The Chop told me today that if I was still blogging, I should write about people who say they get pets to prepare themselves for kids. For one, they don’t prepare you (they seriously don’t) and for two, they begin to THINK they are your kids. Which is bad, because you’re now stuck with entitled pets. Get pets after you have kids – that way they come into the family knowing the pecking order… they’re at the bottom.
I laughed, but didn’t respond re: the “still blogging” comment. Am I still blogging? Would I be considered a blogger? I want to write – at least twice a day I think of something I want to expound on – but by the time we get the kids to bed, I’m exhausted and I have to do dishes and then work for at least four hours. Nine times out of ten I completely forget that I wanted to write in the first place and the odds are good that if I did remember, I would’ve forgotten what I wanted to write about.
I adore having two kids. I’m glad the Peanut will have a sibling and that we had them relatively close together. Half the time I want to have another (but then the Chop shakes sense into me), but I wasn’t prepared for how hard it would be to have two kids and run a business. When you run a business, it doesn’t matter that you just had a baby – you don’t get maternity leave. Our type of business means we’re always on call and we have hard deadlines – even though some of our clients sent me really nice notes and gifts, they still expect their work to get done right away.
And I get that, completely. I chose this type of work and I’m really glad I did – I actually love it – but there are some days that I really wish I had a regular job where I could leave at five and forget about every night. Where I actually had a vacation with no work at all and where I received 10-12 weeks of maternity leave – and no one called me to do or fix something the day after I gave birth. Where I wasn’t trying to work with two kids wanting attention in the same room, and I feel guilty ignoring them… which means that my best working hours are when they’re asleep.
It’s nine on Sunday night and I just finally sat down. We all got up around 6 (the Bean first, the Peanut an hour later), then I napped for two more hours while the Chop took them both (the only way I’m surviving the nights). Then he napped for two hours while I took them both (a weekend treat)… then the Peanut and I went out to play and for a walk while the Chop stayed with the Bean who’d finally gone down for a nap. The Peanut fell asleep on the walk for fifteen minutes, which somehow negated his two hour nap for the day (ugh). So then there was playing, reading, dinner and a bath. During his bath I made dinner for us (and burned part of it because the Bean got hungry), then the Bean went down for her first long nap at 8. The Peanut went to bed around 830, I washed dishes and bottles and sat down to begin working. The Chop is currently folding laundry, but will start working as soon as he’s done.
But damn, they’re cute.
The Peanut virtually has his own private library – at least 100 children’s books, a combination of his own and ones from the Chop’s and my childhood – and there are some really great books in it. But one of my favorites is “Awesome Book of Love” by Dallas Clayton. It’s quirky and sentimental and never fails to make me tear up.
And this is my favorite page…”I’ll stand down whole armies defending your name.”
Kids, man, I don’t know.*
*I am completely unable to articulate due to exhaustion.
During the last three months of my pregnancy the Peanut wanted me all the time. I had to put him to bed, I had to do nap time, I had to feed him, I had to read, etc., etc. Everything was “Mama do” and it drove the Chop nuts. It drove me a little nuts too, particularly as sitting on the floor and picking him up became impossibly hard.
The day we came home with the Bean, it was “D-da do” and it hasn’t stopped since. D-da has to put him to bed. He has to read to him. He has to feed him. I’ve suddenly become persona non grata and it’s half sad/half annoying. According to books (and everyone), he thinks I’m the Bean’s property now – and he’s mad at me for it. I’m not sure if that’s the case or not, but it’s made life very interesting.
We decided to spend the fourth this year being lazy, which ended up being the best possible way to spend it. The Peanut has suddenly developed a fear of his bedroom/crib, which means naps are a no-go and getting him to bed at night now involves letting him fall asleep in our bedroom, or on the green bean, and then carrying him in there once he’s out.
At first we wondered if he was sick, or teething, or was having attachment issues, or was afraid of the dark… through the process of elimination, we’ve established it has something to do with his crib. He hates elevators, so perhaps it’s small spaces that are now bothering him? Who knows. It’s very sad and frankly a huge pain in the butt.
We got him a 90 minute nap today by driving to a grocery store that was 30 minutes away. Ridiculous, yes, but highly necessary.
The Peanut had an overnight play date with his best buddy… and oh boy, the Chop and I are not sure we’re prepared for two kids, lol. They were so fun, but by the time they went to bed, the Chop was too tired to work and I had to force myself to get some things done.
We’ve been discussing what happens once the Bean is born – due date January 25, 2013 – and at this point he’s either quitting his part time job, or we must find a nanny to come in three days a week. Or both, lol.
Hives, apparently. And they’ve all but vanished overnight after Benadryl and an oatmeal bath. So very odd.
The Peanut had his first real appointment with the speech/feeding specialist this afternoon. It went well (unsurprising, as he charms everyone who walks in the door), but she did decide that weekly visits would be the most beneficial. The list of foods he’ll eat is quite small, he’s really uninterested in food in general and she’d love to get him using more words when he is hungry, etc. Party, sigh.
Immediately after she left the freezer repairman came (finally), replaced a broken compressor (of course) and woke up the Peanut (who had fallen asleep right before his therapist left). He was, sadly, bereft. And required sitting on Daddy’s lap while watching Sesame Street for half an hour.
It astounds me the amount of work I used to get done. Working for 10-15 hours a day, flying through jobs and designs… lately it seems I’m always playing catch up. We’re supposed to go on vacation next week and I have at least 60 hours of work I should do before we go. Not gonna happen.
After dinner we let the Peanut scurry down the sidewalk from the restaurant, one of his favorite things to do (sidewalks are super! cool!). He walked up to a group of guys eating at an outside table and said, “Hi!” They smiled and said hi back, chuckling a little at his exuberance. He smiled and continued on his way, stopping only when the sidewalk ended – and I told him he had to turn around.
We had his first scheduled date with the occupational therapist this morning. They sat on the floor and played; he was delighted at all the new toys that came out of her bag. It’s an interesting thing to sit and watch your child play with a “teacher” in your house. Do we play too? Do we intercede at any point? He came over to us a couple of times and sat in our laps, but for the most part he happily played.
Her goal is to work with him on communicating more, something that’s odd to me, as he communicates pretty well in my opinion. Except that they think it’s more we know how to read him, so it’s less about him and more about us. We know when he’s hungry or tired or done with dinner; we know when he wants to read or play or be left to his own devices. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do with toddlers?
Her one takeaway from the day that she mentioned to us was that he likes to be in control (LOL) and perhaps that’s why he fights eating. He doesn’t get to control much, but he can certainly control what goes in his mouth. I can’t fault him there, being in control is embedded in his genes from my side of the family.
We had the first appointment with the Peanut’s coordinator for Early Intervention today. The Peanut swept her off her feet with giggles, smiles and constantly walking up and saying “hi!”
His plan is to see her twice a month, the feeding specialist once a month and go to a group activity once a week – for now. That might change depending on the progress. It seems odd to me that we’re only going to see the feeding person once a month – but apparently most of her time spent will be working with us and not the Peanut. We’ll have homework.
On one hand, this is what we’ve been waiting for; on the other hand, I need more to do like I need a hole in the head.
The Chop and I decided earlier this year that April would be the ideal time to start trying for a second baby. We have family trips in August and October and the rest of the family is coming out for Christmas so we can all drive to my parent’s new place. If we started trying in April, we’d have a few months to get pregnant, then I’d only be moderately pregnant in August and October, and able to go north for Christmas without concern of going into labor.
Except we forgot that we get pregnant extremely easily… as in freakishly easily.
Baby number two is on it’s way. I’m not sure how far along I am, but I’m guessing about five weeks. Which means we managed to get pregnant in two. What. the. hell.
I love this.
Am I Mom Enough? A Motherhood Wish List
I hope I raise a child who says “thank you” to the bus driver when he gets off the bus, “please” to the waiter taking his order at the restaurant, and holds the elevator doors when someone’s rushing to get in.
I hope I raise a child who loses graciously and wins without bragging. I hope he learns that disappointments are fleeting and so are triumphs, and if he comes home at night to people who love him, neither one matter. Nobody is keeping score, except sometimes on Facebook.
I hope I raise a child who will stick up for a kid who’s being bullied on the playground. I also hope I raise a child who, if he’s the one being bullied, fights back. Hard. Oh, and if he’s the bully? I hope he realizes that his mother, who once wore brown plastic glasses and read the phonebook on the school bus, will cause him more pain than a bully ever could.
And I hope that if my child turns out to be a colossal screw-up, I take it in stride. I hope I remember that he’s his own person, and there’s only so much I can do. He is not an appendage to be dangled from my breasts on the cover of a magazine, his success is not my ego’s accessory, and I am not Super Mom.
Read the full list…