Halloween Frivolity

N is a Monkey Mouse.

The costume is very cuddly and she was good natured about it, although she evidently didn't like the hood much. Her mood is much improved (well, it wasn't that grumpy when she was sick, she simply screamed bloody murder for long stretches at night) and she's been happily sucking down the antibiotics, so I think she's well on the way to recovery.

Q is a Cat.

He had a flurry of Halloween activities: a parade in preschool, a parade after preschool, and trick or treating with Mom. Which is a lot for a child who had to be re-taught the concept of Halloween. He had a blast trick or treating, tromping up and down the streets, happily commenting that the decorations were silly, whispering "Trick or Treat!" when people opened their doors, and then managing to audibly say "Happy Halloween" as we left.

One of my neighbors with kids in middle and high school was helping them set up a mini-haunted house in his garage as we walked up. It was so awful, and so inappropriate for a 3 year old that we simply backed out and I started laughing hysterically. "I don't think this one's going to work for us, Q." Q seemed unalarmed, no harm done, but I was wildly amused. Their younger son took off his mask and very kindly offered Q candy.

I earned parenting karma points later tonight though. After we returned home, and got Q settled for the night, I took over answering the door. A very antsy princess fairy came with her sleepy pirate brother. When I realized she needed to pee, I offered our bathroom to her mother (I did make her go upstairs, which you understand if you've been to my house). A very relieved little princess fairy came back downstairs. Better my potty than my bushes...

(I apologize. These are not the best photos- when you delay getting the kids into their costumes until after dinner, you really run amok with light.)

Another Baby First

The shrieking lately, at 3am, has made the little girl a less than popular member of the family. I finally decided that based on the facts (she didn’t want to nurse, didn’t seem to want to be awake at all, didn’t seem to be comforted by anything) she must be teething. We got some night time oragel and treated her with oragel and tylenol and while she still woke and screamed horribly, it seemed to help and she seemed to go back to bed faster than usual.

But in a discussion with a nurse practitioner today (got my flu shot!), I was persuaded to bring N in to see the doctor, just in case. Sure she wasn’t cranky or miserable except when screaming at night, but it would be worth checking her out.

Well, what do you know, baby has her first ear infection. And considering this, she was far too good natured. Sure the screaming at various times was awful enough that we had to set her down and walk out of the room to gain self control. But mostly, during the day especially, she was her normal smiley self. Simply unreasonably good natured.

So. A lesson I hope I’ve now learned: if N screams without an obvious reason, that is enough reason to get her to the doctor.

Poor baby… This photo was taken after a particularly bad night (Thursday am). Note the total lack of grumpiness.

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N at 5 months

Dashed Hopes

I felt oh so clever. I was even contemplating writing in my blog about how clever I was. I was going to title this one: Creativity.

Q, as I believe I have noted, picked up a cold and brought it home to share. We’ve all been a little grumpy, very tired, and less than cooperative. Knowing this, I picked up some videos at the library on Friday and I’ve been parcelling them out to ease the long cranky afternoons and to soothe achy little heads. Except when I remove video privileges as a consequence for refusing to walk at the outlet mall, requiring me to lug an unnamed, screaming child over my shoulder while pulling the stroller all the way back to the car. (Surprisingly few people grinned at me. I was close to smirking myself. After all, he’d tried to call my bluff and I’d won.)

So today, after I’d already exhausted the video of the day, and was wondering how to amuse a cranky 3 year old who had already done glamorous things (preschool, playground, videos…), I had a brilliant idea.

We’ve had a big box hanging out in the kitchen for a few days. I’m sure I must have something I want to store in it, but I haven’t figured out what quite yet. In the mean time, Quinn has been crawling in it, dancing in it, falling over and smacking his head in it. All around having a good time. And now we have a new opportunity for fun!

“Q, I know we have told you that you may not draw on anything other than paper, but I have something special for you. Would you like to use your markers to draw on this box?”

I was so smart. Q colored happily on the box for a good 45 to 60 minutes. I gave him train stickers to decorate with, wrote his name for him, and while he was in bliss, I made a lasagna for tomorrow night’s dinner. N did her part by sleeping. It was heaven. I even had a half glass of wine.

But the good times cannot last forever.

“I want the fire engine stickers.”

I told him those were for another time. My usually reasonable Q, whom we regularly do say no to, had a little meltdown. Which turned into a big meltdown. Eventually I had to pick him up and lug him upstairs (there’s a pattern) till he was ready to come down for dinner. I ate, nursed the now crying baby, called my mother, and predicted that one or both of the children would be crying for the rest of the evening. Finally Q emerged.

After some happy discussion of N’s diaper situation, and some initial overtures towards his food, Q eventually abandons eating and wants to play, just when it is time to take the kids up for Bath, Books and Bed Time. Another meltdown. I lug him upstairs again.

The meltdowns continue, “I don’t want you to bathe N!” “I don’t want you to trim my nails, NO! NO! NO! NO!” “I don’t want to pee!” “I want to hold the shower head!” “I don’t want to pee!” “I don’t want you to hold N!”

Finally, both kids are washed (minimally) and in their jammies. One infant is fast asleep and one exhausted boy is read four books, and tucked into his Big Boy Train Bed with Blankie. Two cats are going crazy with anxiety that they will not be fed.

Some nights are not about sweet nurturing bliss, but simple survival. These nights too will be remembered as some of the good times.

shaking with laughter

I popped N into the saucer today, told Q he could indeed play with her rattle, and walked into the kitchen as he joyously retrieved it. (He’s been told not to take it from her, but if she’s not playing with it, hey, that’s fine.)

An absolute scream of rage? pain? fury? (same as rage?) suddenly came from the living room and I whirled back in to see what the problem was as Q wanders out. I picked her up and she stops screaming.

Wondering aloud what the problem had been, J surmises that Q had whacked her with the rattle. I ask Q, “Q, why was N screaming?” After several tangents (not deliberate, this is just a lack of conversational technique), Q says, “I hurted her with the rattle.”

Ah.

J had to gently inform Q that this was not ok while I turned my back and shook with laughter. So matter of fact.

He’s a very gentle little kid, but he’s getting bolder with her.

The Poop

N has not been sleeping well. Worse, she’s been screaming for 30 to 60 minutes a night and very little can console her. Last night I discovered that the vacuum cleaner could calm her down, which was lucky since I was at my wits end. At 5 months, she’s got great lung capacity. She seems to be in pain, but I cannot figure out the cause for sure. My instinct is that it is due to the fact that she poops so irregularly. I brought this problem up at the last check up (4 months) and the pediatrician recommended pear juice- if we can find it.

So I set out today on a crusade to find pear juice to move the girl’s bowels and preserve my sanity. First destination is the natural foods store. Next to a Starbucks, which I was eyeing with more self preservation in mind. But before I fought over a parking spot, I spy a ‘Closed’ sign at the natural foods store. I move on. On a whim, I stopped at the fancy cheese and other expensive foods store. They are out of pear juice. But I see what the bottle would look like. I give up for the moment and go on to adventure #2 for Sunday morning: Hitting Ocean State Job Lot.

I have this idea that going to a large store with two small children, no particular goal in mind, and no back up is a fun idea. Obviously my sanity is fragile. But my luck holds out. I find a number of items I have been looking for: maple syrup (grade B, which I prefer, but is sometimes hard to find), a large soft, cheap fleece for lounging around in (my husband disapproves and requests that I buy clothing that fits me), a cat costume size 2 to 4T, a mouse costume size 6 to 12 mo (perhaps too large, but fairly amusing), both costumes are reasonably priced and very cheesy, sweetnlow (for my addiction to saccharine), and PEAR JUICE. 3 bottles of the fancy looking brand seen at the expensive cheese store (manufactured in Belgium, packaged in Bradenton, FL).

I manage to get a diluted quantity of pear juice into N. (We had little luck with the effectiveness of prune juice, I’m sure you were going to ask.) And the child seems to have come unplugged. Two poopy diapers and I’m wiping my brow with relief. Thank goodness. I think she may get some daily now. I’m wondering if solid food would make the problem worse or better…

Q has a bug. He barely ate today. He stopped eating potato chips and said he was done. After a lovely 2 hour nap, he had a fever of 101.7 and mostly just wanted to hang out near me. Poor child. His cough makes me nervous, so I’m leaning in to listen to him breathe, trying to catch the sound of bronchitis before it develops into pneumonia. (This because my family tends to assume that all ill people are faking, which led me to discourage my husband to get his cold checked out until he was in a borderline pneumonia state, and so now I’m paranoid about coughs and listlessness.)

But the kid is doing really well. He’s been sleeping in both the new beds, having gotten over the trauma of falling out of the big big bed into the toddler bed (we now have a bed rail for him). Saturday, after one of the awful nights with N, he let us sleep in till nearly 8, luxuriously late.

Unfortunately I figured out why, eventually.

He’s been coloring a lot lately. He calls it ‘drawing’, and when he has blank paper he is creating different art than he did, even a month ago: filling in shapes with color, and circling items deliberately. He has a coloring book that he turns carefully through, and fills in, almost neatly, small portions of different pictures.

Saturday afternoon I spotted the cap of a pen on the floor of his room. A pen we use to mark his clothes with his name. The rest of the pen is missing. I prod his memory, “Where is the pen, Q?” As I interrogate him, I notice three library books on the floor of his room… one with pen marks on the protective cover.

Only one turns out to have marks on the pages. The book he likes the best, I think. Something about eyes attracted him, and he added another level of art to the eyes of the characters. So sad: he’s destroyed a library book, he’s made it impossible to see the art, and yet at the same time, I see that he did it out of affection.

We had a little talk (Again) about how we don’t draw on books, that coloring books are very special etc etc. (This is the first assault on a book, usually he goes after furniture or walls.) And I will bring the book back to the library, apologize profusely for not supervising more closely, and pay for the book.

But as a librarian, I know something. Since I will pay for the book, they will probably give it to me. And then what? Do I bring it home and keep reading it with Q? Do I want him to get the bright idea that if he writes in his favorite library books he gets to keep them? Ah well. One problem at a time.

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Big Boy Beds

I admit it. I have a linen fetish. But I am not just using this situation as an excuse to buy sheets for Q’s bed. This is strategy! Honest!

Last spring, before N was born, a friend came across the book My Big Boy Bed by Eve Bunting. It features a little boy who is very similar to our Q: has a cat, has an affection for fire trucks, has a blankie, and, very important, has a new baby brother. We read it ‘sister’, because, heck, Q can’t read, and we might as well push the analogy in his head as far as we can. The big brother in the book has just come home from buying ‘big boy sheets’ for his big boy bed. He discusses all the merits of the big boy bed, and at the end also describes slipping out of bed to gently touch the hand of the new baby and saying good night.

Well, you know what’s coming right? We have one crib, and one Q sleeping in it. He tried out the toddler bed for a few weeks, and then went back. N is still sleeping in the bassinet, but it is getting a little small for her. And it’s a little too close to me. As I found with Q, the smallest sound seems to wake me, and then I respond without giving her the opportunity to fall back to sleep on her own. Not that I suspect she would. After all, when your every whimper is catered to, why would you develop any stoicism?

Today we went to the mall. The mall in question is about an hour from home. We brought Q, N, the friend referred to above, and her wee baby. There was much time spent in the bathroom (actually, this is a big milestone, he’d never asked to use the bathroom before in a public place) and on the escalators. I was exhausted. But we returned with ‘big boy sheets’ for the two big boy beds. Q bought into the concept so entirely that he was playing escalator with the cat who is going up the escalator to get big boy sheets herself. I later discovered her trapped between the screen door and the wooden door. Evidently she decided to use the elevator.

We made the beds up. I am now fighting the desire to locate a twin sized red bed skirt (wouldn’t that look good with the fire trucks?) and Q chose to sleep in the GINORMOUSLY high bed, made with fire truck sheets that he selected himself. (I asked him which bed he wanted to sleep in and he replied, “Well, the one with Blankie.”)

I have been in and out of his room no less than 4 times with various excuses. He seems sound asleep, wedged against the wall, with little chance of falling out soon. I moved the toddler bed (now sporting a train sheet) next to it so there’d be something soft to break his fall…

and of course, now that I have so thoroughly persuaded him that he’s a big boy, I am filled with regret for how fast my little boy is growing.

...and there it goeth

Today’s report from Preschool:
“Q burst our bubble of the lovely friend today with 2 incidents of grabbing/pushing for toys. How dare he act like a typical 3 year old!”

Have I mentioned that I really like this preschool teacher?

”...we know he will redeem himself!”

On the bright side, little sister N slept from 8pm to 6am last night. Very good manners. Or, more accurately, very merciful.

Planning

Our 10th anniversary is in June and we want to plan ahead and make reservations at a good family resort or location. N will be just over 1, so serious amounts of water is a bad idea, although if our site (room? house? cottage?) is really well secured, we might consider something on the coast. Q will be 4, so lots of things to do with him would be good.

But we’re brainstorming and researching at this point. Our current guidelines:

• Family Friendly
• Reasonably Priced, or even Cheap! (Some ability to make meals a plus.)
• No more than maybe 3 hours from home? Some flexibility here, since the cheaper the location, the more worthwhile the drive/time committed. There are a few places in northern VT that would be quite a hike, but are on the maybe list.
• We like the idea of one of the retro-family resorts. The cheesy kind with little cottages. We see a few of them scattered in this area, but that’s too close.

Suggestions and advice welcome.
_{Although, as with the naming of our child, we reserve all rights to abandon previous principles and all recommendations.}

Small steps

At 3:30 am this morning, N woke up and exhibited that just because she doesn’t normally insist on her way, it doesn’t mean she can’t broadcast to the neighbors if she wants to. Ears ringing, I changed her soaked diaper and returned to bed to nurse her. As I sat down, Q’s door opened and he trotted in and plopped down on our bed. “Is N crying?” (He’s in the ‘state the obvious’ phase.) He waited, chatting cheerfully with me while I nursed her, and then let me put him back to bed.

I dropped Q off at preschool this morning. When he falls into line, toddling off with the other wee ones, he doesn’t even wave goodbye. But today, unprompted, he paused, looked back, and blew me a kiss.

His genuine sweetness is a marvel.

The days go slowly... the years speed away

N decided to get busy for her 4 month birthday. She can now flip from her front to her back without much effort, although she sometimes chooses to simply wail instead. She started to grab at toys, and, impressively, even manages to attain them and cram them in her mouth at times.

We find that Q is wonderful entertainment for her. Just hearing his voice makes her face light up, and her first sight of him each day brings big grins. If we plop her into her exersaucer, she will often rotate herself to watch him as he plays.

She’s a sweet little baby, never grumpy except for the basics (hunger, diaper, exhaustion and gas). This week she ran a low fever from getting her 4 month shots, but didn’t seem to think it was worth fussing over. At 11 lbs 6 oz, she’s nearly twice her birth weight, but still seems like a little bitty thing. She looks good in pale green and yellow, but pink makes her look, well, red.

Unfortunately she’s shifted her sleep schedule to sleep 8:30 to 4 am, and I have not shifted with her, so I’m sleep deprived, short tempered, and less than proud of myself.

I believe that Q is perhaps also a bit sleep deprived, having an out and out meltdown today, refusing to have a picnic in the back yard. I responded to having a tantrum coerce me by (after a time out) telling him there would be no treats today. No Maisy, no cookies, just the basics. When I reminded him of that when he asked for a video (pre-nap routine), he didn’t even get upset, just agreed to the terms (book yes, video no) and went down for a nap. I feel mean. But I still feel manipulated, so I’ll get over it. He’s still asleep 2 hours later, so I think exhaustion was the real problem.

The boy made himself remarkably adorable today though. Wandering upstairs naked (still refusing to go potty), he informed me that he was going to nurse Excavator. And Tickulated Dump Truck. They were hungry and crying. As I watched, bemused, he held first Excavator, then Dump Truck up to his nipples. He’s such a good Truck Daddy.

Talking Trucks

I find myself missing fairly entertaining comments from Q on a regular basis, only figuring them out later. Earlier this week I explained that his dinner was a little hot, but in the meantime he could eat some tortilla chips. He asked, “Is it the Mean Time now, Mommy?” I thought he was asking if it was evening time now. J helped him out, “Yes, now is the meantime.”

He’s also been asking, “Is N happy? Is N happy, Mommy?” He’ll ask this about the cats, his sister, J, or me. The other day he asked me if I was happy, just as I had the two kids in a golden snuggly moment. You bet kid.

He’s suddenly launched into a new phase of imaginative play. He will describe a book as if he is the main character. “Then I found a stick and I whacked the tree with it, and the snow fell down.” (The Snowy Day) “I climbed up on the river bank into the reeds and something screeched in the sky above me.” (Come Along Daisy!) A boy after my own heart.

Lately he’s also been pointing at pictures and saying, “I’m gonna play with dat truck/tractor/excavator.” He points to a window on his train station, “I’m gonna look out dat window, Mommy.”

And his trucks are taking on more and more personality. “Excavator was spitting up on the spit cloth.” I asked if Excavator felt better now. “Excavator and Articulated Dump Truck were crying…”

Articulated Dump Truck was a gift from friends upon Q becoming a Big Brother. In case you are not up on your trucks, an articulated dump truck is the type that is jointed between the cab and the bed, so it can bend in the middle.

My father, hearing the truck’s name, was confused. “Is he saying, Tickle-A-Dump Truck?” Um, well, that’s what it sounds like most of the time. And when he can enunciate well enough to say ‘Articulated’ articulately, I think I’ll sob.

I doubted that Q had really gotten the meaning behind Articulated Dump Truck’s name. We have a glamourous truck book that explains these details, but he is only three, after all. At the Haddam Neck Fair, however, he pointed to a tractor, he announced it was articulated. Skeptically, I watched the tractor for a minute, and realized he was right. The tractor was jointed in the middle.

Before I had my son, I really don’t think I would’ve realized how cool that is.

The Great Humongous Spider...

This spider photo is from last summer, but we have spotted two more of them this summer. They’re big spiders, so they really are hard to ignore once you see them.

Today J, Q and I went to take a look at the one in the hosta after returning home. We were admiring her web, very reminiscent of Charlotte’s, when a small fly blundered into it. The spider scuttled over and began to efficiently wrap it up. I squatted down and explained to Q that they spider was going to eat the fly for lunch.

“A bug sandwich.” J offered.

I elaborated, “See how she’s wrapping it up with her thread? Now she’s going to…Now she can… Spiders can…” I gave up in hysterics, trying not to explain what the spider would do without making it sound ghoulish.

“A bug sandwich.” J offered again, saving me from the corner I’d painted myself into.

Exactly.

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End of Summer photos

Growth Spurts

I love preschool. Q, who had been trying my nerves lately, is wildly happy and content in the afternoons when I get off work. It’s like he was desperate for a focus for his energy and now that he’s got it, and he can be a happy 3 year old and only a test his limits a little bit.

He’s doing great with potty training (no accidents, knock on wood, pull ups at night) and earned a compliment at preschool for his polite snacktime request for “more please”. A lot of the things we’ve been working on so hard on are coming to fruition. I’m so proud. What a good kid.

I’m noticing that an awful lot of his preschool peers also have a younger siblings lined up and waving goodbye in the morning (usually a year or less, one is due in January). I have visions of a parenting conveyor belt. We stand there all chummy, as our babies toddle in, holding each other’s hands (or their teacher’s), proud and amused at ourselves and our children. Some, like Q, don’t look back, which almost makes me cry. Others keep trying to retain eye contact as they sob, “NOOOOOO!” and their parents flinch, wishing their children were excited about a happy and busy day in preschool.

I’ve noticed lately that Q is enjoying trying out new words and phrases, although he has difficulty enunciating hard consonants in the middle of words. (“Water”, for example, often sounds like, “more” to me.) Several times in the past few days he’s stumped me by using the word, “startled” in a sentence. I had explained that N was startled by something he did, and that was why she’d burst into tears. This morning he informed us that N’s rattle was startled. (We need to work on the concept a little more.) He also heard us talking about something alarming (I now wonder what) and rephrased our comments to say, “We don’t like pants scared.”

Little sister N is so mellow it cracks me up. After nursing this morning, the house was dark and quiet. Thinking she’d drifted off, I popped her into her bassinet and got ready to shower. When I got back, she was just hanging out, looking around, gave me a huge grin. The big ones are impossible to resist. I suspect when she gets the opportunity, she’s going to be a quietly mischievous child…

We’re struggling with the sleep thing a little, but I think it’s because she’s in the room with us. (And struggling means she wakes up at 4 am, I pop her into bed with me and she wakes at 5:45 for breakfast.) I think she’d sleep better without me picking her up at the first whimpery snort of the morning. (We don’t call her ‘Snorty Girl’ for nothing.) I also suspect she’s hit a growth spurt and simply gets hungrier early.

Balancing Act

It was not promising to be a good day.

First of all, I woke up in a grumpy mood, having had my sleep interrupted for the second night in a row by the baby. I feel greedy for expecting her to sleep regularly through the night, but since she has been giving me 7 hours of sleep on a regular basis, the nights when she struggles to make it through, wakes, wails, and is easily comforted by nursing, seem, well, demanding.

Secondly, I’d had three days of Q testing me. Friday, Saturday and Sunday, J worked 11 to 7 and I was mostly alone with the kids. After three days, I wanted to hit my head against the wall to distract me from my desire to throttle Q. It was only on Sunday that we had a flashback to my mother’s theory that “when a normally pleasant child is acting like a pill, it’s often because they’re about to make some sort of a breakthrough.” Q is potty training, and while he never tells us he needs to go, unless he’s naked and making conversation as he pads off to the potty, he is actually doing quite well. Preschool starts tomorrow, and likely the stress of the two events is building on his little shoulders in ways I’m too oblivious to notice, except in terms of his behavior being so much more trying than usual.

By Monday, while I was feeling compassion for my little boy, I was starting to suspect I was going to have a nervous breakdown.

My husband, no fool, asked what would I like to do: have some time to myself, divide the kids between us, do something as a family…?

We went to the Haddam Neck Fair.

Haddam Neck is a tiny village that is part of the town of Haddam, most of which is the next town north of us. Haddam Neck, however, is within the part of Haddam on the other side of the Connecticut River. In case you’re curious, no, it does not make sense to divide a town with a river big enough for barges.

The Haddam Neck Fair is a small and lovely affair. There were some rides (we declined). There was fried food (we participated). There were many cows, some oxen (I realized my ignorance as I tried to explain oxen to my son), rabbits, chickens, goats, sheep, a camel, two donkeys, and zebus (the relation to cattle made famous by a Veggie Tales song!). We enjoyed the racing pigs (not local, I think they were up from Florida), and Q, as you can see, was in heaven when the tractor pull started up. I finally discovered what a tractor pull actually is. (The explanation illuminated the landscaping on a local property.)

All this excitement could have led to exhausted tantrums later, or a bathroom accident, or an infant meltdown. We lucked out, established our normal routine when we returned home, got Q to take a nap, and had a lovely afternoon and evening.

On the cusp of preschool, we had a magical day together.

Preschool Open House

Q seems like such a big boy and such a little boy at the same time. He loved the preschool room and didn’t want to leave. We liked his teacher quite a bit, she seems to have the same priorities we have. One of our acquaintances is an aide in the other class and sometimes will be in Q’s class, which makes me happy. Mostly just because I feel like someone knows us where we’re leaving our little boy.

Goofy Grin

N 8.19.07

Not to Forget

Qisms from this week

---

As I left for my dentist appointment: “Are you going to be naked at the dentist Mommy?”

---

When N was crying, he imitated her, saying, “Babies say, AAAAAH! I’m Hungry!”

J agrees, “That’s right, babies don’t have words, so they cry to let us know they’re hungry.”

Q, nodding, “Instead of whining.”

---

N, after several weeks with no repeating of her laughing, chuckled Saturday night in a very subtle way, “heh heh heh.” She followed that up this morning by giggling at J when he sang along with ‘Philadelphia Chickens’ making exaggerated expressions with his face.

Wits in Shreds

Sleep is apparently irrelevant.

I discovered, mid-way through the day, that I’d put my underwear on backwards.

Later, when I was picking up the kids, I left the door of the car open by accident. (I heard it chiming, but thought I was imagining it.) When I came back to load the kids in, about twenty minutes, one meltdown and a time out later, I tried to start the car and joked that I hoped I hadn’t run down the battery.

It didn’t start.

I tried again.

Nothing.

Then I put it in park and tried to turn it on again. Like magic. Luckily my dignity has long since disappeared, so the evidence of my lacking wits was not as embarrassing as it could have been.

(And I’d like to say in my defense that I learned to drive in a stick shift car and you don’t have to be in park to turn them on.)

The Potty Diaries

Q is making serious efforts to poop in the potty this week. I attribute this to J’s motivational promise: 1 truck for the first poop in a potty, another truck for 6 successful poops following that. He’s so into the idea that he’s gone to double poop days.

Of course, he likes company, so we’ve been camped in the hallway (bathroom is too small) for 20 to 45 minutes at a time. He looks at Richard Scarry’s ‘What Do People Do All Day?’ (in which I haven’t yet seen a potty in use), and bellows:

_A GREAT BIG SQUASH JUST SAT UPON MY HAT!
A GREAT BIG SQUASH JUST SQUASHED MY HAT REAL FLAT!_

This afternoon was reward time, so I took the kids to the toy store. Q zeroed right in on the excavator he’s been lusting after. He picked it up, confirmed that I really was going to get it for him, and then went to the train table where he played for 20 minutes.

N was in a bjorn sling on my chest, facing outwards. She’s been facing inwards until recently, so she’s fairly excited by the novelty of seeing so much of the world. I paced back and forth and was looking at the baby toys when N began chatting. I looked down and she was focused hard on an object above us, and making soft inquiring noises. I turned, and her head pivoted. I turned back; she kept tracking it. She made occasional coos, chirps and barks for a while, evidently enchanted with a toy I never managed to locate.

Windows

After the initial burbles of laughter, I haven’t heard N laugh out loud. But as she gets older and more alert, I catch her smiling as if we’re in on a joke together. It’s nearly shy, she’ll grin and then quickly look away again, as if caught revealing more than she should yet. She’s plumped up now, and I never find myself thinking that her expression is troll-like. Often, however, I see that impish expression and know that she’s the same baby. Her serene sleeping face transforms her from the Maurice Sendak look into cherubic.

I am amazed at her resilience. A few weeks ago J had the kids at the park and realized that although he had formula and a bottle to feed N, he didn’t have a nipple. So, being far more imaginative than I, he decided to see if she could drink from a sippy cup.

No problem.

It would never have occurred to me.

Q snuggles close up to her, ‘I’m going to nuzzle N!’ he declares, right next to her face. She looks away if he gets too close too long, but she doesn’t cry . He’s very helpful, running over to pop her pacifier in her mouth, helping J give her a bottle, announcing that she wants to nurse, she wants her formula, that she smiled at him! ‘Is that our Nuala?’ ‘Is she cooing?’ ‘I’m going to check on my baby sister.’ I think he likes having company in the back seat.

Two points

On the sleep front: the baby slept 9 hours last night. The last few, tucked next to me, but what do I care? I didn’t have to get up or wake fully.

On the obvious conclusion front: if you put on your sweat and milk stained pjs and the aroma makes you think “aw, baby!” It is time to bathe the baby and wash your pjs.

Baby's Week In Review

N had her 2 month check up on Friday. I’m always a little confused as to how to count months with babies. Am I supposed to count by the day of the month (thus from May 13 to July 13 is 2 months) or by 4 weeks equals a month? In any case, she’s up to 9 lbs 5 oz, a gain of more than 3 lbs in two months. She’s still in the 10%, where she was at birth, which is perfectly healthy. 25% for length (I have no idea what her percentile for length at birth was) and 75% for head circumference. Thanks to Daddy’s gene for that!

What I found amazing at this visit was something I witnessed in our stay at the hospital. She had to get 3 shots. The nurse asked if I was nursing her, and I said yes. Would I like to nurse her through getting the shot? This often calms the babies faster and eases the discomfort or pain. In fact, I recall doing this with Q’s shots his first year.

“I’m not opposed to it, but she’s done.”

The nurse looked a little confused. “I nursed her just before her physical, and well, she’d done now.” Q nursed at any suggestion of the opportunity till he was 4 months or so. N nurses 20, maybe 30 minutes, and then she’s done. Trying to get her to nurse when she’s not hungry is inviting her to yell at me.

The nurse looks at me like I’m a little loopy, but we set the baby on the table (which makes it easier to give the shot than if I bobbling the baby around in my arms). Three shots take forever to give when you’re watching a baby scream her toothless little heart out. But it does eventually get done.

I pick her up and she stops crying. After the shots were given, she simply calms down and stops crying. In the hospital I witnessed this after they took practically a pint of blood. Once they stopped messing with her, she simply went back to sleep.

Unreasonably good natured of her.

They had me do a postpartum depression questionnaire. One of the final questions, “I feel I neglect my baby: (select one) All the time, Sometimes, Not often, Never”. No hesitation on my part. I picked ‘Sometimes’. I don’t think it is possible to juggle two small children and never feel like sometimes you have to neglect one kid to take care of another. You know it will have to happen before the second one arrives, but you don’t necessarily realize how heart-wrenching it can be to tear yourself from one child who needs you to take care of the another.

She also asked if N reacts to sudden noises. Speaking of neglect… I hadn’t noticed. I think I would notice if she didn’t…?

So yesterday I took the kids to the Deep River Ancient Muster in the next town over from us. I accidently got there early, which turned out well since Q got to play at the playground, we bought some fries, and sat right at the ending point for the parade of drum and fife corps. This is a seriously noisy event with a variety of drum sizes, passing sometimes close to a foot from where we were seated. Not to mention the guns being fired off.

N was in her stroller, blissfully sleeping through it all. I finally thought to look at her just before a gun went off. Yep, she flinched in her sleep. Guess her hearing is ok.

I’m really enjoying my time with N. We still tend to forget her when she’s sleeping or happily installed in her bouncy seat and we’re trying to get something done (dinner, potty training, showering, packing the car). But she stays awake longer, giving us a chance to see big goofy grins and silent laughter. The past two days I took her with me on my run, packing her into the jogger with blankets so she wouldn’t slide around. Each time she gazed with peaceful amazement at the world till it was too much to comprehend, then slid into companionable sleep.

Sibling Rivalry

Q has been more obviously jealous of N lately. I don’t see much deliberately unkind behavior, just distinctly wanting to be on my lap when I’m nursing the baby, pulling the pacifier out of her mouth (actually, that might just be for the fun of popping it back in), demanding that Mommy carry him when I’m already carrying N. I’m being patient with him, trying to accomodate most of his reasonable requests when possible. But I’m wavering between feeling sympathy for his jealousy and a growing suspicion that he’s manipulating my feelings of guilt.

This afternoon, N was in an active awake state, interested in her surroundings, moving her limbs in swimmy movements as she checked out the world. It was time to start Quiet Time, so I brought the kids upstairs and set N down on the bed while I got ready to change Q’s diaper (no, no progress on potty training lately). Q hopped up on the bed and did his usual eye to eye with N, one inch from her nose. He turned a bit away, to tell me something, and she cooed up at him.

She hasn’t cooed at me yet. Around me, yes. While in my arms, yes. Mostly at random pieces of furniture.

But that’s ok. He can be first.

Turnabout

I had a hellish night last night with N. I suspect now (with the benefit of sleep) that she had no interest in nursing, she just didn’t want to sleep in the bouncy seat next to the bed where we’ve nestled her most nights. But at 3am I was in tears with the desire to buy some Nyquil, find a motel room, and sleep for three days.

J was working this afternoon, so I decided I better wear out Q. We took out his trike and chat about triking to the playground at the school next door. Ten feet from our driveway, he stops and tells me, “I’m done.” Um, what? He tells me he wants to just go for a drive. I still want to wear him out. So he and I negotiate and agree to go to the Essex playground, a lovely shady playground with better equipment.

We get there, he plays lacksadaisically for 5 minutes, tops, then says, “Are we done?” I tried to engage him in playing, but he wasn’t having any of it. Laughing (I mean, can you force a toddler to play?), I drove home. I took a long route home. As we got onto familiar roads, Q says quietly, “Don’t go home.” So I give up and drive a little around town. He finally agreed that we should go home, watch ‘In the Night Kitchen’ and then do a quiet time.

Quiet time was three blissful hours of sleep. Afterwards we ate and tried triking to the playground next door again. As we turn onto the school road, he looks up and points out the crescent moon. “That moon is a watermelon.”

I have no idea where that idea came from.

Baby Firsts

N had a first today:

First Time Pooping Around Diaper Onto Mommy’s Shirt While at the Library with no Spare Clothes.

Which reminds me that I need to get a Baby Journal.

Birthday Manners

Presents

Our daughter, not quite 5 weeks of age, slept from 10:30pm till 5am last night. This was after nursing, then being tanked with an additional 3oz of formula, something I would have found reprehensible with my first child. Waking at 5, she nursed, inspected the headboard for approximately 20 minutes, and finding nothing amiss, went back to sleep about 6am.

An hour later, I realized that the slow progression of gradually louder noises had reached the white noise machine next to my bed: the selection bumped from ‘ocean’ to ‘womb’, a sound J describes as “I’m coming to get you! ...Very very slowly, but I’m coming to get you!” It’s nice to know where your preschooler is playing.

Then, abruptly, our dozing was interrupted by a car alarm. We live in one of the safest towns in Connecticut (despite the multiple bank robberies). No one should be setting a car alarm in this town. I was grumpily thinking this when my husband reached over me, grabbed my keys from Q, and turned off the ‘panic’ alarm that he’d just set off on J’s car.

J then looked at the clock and realized that Q had set off the alarm at 7:20am, the exact time of his birth, 3 years earlier.

Happy Birthday, kid. Thanks for reminding us of how lucky we are to have you enter our lives.

Memory

This morning I snuck out of the house for a quick run after nursing the baby, managing to not wake up Q on my way out. When I returned home, I could hear him whining an early morning whine.

I went upstairs and opened his door to make sure I was hearing him right. “I want my balloon!”

His balloon was lost over a week ago. I sat down in his rocker and laughed at him. He couldn’t help himself and grinned back.

Three Moments

Since N’s arrival, one of our sweetest big brother gestures(primarily Q just doesn’t pay that much attention to N) comes from Q stroking his face with N’s hair and announcing that he’s nuzzling N. Very gentle and tender.

Q is in a mildly perverse stage at the moment. Anything you say, eg: “It’s time for dinner,” is met with a contradicting declaration from Q, “It’s not time for dinner.” Sometimes in his own favor, but just as often he’s claiming something he doesn’t want. We’ve taken to using reverse psychology with this (he knows and finds it funny) and telling him to do things by telling him not to do things. Our favorite is, “Q is not going to kiss Mommy.” He begins to grin and says, “I’m going to kiss Mommy.” He kisses my knee and we act horrified and he giggles hysterically and announces he’s going to kiss someone else. (Even N!) Really, he’s in an endearing age.

Which brings me to last night. Sleep schedules are screwed up here. Due to heat, new baby, thunderstorms, you name it. Q woke from a nap at 7:30 last night and we let him sit with us in the den to eat his dinner, all four of us packed onto the couch, watching the Red Sox play the Yankees. So N is in my arms, successfully nursing on the side she tried to rip off recently, and Q gently leans his cheek into her hair once in a while, and I found myself looking down at these two beautiful children and tearing up. These are the moments you hope you can remember forever.

Addendum

I’m fortunate to have a neonatal nurse as a sister-in-law. (Actually, that’s a bonus, she’s a great sil point blank.) I finally got a chance to chat with her about N and our stay in the hospital. While we’re in agreement that the doctors really need to improve their communication with parents, and that the ER seems to lack concern for actually spreading disease, she was warmly positive about the rate of concern with which N’s infection was approached by the pediatricians, and the course of treatment given by all the doctors.

So, if any further retraction of my grumpiness is necessary, I humbly apologize.

I also appreciate that the pediatrician who released us from the hospital has called both days since then to check on N.

And it looks like she’s developing a nice wholesome belly button after all. I was worrying she’d have nothing to pierce.

Hospital Rant

I was planning to write an entry about all the things I couldn’t do during pregnancy that I now can do, and the ones I’m still looking forward to. An appreciative piece about the body that’s not quite back in working order yet.

But I just spent the past two nights in the pediatric ward at the Yale New Haven Hospital. And now I’ve got other considerations balancing in my mind.

N’s umbilical cord fell off on Thursday morning, right before her 10 to 14 day check up. The belly button had worried one of the pediatrician’s her first week, and I had called in when it seemed to suddenly turn red in a few hours, but I’d been reassured that it looked fine on her previous (Monday) visit. However, Thursday’s pediatrician was very concerned and sent her for tests and consultations.

What followed was 5 hours in the ER. This is a horrible place- despite having a private room, I got nervous about their handwashing, and there was construction, literally just on the other side of the wall we were leaning against. I spent about 2 hours without seeing any of the doctors, and finally, desperate to pee, and not able to just leave the baby (hooked up to an IV), I had to prop open the door and flag down someone to find one of the consulting doctors. Who informed me that they were indeed going to admit her, and thus, me.

Now I don’t want to seem too critical. The doctors seem very conscientious and err on the side of caution. In the pediatric ward, all the staff was impeccable with their handwashing, gowning, gloving. The nurses were really kind, helpful, and attentive to my concerns and, more importantly, to the baby.

But the communication in the hospital was lousy. I might not have been real happy to hear what they were going to say (thus discouraging them from telling me), but they kept forgetting and neglecting to tell me what was expected of me and what was going on in their consultations. Example: I was admitted Thursday in the early evening. Around 8 pm on Friday, one of the nurses informed me that I wasn’t supposed to take the baby out of the room (we’d brought her onto the patio play area so Q could run around), and that I should be wearing a gown while in the room. (Naively I’d assumed that the gowns were to protect N, not to contain the germs to her.)

I found myself being increasingly frustrated by the conversations I had with the doctors. It was like being told, ‘Well, we’ll have to see what your father thinks’ in a cyclical pattern. Each time I was told ‘well, if her belly button looks good, we’ll let you take her home’ or ‘if her ultrasound is clear, you can take her home’ it was to meet with another obstacle, which, despite passing, all culminated in ‘you can’t take her home’. The very nice (I’m sure) chief resident seemed to want me to agree with the treatment, which I found ridiculous. I wasn’t consulted, it wasn’t discussed with me, I was simply told she had to stay. I’m not going to say I think that’s fine when I don’t. I can’t change it, and I’m not happy about it. (This same unfortunate resident had to break the news to me that the blood sample they took at 2:30 am had to be repeated because it had clotted.)

Ultimately, I’m a tired new mother, frustrated and unconvinced that anything was so wrong with my baby that she needed to be hospitalized. Their priority is the health of my baby, and I appreciate that. But leaving me hanging, wondering what was going on, and misleading me when I did get to talk to individual doctors was a serious disservice that left me more fragile and hostile than before.

J and I are grateful our family is all home and healthy again. I’m not even really sure how to resume my normal life- but I’ve realized that if some laundry isn’t done tomorrow, there will be dire consequences…

5/13/07

Her name is Nuala (pronounced: Nu-la).
6 lb, 4 oz.
19 inches long
1:27am on Mother’s Day.

I’m considering becoming a national spokesperson for epidurals. I thought I’d dislike the buzzy/novacaine feeling, which isn’t great, but it took away 100% of the pain (till the very last bit), and allowed me to actually know when I could/should push. (Not something my body was capable of with the previous delivery, probably sensory overload there.)

Fun details:

• Saturday night I was sent home yet again from the hospital since dilation wasn’t happening, despite a day’s worth of increasingly exciting contractions.
• We stopped at a barbeque (veggie burgers for us) on the way home, where my water broke in front of several old coworkers.
• Someone took a photo of my stunned expression, while I waited for towels and the car.
• I kept giggling and cracking jokes as they fitted me with a hep-lock (?) and watched my contractions. The nurses were quite bemused. (But they did call my veins ‘bouncy’ so how can I not giggle?)
• Once the epidural was in, I went from 3 cm to 9.5 in approximately 1.5 hours. (After several hours to get to 3 from 1.)
• I had to wake my husband to tell him that it was time for me to push.

Quinn is doing great (seems happy about her even…) and we’re trying to get enough sleep. My milk has come in and I look like a sloppy stripper. I’ll worry about my weight in a couple of weeks after we get our feet under us and some livable schedule established.

She looks like a Maurice Sendak baby.

New phrases

My husband confessed that he heard Q talking to himself and demanding, “Where the H is my hammer?”

J looked at me innocently, “I have no idea who he learned that phrase from.”

Integrated into his normal conversation this week is a new (and much more positive) phrase that cracks me up everytime he uses it, “I be happy to!”

He uses it when I ask him if he’ll feed the kitties, “I be happy to!”
If he’d like to sit next to the milk gallon at the supermarket, “I be happy to!”
And most amusing, perhaps, he’ll ask, “Mom will you read to me?” Then answers for me, “Be happy to!”

How can I not be?

Golden Day

It’s pouring here. It rarely rains so definitively in this region. Afraid of being trapped inside with an increasingly crabby child, I decided to run an errand about 30 minutes away at Baby Rus (named by a confused family member). I suggested to Q that we go run errands. He happily announced we were going on another ‘adventure’ and cooperated with trip preparations. I fear that some day my label of ‘adventure’ for running errands, or going to a new library, is just not going to fly with this boy. But I’ll take it while I can.

Miraculously, Baby Rus had the nifty tool I was looking for, as well as the bottle nipples I’m hoping to implement sometime in June. Afterwards, I realized that going straight home was a waste of resources. If we’d come all this way, we really ought to do one of our other shopping errands, pouring rain or not. I let Q decide, asking if we should head home. “Go to more buildings.” He stated firmly, mouth full of PB&J.

So I decided that I would risk the odds of the vacuum store being closed on a Sunday, and attempt to find one of the two places in Southeast CT where I can get replacement bags for our fancy, beloved vacuum cleaner. I started by taking a wrong turn. As I drove through a Waterford suburb, Q kept asking, “Where’s the vacuum store, Mommy?” Um, I have no idea? Somehow I managed to navigate through the unlikely suburb (normal routes would have one take frontage roads by the interstate) to a strip mall. Where the vacuum cleaner store had just opened 5 minutes earlier. I got two boxes. Should last us a good 6 to 12 months…

It was still pouring. But the grocery store at the strip mall beckoned with whispers of oatmeal and raisins, which Q has been asking for all week, at least, ever since we ran out. He sat cheerfully in a car cart through this trip. I’d parked by the vacuum store, so we got drenched, and I committed the cardinal sin of leaving a car cart stranded far from its corral.

We came home, unloaded, put away groceries, read books and tucked me into bed, and Q into his room for quiet time. I’ve given up on thinking he’ll nap, but if he stays in his room and lets me nap, it’s nearly as good as both of us napping. The sound machine will make ocean sounds for an hour, after which he’s allowed to come get me.

He ended naptime with our agreed upon closure, “Mommy did the ocean turn off? I can get Mommy the ocean turned off!” The twist? Boy is naked.

So after getting him dressed, we had more books, playing with Daddy, and dinner, where he ate broccoli, sunflower seeds, raviolis, oatmeal with raisins. The broccoli is a fabulous victory, recently born of Q being hungry enough in a restaurant to actually try broccoli again, which he used to love. The sunflower seeds are entirely new. Each time we add a new food to his repertoire, I feel a happy glow. I’m not willing to make an issue out of meals, but I’d like my philosophy of offering him variety to pay off eventually. Cheerfully he told us, “I smelling my seed flower suns.”

More playing with trucks, kissed the cat, kissed Daddy goodbye, fed the kitties, watered the plants, helped clean up toys, had a scrubby bath (ie with soap, hair washing and full out screaming), more books, and into bed.

And I realized that although there were some brief battles here and there (and absolutely no attempt at potty training), this was an absolutely golden day. He was funny and sweet and smart, telling me about the pots steaming and dinging, repeating that we were looking for a nifty tool, resisting a tantrum when I decided that another crib sheet was redundant (I have a linen fetish, and perhaps have passed this on). Today was one of the days I’ve been telling myself that I need to have with Q before the next kid arrives. I don’t have to sit home all day playing with his trucks, but simply remember to enjoy his little boy antics and snuggling to read with me.

Catastrophe

After several time outs over kitty abuse today, it should come as no surprise that Q finally got scratched. Unfortunately he’d already been put to bed (twice), and the cat (she’s pathological) had snuck into his room, and was evidently hiding under his bed. I think he spotted her and did something (?) to piss her off. She was front declawed by previous owners, so I was relieved, to be honest, that he got scratched, not bit.

I had a little heart attack, since I only heard the result (screaming in pain) from downstairs. I wish it were a clear cut case of needing to get rid of the cat. She’s not a good tempered cat. But we’ve been surprised at how much she’s put up with, especially lately as he’s gotten bold. I really wish she weren’t so obsessed with interfering with bedtime. (Constantly having to be tossed out of his room at bedtime, she used to hop in his crib just as we were settling him down as a baby, walking between me and books as we’re reading.)

I also wish this were the sort of event that would instruct his little head not to mess with the kitties. (One time out was over deliberately stepping on the other cat’s tail. Usually he just pushes his luck, fiddling with their ears to watch them twitch, or chasing the mellow one from room to room…) Sigh

Efforts

I just spent 10 minutes at Grandma’s house with Q sitting on the pot, not peeing. You can lead a toddler to the potty, but you can’t make him pee. We agreed that he could wear a diaper if he wasn’t going to pee. He seemed resigned to that. No accidents today though.

Last night- on the manners front- he was in the bath and announced, “Excuse me Cygnet,” (a friend watching him take a bath while sitting on the closed toilet), “I have to use the potty.”

We were stunned, and she quickly vacated the seat. He changed his mind, but nonetheless, it seemed like terrific progress.

He’s thoroughly enjoying ‘Time to Pee!’ by Mo Willems (suggested by Loree Griffin Burns). I was charmed that he recognized that the toy bus a child is driving in the illustration had a pigeon driving it. (An allusion to Willems’ book, ‘Don’t let the pigeon drive the bus!’)

Easter in all its glory...

The least blurry photo. When I showed my husband the decorated truck last night he said, “Isn’t it a little, um, girly?” I pointed out that it was a truck, and how could that be girly? He said, “Yeah, but it’s a truck in drag!” Which made us both like it even more.

It took Q a while to spot it across the room, but when he did, he ran straight over to greet it. Love at first sight. But he’s carefully not neglecting the other beloved trucks now that he’s home. The ribbons didn’t last.

Newbery Award 2007

I am not always impressed by Newbery Award Winners. Some of winners in the first 20 years seem to have won just because there weren’t very many kids’ books being written, so anything with a serious topic and decent writing had to be applauded. And truly, ‘issue’ books always have an edge over other well written children’s books even now.

This year’s winner The Higher Power of Lucky by Susan Patron caused a wild ruckus, due to the use of one word. The upset even includes omission from some children’s collections at libraries. In case that doesn’t yet sink in, think about it, this is the Newbery Award, the highest award we give children’s chapter books in this country. You can see an article in the “New York Times” on February 18, 2007 (sorry I can’t link to it because it’s now moved to their archives, but check access from your local library database) called “With One Word, Children’s Book Sets Off Uproar”.

What’s the one word? Scrotum.

Now, I’m definitely not someone who needs to use the word ‘Scrotum’ very often. And I don’t. But I am a big believer in using appropriate words to avoid confusion. I am a big believer that the forbidden is more exciting than the accepted. So when a huge fuss was being made over this book, I made a mental note to read it sooner rather than my eventual approach to the Newbery Award Winners.

My opinion now? Not only is the word ‘scrotum’ appropriate in context, but in many ways, I think I can argue that this word is crucial for the book.

The Higher Power of Lucky is about a motherless little girl who is desperately afraid that her beloved guardian will abandon her and return to France. Intertwined with her story is that of a small boy who is being raised by his grandmother while his mother, unknown to Miles, serves a prison sentence.

Most of all, what is frightening for these two children is the mysterious and unpredictable world of grown ups. Lucky is worried she will be left behind, so when she sees her guardian’s passport, and a mass of paperwork, she assumes that the next stop is a group home in Los Angeles. Miles’s mother never visits him, so he assumes that she simply doesn’t love him. Without accurate information, even children will tend to suspect the worst. And the worst is that we are unloved and unimportant.

‘Scrotum’ is not a word we need to shelter our children from. Near the end of the book, Lucky asks her guardian what the word ‘scrotum’ means, and the simple answer, reflected to me a larger truth. In attempting to ‘protect’ each other from the truths that affect each other’s lives, we can create greater problems than an anatomically correct vocabulary. When we know facts, the potentially horrible unknown no longer has power over us.

More on Potty Training

In our attempt to deluge our toddler with potty training education, J picked up a handful (ie. all available) of books at the fancy new train hosting library. And two videos. I know we’re missing a few classics yet, but I thought I’d list the useful ones, with descriptions.

The star of the potty book show is Tinkle, Tinkle Little Tot: Songbook and CD: Songs and Rhymes for Toilet Training by Bruce Lansky. I’m not personally crazy about the cd, but Q happily listened through it several times. The illustrations are appealing and happy. But the rhymes, set to traditional tunes like ‘Twinkle Twinkle’ and ‘My Bonnie lies over the ocean’, are good. Our librarian called it addictive. You can’t help yourself. You end up muttering songs celebrating toilets and pee.

One morning this week, Q snuck into our room, picked up the book and recited my favorite one:

Hush little darling,
don’t you fret,
Let’s clean up,
your pants are wet.

Hush little darling,
don’t you cry,
Someday soon
you will stay dry.

Also good, with very simple visuals and text, is P.J. & Puppy
by Cathryn Falwell. If you are lucky enough to have a 2 year old ambitiously potty training, I think this one would be brilliant. Parallels a child potty training with a new puppy paper training, complete with mistakes.

Very solid, although somewhat dated photos, is a nice classic by Fred Rogers, Going to the Potty (First Experiences). This is a really gentle, but matter-of-fact depiction of what potty training is all about. Nothing glamorous, but Q has had us read this multiple times.

Which brings me to one I do not recommend. In the Mr. Roger’s vein, Heidi Murkoff (of the What to Expect series for pregnancy, babies etc. series) has done a book on potty training. What to Expect When You Use the Potty has great illustrations and a very appealing main character, a dog, and Q loved looking at it. Unfortunately, it has text sophisticated enough that you might consider using it with a 6 year old. Hopefully most 6 year olds are potty trained, which seriously limits the usefulness of this book. Since Q loved the illustrations so much, we would sit and paraphrase each page, but it was a bit boring and annoying for the adults to deal with long explanations about food becoming energy for our body. It did bring up useful information with nice illustrations, such as where poop goes when you flush it away. But overall, it just didn’t have the usefulness of Mr. Rogers’ book on potty training.

Another fun book, not really about potty training, but often useful with potty training, since after all, we’re talking about poop all the time, is the newer classic Everyone Poops by Taro Gomi. Not every adult is into scatalogical humor, but, well, almost every small child tends to develop a sense of amusement about it, and this book is great for addressing the basic concept of food in: poop out.

I should note that I’ve seen some other books in libraries which I haven’t gotten a chance to read and evaluate yet. I’d love to hear from anyone who has read these or found other useful potty books!
Standards I hope to check out soon include:
Once Upon a Potty (Girl and Boy versions, and a video, which might be really useful) by Frankel;
The Potty Book (again in boy and girl versions) by Capucilli;
My Big Boy/Girl Potty by Cole.

Potty Training

Q fell in love with pull ups last week. But J and I agreed that there’s no point in just replacing diapers with pull ups. So after discussion, we decided that Q was showing a lot of signs that he’s ready to start potty training, and we should start a potty educational campaign.

I stopped at the library on the way home. We live in a really small town evidently. They had one potty training book which didn’t strike me as that helpful. (Not awful, but not helpful.) I requested two, and headed home. At home I was greeted by a counter full of library potty training books J had located, plus two videos, and a package of real, honest-to-goodness, underwear.

I got upstairs to see a vision of my son sitting on a potty, wearing a pair of these pants (With dump trucks on them), reading a book on potties. He loves these underpants more than he loved pull ups. We read a bunch of the books, he watched a video with ‘Bear in the Big Blue House’ about potty training, we reviewed the concepts. He talked with his trucks about Mommy pees in the Bob potty (Bob the Builder, in case you’re curious, and no, Mommy’s butt wouldn’t fit), Daddy pees in the Bob potty (ditto), Grandma pees in the Bob potty, Sintya pees in the Bob potty…

Today he insisted to Daddy that he should wear his underwear to the doctor’s office. Daddy grabbed a diaper and spare pants, and let him (with much trepidation). They made it not only through the doctor’s appointment (he’s got eczema, by the way), but also through a grocery store trip. He refused repeatedly to go to the potty while out in public, and when they returned home, he used the potty, had dry underpants, and earned his first sticker. (Thomas the Tank Engine, and I’d like to note that he doesn’t watch either Thomas or Bob at home, or to my knowledge anywhere, although Granmary might have shown him some on his last visit.) He earned a second sticker this afternoon- post “nap”.

I’m kind of flabbergasted. I’m not expecting that we’re suddenly on the Potty Train, but I’m amazed at how ready he seems to be to switch over. I have to remind myself that we underestimate his abilities and understanding. Which might be a hint that the future baby will not be as much of a surprise as I think.

Toddler Competencies

In a typical toddler burst, Q is suddenly proficient at a new batch of skills. And as usual, with a new batch, we've learned that we need to retrain ourselves. Forget potty training, it's more practical to learn how to unscrew caps. Q's been practicing with the sippy cup lids. This is an unforeseen consequence of reverting to sippy cups in order to keep the cats from their scavenging tendencies, burying their heads in a rainbow of plastic cups left temporarily on the table.

Getting dressed now takes approximately half an hour, or longer. Not only does Q want to pick out his actual clothing, and put it on himself, but he also wants to select his own diapers. He climbs onto an overturned can and peers into the diaper cubby, examining each one carefully till he finds a 'nice' one. "This one Mom!" He eventually clambors down. "It's got tigers on it!" Yep. Identical to every one that was rejected...

On the rare morning when he manages to pick out his own clothes and get dressed without being prodded, he emerges with a huge, shy grin, oh so proud of himself. I don't have the heart to tell him everything is backwards. Surely it doesn't matter. Much. The zipper in the back is odd though.

On an intellectual level, one of his interesting new skills is the ability to sneak, and the understanding of its usefulness. It used to be easy to keep track of Q. If he got quiet, we'd call out to him and he'd cheerfully volunteer that he was going to clean the kitty litter, or work on the computer. In the next stage, we could track him by his footsteps or random items dropping to the floor. A long stretch of quiet typically meant that either he was filling his diaper, or he was reading.

As a side effect of avoiding naps he has learned the advantage of silence. He's discovered that by crawling from room to room, he's nearly noiseless. If we don't hear him, we naively believe he's napping and we're less likely to interfere as he removes our toothbrushes from the medicine cabinet and begins to scrub his Bob the Builder potty with them.

But the subtle skills he's picking up on are the best. Sunday we said goodbye to J as he headed off to work. He gave Daddy a kiss (only air kisses, evidently he's European), and a hug. I gave J a kiss and as J opened the door said, "Love you, honey." J stepped outside, "Love you too." The door shut, but before it latched, Q gave it a good shove and called after J, "Love you, Daddy!"

To Market, To Market, To Buy a Plum Bun...

With some great effort to create obstacles for ourselves, all three of us spent four (plus) days apart last weekend. I went to Florida to visit my parents, with the intent of having one last easy trip, sans toddlers and babies, before the next kid arrives. Q went to visit his Grandpa and Granmary. (Where he is doted on and generally indulged with tons of attention, new adventures, and so much fun that when I asked once, as we drove away, if we should go home now, he simply said, "No.") J stayed home, worked, and built a shelf in the kids' room.

Q and I arrived home within about an hour of each other on Monday. The three of us hung out in his room as he frolicked on his bed, played with scrap lumber from the shelves, and generally expressed delight in returning home.

It's a relief to be home. I have my family, my own bed, ample pajama bottoms that can accomodate my ever-spreading girth...you know the comforts you arrange for home to have. My favorite cereal, flannel sheets, cold weather...mostly things that if they were vitally important to me, my mother would have been delighted to provide. (Well, not the cold weather, or picky high maintenance items, but still.)

Watching Q bounce on his big boy bed, I began to sing a droning song I made up for him on a sleepless night last fall. J and I had left him with Grandpa and Granmary for a whole weekend alone, and the re-entry had been difficult. At about 3 am, he woke and wailed till I took him downstairs and rocked him, reciting nursery rhymes and familiar songs. Eventually I was so tired that all I could manage was a monotone: "Mommy and Daddy and Q... Mommy and Daddy and Q... Mommy and Daddy and Q..." We've sung it off and on since then, and as it has no melody, harmony, or musical ability necessary, even Q has been known to hum it to himself.

Hearing me sing it on Monday, he broke into a big smile. He didn't acknowledge it, or sing along. But it was evident that all the family puzzle pieces were back into place.

Home again, Home again, Market is Done.

Valentine's Day Present

Last week was a hard parenting week. Q went on a napping strike, coinciding with a week of his fetal sibling deciding she needed a new rec room between my small and large intestines. Between his constant meltdowns (gosh, lacking a nap doesn't improve a toddler's resilience?) and my desire to wear a mumu, it was a little brutal.

Friday night we brought home a toddler bed. A big boy bed, so to speak. Much to our surprise and delight, Q loves it. He bounces on it, piles blankets on it, cuddles his animals on it. He helped me pick out new crib sheets for it. That is, he played peacefully in the store while I furrowed my brow at the difficulty in deciding between a patterned sheet and solid colored sheets and grumped over the discount store not having a high end options to satisfy my linen fetish.

He even, and I know you weren't expecting this, slept in the bed. And fell out. At least three times on different occasions. Having learned his lesson, he now prefers to sleep in his crib, although he's willing to try out the big bed for naps. Which he started taking again on Tuesday, to my endless gratitude.

Wednesday we had an ice storm and I came home early. I optimistically tucked him into his big bed for nap at 2:30, following an unnecessary meltdown (his gentle signal that a nap is welcome), and was happy to hear him wake at 4:30. Two hours is a decent nap for a child who was claiming he didn't need them just two days before. I went in to get him, assuming he was hungry.

He wasn't hungry. He was drastically unhappy to be awake, and had perhaps fallen out of bed yet again. I tried our post-nap strategies for cheering him up when he wakes up hard: comforting his stuffed animals as if they're crying; making his stuffed animals bark or meow (depending on whim, not necessarily appropriately for the animal); offering to go downstairs and get some food or milk. Nada. Didn't buy any of it.

I picked him up and sat in the rocking chair. I offered to read a book. No. I tried singing. "NO! NO! NO! Don't do that!"
No singing.

Rebuked, I tried just rocking him for a few minutes.

You never know when the last time your child will fall asleep in your arms will be. And the less often it happens, the sweeter the moments get. Previous to Wednesday, the last time Q had fallen asleep in my arms was 2005, during his last ear infection.

So I sat and rocked and fell asleep with his skin of his soft forehead pressed to my cheek.

Nail Trimming

Q hates to have his nail trimmed. Hates it. Big tantrums. We're working on it.

So I have strategies: I pick a time when he's not too tired, or too hungry. We've shown him how the nail trimmer works. We've let him watch us trim our own nails. And recently I've started singing 'Where is thumbkin?' while trimming his nails.

I admitted to J last night that I feel neglectful because I haven't been singing the itsy-bitsy spider, or thumbkin and our poor child's classics are being neglected. Never mind that the kid sings 'The Grand Old Duke of York' and 'Sally go round the sun' spontaneously. I was immensely relieved when J reassured me that they sing itsy bitsy spider in music class.

Anyways. So yesterday there's lots of screaming, and I'm singing 'Where is thumbkin' and gently prying open his little fists to trim them, and by the end, there's not so much screaming and I sing it again for fun this time.

We put the kid to bed last night, and as he's chattering himself to sleep we hear him start singing, "...where is thumbkin? where is thumbkin?..."

The Naming Game

We have some name issues. The names I like and the names J likes are not that different, and yet they do not overlap, especially for girls. We decided to give friends and family a chance to weigh in on our name ideas.

(Not our idea, see Name Madness And if you like name trivia and trends, this entire website The Baby Name Wizard Voyager is really cool. And the blogger, Laura Wattenberg has the only baby name book I've ever absolutely adored and found absolutely helpful, The Baby Name Wizard. End endorsement.)

So friends and near acquaintances and family are weighing in on names that we do and don't care about. (We started with 32 boy names and 32 girl names. If you can come up with 64 names you can genuinely imagine naming your child, you have a very generous imagination.)

Last week, J was told in detail, by a kind woman why we shouldn't name a boy XXX. XXX will be made fun of in school. XXX will be constantly embarrassed by this. Mid conversation, another woman passed by and leaned in and said, XXX is the only! name we should use for a boy.

We found that pretty funny. What's even more amusing, is that I think that made us like the name more. XXX will not be in elementary school indefinitely. And we can help avert the embarrassment by explaining to XXX what his name means so that he's psyched about the association. I think it's entirely possible that this helped us unite under a boy name. (We don't like very many boy names. Some are lovely, fine names, just not well matched with our older child, and/or, just not names we can really imagine naming our own child. Names we'd love to meet on a kid though!)

What I find additionally amusing is that a close friend was ranting about why YYY is a bad name for a girl, or anyone for that matter. My reaction here was not suddenly decide that I really did like this name, as I did with XXX. Instead I'm torn between defending our consideration of YYY, and wanting to write it off because it's just not one of my favorite names for a girl anyways.

I find this heartening. Although I really enjoy the input from friends and family, I mostly just want to weed out the total dud names that hormones persuade you are a good idea. I want to still follow my heart and fall in love with the name of our future child.

Swimming With Dolphins

Several weeks ago - mid week 11 of the pregnancy - my body tried to persuade me that I was feeling the little larvae moving. I was pretty skeptical, and sure enough, larval movement failed to repeat. Which reminds me of a comment I heard, "Being pregnant is like the worst case of the flu you've ever had." (Sorry, not sure if Cygknit said it first, or if she was quoting.)

This morning, mid week 14, I dreamed I felt the baby moving under my hand, like you imagine reaching into a dolphin tank and feeling them pass by, all smooth, gentle muscle and then gone. It took a while to wake up enough to realize that while it was a lovely dream. At this point in the pregnancy, the fetus is approximately 6 skinny inches long and not really capable of global movements. With enough sleep, I'm usually more skeptical.

But after lunch, the little Melvin did a flutter kick hello. Nothing painful or exciting, just enough to make me blink in acknowledgement. Oh! Well, there you are. Enjoyed the soup, eh?

Christmas Agonizing

I’ve been thinking alot about Christmas traditions and family gatherings in the past few weeks. J and I are non-religious, and perhaps rigidly so, but I have so many warm memories of feeling like Christmas was magical. Yes, it was a blow to find out about Santa, but hey, it seemed more like the kid telling me was blowing it, rather than the adults who perpetuated the mythology. J hates the idea of lying to Q, which I understand, and I don’t really like the idea either, but to grow up never having believed in Santa? That seems, well, unkind.

Today I put up some of our Christmas lights: red dangly stars (thanks Ikea!) and a wreath of lights (thanks Ikea!) and decorated the ficus tree with hearts I made last year (felt). J has made a little wooden tree which he wrapped with colored lights and is planning to hang in the living room (it’s cute, sort of a skeleton version of a Christmas tree, but without the grim connotation that just evoked). I’m envisioning hanging the few large ornaments we have from the ceiling in front of the windows (but not low enough to be grabbed by Q). I hung Q’s stocking from our ‘mantel’ (the corner cupboard) and made a mental note to see if the toy store has more, since it’s pretty and unusual and since we have another kid coming we’ll need two stockings next year. (Not that my role as a youngest sibling made me overtly aware of things I missed out on or anything.)

But we’re avoiding one of the big traditional battles of our marriage: the Christmas tree. I like them. I loved lying on the floor looking up at all the lights. I loved my mother telling me about the ones from her childhood. The ‘icicles’ which were glass or metal and simply little spikes on hooks. I loved the old fashioned shaped lights we had for a while (only one string). I wished I could sleep on the floor in front of the tree, with the colors washing over the world like a stained glass window.

I have, to this point, been conceding the tree battle to J. They do seem a bit silly, lots of work, mess, waste of a healthy tree etc. But Q is now old enough to notice trees in all the stores and get excited about them. He likes the specialness of decorations, and the trees inside seem to especially tickle his fancy. Yes, we can go to Grandma’s for a tree. But it’s something I want to give Q. Like a love for reading, and kisses goodnight. There are some things you hope to get from your parents.

I’m gearing up for the battle. I’ve decided an artificial tree would be fine. We can buy scented candles for ‘pine’ scent. I don’t mind if, for a few years, we get a relatively small tree and put only non breakable ornaments on it. I do mind if there is a bad attitude. I do mind if it actually undermines the goal of creating a cozy, magical Christmas feeling. I know I have to trod carefully here, but I’m wondering if Q has already won the battle for me, it’s just a question of articulating it gently to J and figuring out the delicate path between creating magic for our child through gentle pretend and selling out to the aspects of Christmas we dislike.

Adult Onset Athleticism: Part Two

My first roadrace was a spontaneous decision. Our small Massachusetts town arranged a kids' fun run. What I didn't know when I started running it, was that I suck at running. My clearest memory is of the police car escort, the traditional last place prize. The indignity was evident, even to me.

Following that revelatory run, I did as little running as possible until high school. Then, desperate to take off some weight, I began running. To ease the humiliation, I ran at night, so no one could see my thighs slapping together. I layered on clothing. I listened to music, attempting to fool myself into ignoring the physical exertion. I ran once around the block, and then would sit and pant in front of the house. I lost some weight, but every ounce hurt as it peeled off.

I picked up running again in college, while rowing crew. I jogged from campus down to the boathouse, about two miles, nearly all downhill, on Summit Avenue, lined with old mansions, trees and colleges. It was criminal not to at least enjoy the scenery, and I gave running some grudging respect. Later in the fall, I watched hordes of runners heading up this same hill, headed for finish line of the Twin Cities Marathon. The fast runners didn't impress me. It was the back pack who held my interest. These runners were defying their physical destiny. They were not natural jocks. They were fighting their way up the hill. They looked like me, and when I cheered them on, they grinned.

My boyfriend and future husband had been a runner, and when I started running again after a lapse, he ran too. His stride was much longer than mine, but we worked out a deal to warm up together. He'd then run at his own pace, and meet me for a cool down. He gave me running advice, took me to my first 5k, talked me into the wisdom of a digital running watch, and when his recurring injuries sidelined his running, never discouraged me from running. Discussing marathons, he casually said, "That kind of running is crazy." But when he realized I was actually considering running a marathon, he looked me straight in the eye and told me he didn't think running one marathon was crazy. I did run a marathon (some might question whether one can call it 'running'), and he rode his bike beside us for the entire second half.

These days, my most regular running buddy is my son. When I can talk him into a morning run, he points out the sites: a waterfall, a chicken, a dog. Despite his occasional reluctance to be packed into the jogger, if I take him out and just walk, he'll start requesting more speed, "Run? Run?"

The more I think about running, the more I realize it has entertwined itself into my life and my personality in a way I cannot easily explain or understand. I don't know why I think it's cool to run in a 5k when I still haven't broken 30 minutes and I don't know anyone at the race other than my family. What I know is that I am addicted to the simplicity of lacing up my shoes and walking out the door. The smell of autumn leaves in the sun. Greeting early morning dog walkers.

I may be outpaced by speedwalkers. I may hibernate through the winter months. I may be unable to admit I am a runner. But running is mine.

Adult Onset Athleticism: Part One

I would like to submit Exhibit 1: Gone With the Wind, as the first example from my childhood of my father's unrealistic expectations of my muscular abilities and athletic training. We can place this incident within the 6 week block of time when I was 4 years old and my mother was in London, doing her student teaching. For those people who know that my parents (not actually Luddites) revile television watching and do not own a television, this is also the brief period of time between the purchase of their first and only television and its demise, about a year after this incident.

Dad, in charge of three children for six weeks, is watching Gone With the Wind, being aired specially on television. I request a drink of milk. He tells me I'm big enough to get my own drink of milk. This may, in fact, be true. It is not, however, true that I can pour a glass successfully from a full gallon of milk. It's a shame we didn't have cats. I figure the cleanup should have been enough to teach Dad a lesson regarding unfair expectations, but evidence indicates nothing was learned.

Exhibits 2-500 include the cross country skiing trip where I had inadequate body mass to stay warm, the biking trip on Martha's Vineyard when I was so out of shape that I could keep up with the pregnant (but fit!) woman in our group, and numerous incidents in which I was so much smaller and less capable than my siblings that giving up was the only realistic option. I can still hear his disgusted disappointment, "Terry". My father believed disapproval was more motivating than encouragement. (He still grates his teeth remembering these trips.)

I took up running regularly after college. Bike riding didn't provide the exercise I needed. Rowing was a complicated endeavor involving socializing I was uninterested in. Running had never been enjoyable, but it was efficient for my needs. Slowly my addiction to running grew into an affection for distance. I think I wanted to prove to myself that despite my pudginess, I was as dogged as I thought I was. Running for distance is not a remarkably good tool for weight loss, but it gives you some serious bitching rights. Blackened toenails, chafed skin, heat stroke... My college rowing training had awakened a masochistic gene, and now I could feed it without 8 other rowers and an expensive boat! I was hooked.

The first time I recall attempting to go out for a run with my father was after I'd moved to rural (perhaps redundant?) New Hampshire. Across the street from our house was a rail trail and my father and I went for an out and back run. Almost a tunnel through the woods, the trail burrows under the pine trees, crossing gorges on narrow bridges, persistently pushing you ahead. The trail beneath our feet was padded with layers of needles and the late September trees were turning. We were going to run a marathon the next day, and I was not confident I could finish it. I had visions of myself, gritty with sweat, bent with pain, unable to take another step.

A deer darted across our path, and my father reached over and touched my arm, "Oh look, Terry!"

In that moment, I lost my fear of failing him.

Surprises

Q is just over two. We're starting to feel that we've got our parenting legs under us and know how to predict behavior and how we want to deliberately respond to him. Then he surprises us and we have to sit back and grin at all that we have to learn.

This week Q is in a growth spurt. At some ages, I'd mean that the kid put on 2 lbs and 4 inches. In this case I mean, he learned to write the letter 'Q' and the letter 'S' and the letter 'W' (well, if you know what to look for). Tuesday he hopped. He's never hopped before. Now it's not enough to hop, he has to hop at the edge of something so that he can risk breaking his little neck.

He's suddenly articulating himself really well, spontaneously. We've been coaching him to 'ask nicely' when he wants something:

Q: Cracker!
The Voices of Reason: I would like a cracker, please?
Q: Want Cracker!

And so forth. Often Q adjusts his request when we tell him he needs to ask nicely, by just throwing a "PLEEEEEASE?" at the end. This is sufficient for the moment.

During dinner the other night, I noticed that, without coaching, Q actually said, "I would like some milk, Daddy, please?" I had to interrupt J and request Q to repeat, which he amazingly did. If the kid asked for anything that politely I'd be tempted to give it to him...puppies, motorcycles, ibooks, you name it kid.

Yesterday, we had the real clincher for the week. J and I were sitting and talking about our fantasy kitchen renovation, for which he'd actually drawn a blueprint sketch. I glanced up and saw Q trying to navigate some toys near his plastic potty. The potty was in the way, so I casually told him, "Q you can sit on the potty, you don't have to go around, hon." He looked at said potty and lifted up the lid. He checked it all out again, per his usual, This is entertaining but has no relation to real life. "If you want to use the potty, we could take your pajamas and diaper off."

Then I returned to chatting with J. The next time I looked up, there was a naked child in my living room, clamboring over to sit on his potty. My jaw dropped and we had to leave the room so our hysterical laughter wouldn't disturb the strong possibility that Q was going to actually use his potty.

...and he did!