people like to talk about how you "need" to get away, "need" to let someone else care for them.  I really don't understand this advice.  I felt physically unable to leave Edie in anyone's care for a long time, and since I was far away from family or friends who would (well-meaningly) insist on babysitting, and also since I have a partner who is arguably a bigger sap than I am when it comes to leaving Edie outside of parental care, I just didn't leave her.  This is not to suggest that I was never over-whelmed - I was quite often during that first year.  Nor do I mean to imply that I was or am always Mary Sunshine.  More like Mary Partly Sunny with a Chance of Scattered Showers.

I think that my inability to let someone else care for my child has been something, for me, that was correlated not at all to my super-momness, but instead by my insecurity as a mom. I worried everyday about my ability to figure this whole thing out and so I just couldn't imagine that anyone else could step in and solve the impossible riddle that was my baby.  Seems like it also has to do with the child at hand, and mine was long a mama's girl.  Separation anxiety just ebbed and flowed, never quite ceasing.  She nursed about 18 times a day for the first six months, as I remember.  Maybe neither one of us was quite confident that the other was going to make it, so we just grabbed on for dear life and didn't let go.

In a moment of mind-expanding culture (i.e. Will was out for the night and so I did secret things with Hulu), I was watching 16 and Pregnant the other day.  Teen Mom's mother convinced her that she needed to go out for the night and learn to let someone else care for her newborn baby.  Teen Mom was despondent, frowning and looking into nothing as she answered "Yeah, I guess so."  I wanted to shout "No! She's not a competent mom yet and she knows it! Let her learn to trust herself!"  I didn't shout it, though, because it was an MTV rerun.  And I'm not crazy.

But here we are today.  Edie is almost 2 1/2 and we're both ready for this.  Not ready a little too.  But mostly ready.  She is still very attached to me, but also very confident and her independence grows by the day.  My little love bug, she recently went around the circle in music class and gave a hug to every last parent there during hug-your-mamma(or daddy or nanny) time, to a chorus of "oooohs."  I really hope her teacher gives hugs.

I will be sending her off with a meticulously packed backpack, along with a lunch packed in her brand new monkey lunch box - an impulse buy picked out by the lady herself during a Target run.  I have big plans to walk the dogs, bathe the psycho hot spot licking dog, sew a bit, and maybe even some yoga.  Then, pick that big kid up at 1 pm and try not to cry as I hug her for a little too long.  Oh yeah, and maybe shake this other baby loose while I'm at it.

The dogs make their presence known

Worse indignities than a dented, plastic cone?  How about one decorated in rainbow stickers by a two-year old who can pull rank on you.

Hello, Due Date! G'bye, Due Date!  It's now the morning after and I am really tired.  But not birthin' tired.  Terrible dogs tired.  Billy has decided to ring in the new family member by giving himself endless hotspots - that is, patches of skin compulsively licked and bitten raw.  First his paws, now his rump.  And hence the cone atop his Schnoodle head.  Edie is very fascinated with the cone.  She would like to try it on, in fact.  Which has caused me to draw an unanticipated line in the sand for my general liberal policy on letting my daughter express herself.  Can she call her mom "Stinky Butt"?  Yeah.  She's two.  And it was pretty funny.  But when she sits on the floor, sticks her own foot in her mouth, and says "Yookit, mommy! I chew on my foot! I can wear cone now?"  the answer is, I'm afraid, no, dear. 

And then last night, as Will and I began our night's sleep, both a little excited that maybe, *just* maybe, that baby would come calling pretty soon, we begin to hear a "HACK!! HACK HACK!! *phlegm sounds* HACK!!"  Hmmm.  Doesn't seem like a labor sign.  But should I google it? No, that's Sugar.  The decidedly dumber but usually less psychosomatically afflicted dog.  It's midnight, so I do what every good dog owner does.  I reach over the bed and poke her, saying "Hey! Stop hacking!" She does not. And my poke reveals something far more putrid than the animal herself.  Vomit.  And lots of it.  So we are up.  And we attend to one of the most vile trails of dogs-eat-disgusting-things-and-then-their-people-pay that I have ever had the misfortune to deal with.  There is disinfecting, throwing out of dog beds, mopping, and full dog bathing.  I will say one thing, Will and I really are a good team during moments like this.  We aren't exactly gazing lovingly at one another, but we are both in there, getting things done, and not giving a lot of guff.

So, HI DOGS! We know you are here.  We will continue to feed and walk you.  Edie will pet you.  PLEASE CALL OFF YOUR CAMPAIGN OF GROSS. 

All your questions, answered.

De Due Date for baby Deux is just about upon us.  Tomorrow, in fact. But no real signs of imminent baby yet.  Maybe s/he is waiting for you all to give your "are you in labor yet?!" questions a rest.  I jest, I jest. I know everyone means well.  But I am a cranky, Michelin-man of a woman who sometimes thinks it's fun to joke about how close I am to giving birth and sometimes just wants a cookie.  It's safer to pony up the cookie from the get-go, for the record.

Another favorite question: "Are you ready?"  I am supposed to say, I think, "Yes! I want this baby out! I am soooo ready!"  The real answer? Eh. I am scared of having two kids.  I know it will work itself out. But I fear it, and I believe that fear is legitimate.  I am increasingly uncomfortable, but am not in any severe pain or anything.  Things are really doable right now, and even when they're hard, I feel equipped to deal.  Once new baby is here, everything is up in the air again.  How will I get Edie to nap?  What wrinkle in time will allow me to care for both a two year old and a newborn while maintaining any semblance of a managed household?  When will I have time to reanimate my meager career?  The answers will make themselves known, but only after a lot of blood, sweat, and tears.  I'm ready but bracing myself. 

Edie and I went to the East Nashville Farmers Market today to pass the afternoon.  And also to shake the baby loose on some of my neighborhood's many hills while en route.  After buying some berries and a juice, we sat in the shade for awhile and chatted with some other moms.  And I got the same questions.  With a fun twist, though, from a man who overheard that I was going to give birth at home, causing him to wonder aloud whether I gave birth to Edie "standing up? Or squatting, or whatever?"  This is definitely one of the more intimate questions I've gotten from a perfect stranger / non-medical professional, and it filled the air with a delightful awkward silence.  I told him that I was in labor for 30 hours, so I'd had time to test out many variations, thanks.  On the upside, the prospect of my pregnant state leading to more public questions of this nature did make me feel a little more ready to get un-pregnant.

This time, I'll just eat the placenta. AKA, Will and the bloody fanny-pack.

The perfect crime. (Seriously, I hope it wasn't a crime...)

Because my family has gotten comfortable with my home birthing ways, I felt like I needed to raise the stakes.  I don't like anyone getting too comfortable.  Especially myself.  Whenever I hear of a practice or theory that aligns with my principles and world view while simultaneously being awkward or divisive to explain to others, I sigh to myself, knowing that there is no backing down.  And somewhere out there, my husband shudders, sensing that a stand has been taken.  Enter: placenta pills.

Once new baby is born, I will be calling over a placenta encapsulation specialist who will come over and get to work making me some very one-of-a-kind vitamins. Really, eating my placenta in tidy capsule form seems almost like a cop out, and I have honestly wondered whether I should be more hard core.  Placenta smoothie?  Maybe I am dulling around the edges a bit with age and am now merely a mainstream weirdo.  All in all, encapsulation seems like a pretty easy way to allow one to say "Oh, I ate my placenta." for the rest of her life.  Because, after all, sometimes you just want a quick way to end a conversation.

The benefits of this practice are said to be, primarily, easing post partum blues and aiding breast milk production.  If you've ever felt the sadness that can come after your baby is born, and I have, there aren't many remedies that don't sound doable if they stand a chance at quelling these feelings the second time around.  Maybe they'll work, maybe they won't, but I'm hopeful and more than willing to try it with an open mind.

And then there is Edie's placenta.  Which I did not eat.  But did have a good old time with, way back when.  In Germany, where E was born, it is apparently fairly common to take your placenta home from the hospital and later plant it under a tree.  I don't know the statistics on this practice, but it's not a very out-there thing to do.  Edie was born in a birth house, which was a small practice of just two birthing rooms that was not part of any hospital.  Being a little operation, and probably since it wouldn't be shocking to their clientele, the birth house did not acquire the medical waste license that would be necessary to dispose of placentas and therefore you were required to take yours with you.

While I was given the information regarding my very own placenta pal before the birth, it didn't really hit me until I was sitting in a cab, four hours after giving birth, with a very tiny baby in the car seat next to me and a warm placenta in a yellow plastic bag in my lap.  Even in my fog, I do remember trying to play hide-the-placenta with the cabbie, thinking vaguely that I was not quite secure enough to proudly display it, and that it could be just freaky enough to get us kicked out of his immaculate Mercedes Benz into the January snow.  So, with a sweatshirt draped over it, our little placenta made it home.  And into our freezer.  Where it stayed for some time.

But it didn't go totally unnoticed.  We didn't have a very big freezer after all.  So our conversations might have a "did you check under the placenta?" in them now and again.  Our plan was always to go ahead and do the plant the placenta thing, but the first summer came and went without that happening.

When we were planning for our move back the US, one of us remembered close to the end that something had to be done about our little freezer friend.  It was then summer once more, so Will decided to plant it at last.  We lived in a flat, so we'd have to go into the nearby park to do it.  The Englischer Gartens, to be exact.  Munich's largest and most renowned gardens.  Searching for a placenta carrying device resulted in Will's unearthing of his Mountain Smith, a bag that is really just a large fanny-pack for camping types.

And off he then went, running shorts on, shovel and daughter's 18 month old frozen placenta in tow.  I didn't see the actual planting.  But I do love imagining it.  Will trying to act casual as he veers off the beaten path to find a place where he won't be spotted hastily digging up dirt to, you know, dump a human organ in a hole.  Bless his heart, he returned just a little bloody and with a few photos of the tree now dedicated, whether it likes it or not, to my funny little daughter.

Eating it really is not too bad an option, all things considered.

Week 36...(*dun, dun, duuuun*)

We are in the home stretch.  My midwife comes over today with her assistant to do a game day wrap-up.  Plan where the tub will go.  Talk about where to put the 6 vinyl flannel-backed table cloths I was asked to buy (they are polka dotted, so that will add some needed levity to the proceedings, I think).  All that jazz.

I think Will and I are both in a little bit of denial.  I mean, we've dutifully done the big stuff.  The kid has a bed and a freshly painted room.  I got out the baby clothes. Bouncie seat is fully operational.  And I also realize how going overboard with preparation isn't really useful.  I mean, I'm a walking [waddling] baby food maker, we own a washer and dryer, pizza is deliverable, and there is a Target 10 miles in each direction, so nothing is truly critical from a survival standpoint. But mentally, we need to so some meditation on the whole thing, I think.

Our coping strategies are different.  Mine involves lists, busy work, and occasional outbursts. Will's involves living on an alternate plane of reality.  Me: "Susie (our midwife) is coming on Friday, remember? She's bringing Cindy to go over last minute stuff.  You've got to be home from work AT five.  Ok?!"  Will: "Uh, yeah. That should be fine. *mumble* *doesn't look up from computer*" Me: "Should be fine?! SHOULD be fine?!? We are having a baby, for the love of all that's holy! In a matter of weeks, too, you know. I'm not having a guy over to do a rug cleaning estimate, Will. A BABY, WILL!!"  Will: (quiet but not blinking) "I will really, really be home at five."  So I'm pretty sure he'll be here.

But still, even for my hysterics, I am working on remembering to let myself get excited to meet this little person.  The due date can feel like the apocalypse (for me, anyways.  I recognize that many moms go straight to the happy.  But I have made peace with my slightly darker nature).  And things are about to get crazy.  But it's a crazy to be cherished when possible, and one you grow a lot from even when cherishing isn't available to you at that moment.  So, little tummy baby, I am stressed and I wish my house was cleaner and my cupboards organized.  I wish my dogs weren't a nuisance and that your sister wasn't going to wake you up constantly with her rap-remixes of Baa Baa Black Sheep.  It would be great if I knew how I was going to manage driving with an infant in the car, or how I will keep the family fed those first few months.  But all of that aside, welcome little one.  We love you to the moon and we'll be ready when you are, I promise.

Transplant Shock

                                           Didn't we almost have it all?

I have never grown a fruit or vegetable.  I have managed to keep a plant or two alive, but that's the extent of my green thumb.  But now I'm a mom and a homeowner and I live in a climate with a generous growing season.  Now was the time to garden.

I started at the local organic garden shop where an earnest, young urban farmer gave me a little information and a lot of enthusiasm.  And he sold me one of those flats for growing seedlings indoors.  Look at me, I told myself, I am really something.  I don't have a middle name, but if I did, bet it would be Gaia.  Then, several weeks later, I actually planted the seeds.  This was rather unceremonious and I was very dubious that anything would grow.  It just seemed unlikely that me plopping a few dried up bits into some loose dirt would yield life.  I didn't want to doubt my seedlings, but I did.

But lo and behold, sprouts sprouted! I had icebox watermelon, spring lettuce, chard, sun flowers, and basil in my future.  And so I tended and loved my seedlings.  After they reached a hearty height, I planted them into my raised bed.  They looked glorious in all of their promise.  And so they have stayed, neither dying nor growing a millimeter.  Dormant or comatose for the past month.  Each and every one.

I looked it up online, and apparently seedlings can get transplant shock.  I can relate. I am just getting over my transplant shock myself.  But if these seedlings think that life was so much better in Germany, with it's art, culture and public transportation, maybe someone should remind these seedlings that we were going broke in Germany.  And rarely saw friends or family.  And that I'd never have found a job.  Or that having a second kid would've been extremely challenging.  And, you know what, seedlings?  There is no Shangri-La! Life's pretty good here.  So buck up.  And grow me a melon.  Perhaps I am projecting.  But I don't think so. I really think these seedlings are kind of snobby and they wildly idealize the past.

I am going to go buy a watermelon now.

A two year old's gems

"And then, mama...."

I used to keep some kind of track of Edie's monthly development, noting what she was into, what she'd learned, and things like that.  Well, I haven't done that for many-a month these days, but the nostalgia for my disappearing baby is growing with a new baby on the horizon.  Since talking is what defines her waking hours (where in the world did she get that?) I thought I'd commit to memory some of her latest comedic gems.

1. Cash for Pets.  Edie likes to baby-talk the dogs, especially the little one.  A couple weeks ago I overheard her saying the usual, but with a new twist: "Oh, Sugar. I yove you. Oh, gimme hugs and kisses, Sugar. Oh, Sugar. Do you want some money?" Erm.  Don't give that dog our money, please.

2.  Ruminations on a Father.  Edie and I were in the car to go get her dad from the airport.  We hadn't seen him in several days, so she was pondering him aloud.  "Dad is a good man.  He helps his friends. ... He LOVES food."  In a nutshell, she captured why we love that guy.

3.  Baby Sister is Watching.  Edie keeps track of all people in her sight line.  She routinely approaches strangers, points at their nearby faces, and asks me loudly, "What that guy doin'?"  Yesterday, we were at a grocery store, where she saw a woman, whom she mistook for a man, wearing a bandana on her head.  Edie: "What's that dada got on his head?"  Me (not wanting to draw attention to her gender mis-attribution): "Umm, dunno... *mumble*"  Edie: "Aaaaaaaa PIRATE!!"

4.  Telling it like it is.  A few weeks ago we went to Denver to visit my sister and her family.  On morning we flew home, we stopped at a Starbucks for breakfast where Edie ate too fast (no thanks to me) and ultimately threw up. A lot. After a hurried change in the coffee shop bathroom, a subsequent mad dash not to miss our flight, we finally sat down in our seats where a nice older man shared our row.  "Hello, little one! How are you?" says the nice man.  E (dead pan):  "I vomited. At Starbucks. *pause* A coffee shop." Me: "She's right.  She did vomit at a Starbucks."  Nice man: [returns to Sky Mall].