The Second

September 8, 2010 at 10:48 am | Posted in As the Months go by..., Baby Weight (Evan), Love and all that other mushy stuff | 1 Comment
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It’s his birthday.  Today my son turned two.  Two.  That’s all.  It’s such a cozy little number.  There’s nothing big about it.  But, of course, it feels huge. 

It’s been longer than two years since I’ve loved him.  I’d spend evenings talking to him while he was inside, still growing.  Sometimes, no doubt, before he even developed ear drums.  I’m sure I looked like a crazy person, chatting to nothing.  Thank goodness no one could see that I was picturing him nodding along with my dialogue in my head.  I do the same now and he does nod along and he does answer me.  It’s normally in his style of gibberish or his fall back answers: Yeah-ess, No, or Whyyy. 

My goodness how he’s grown!  His father and I look at him, astounded.  At the same time we high-five each other for another year of giving him enough nourishment and care that he’s still around.  His life being a round track for us… the finish line marking a milestone in his journey which we celebrate but run right though to continue around the loop.  Dizzy and tired without a longing to rest.  Eager to see his next step.

Also mourning what has now come to pass.  It’s one of those things I hadn’t anticipated as a mother (you know, along with the eleventy thousand other things)… a sadness that we’ve reached another landmark in his life.  You know it from all the mothers crying after leaving their children at the bus stop or the school’s entrance for the first time.  So very freaking proud; so very freaking sad.  It’s my son’s birthday… Imma throw me a pity party now.

This is my favorite time yet.  Although, I said the same thing last year:

This year I told Evan that it’s my favorite time yet and he asked me “Whyyyyyy?”.  I laughed so hard I produced tears.  He looked confused.

We threw a party for Evan Sunday.  He had a good time all day long.  He was a little too eager to blow out his candle on his cake.  He also was very meticulous about gift opening at first.

Soon his friends showed him the real way to tear open presents.  Evan got into the swing of things real quick. 

So there it is.  A two year old.  Flying further away from needing me and growing a little too heavy to carry. 

Even still?  This is going to be the BEST YEAR YET!

On Being an Advocate

August 3, 2010 at 3:16 pm | Posted in Baby Weight (Evan), I have unleashed the crazy, I's for reals, Putting on Baby Weight (Pregnancy) | Leave a comment
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It all starts in utero.  It’s not a conscious decision, but one you ponder endlessly anyway.  That glob of cells… is there a heartbeat?  I’m 16 weeks… why haven’t I felt the baby move?  Is that a Braxton-Hicks contraction or a baby-is-on-its way contraction?  I haven’t felt the baby move.  I can’t hold down water.  For me it was: I have a bad backache and something that feels like heartburn.  It all ends in the same question:

SHOULD I CALL A DOCTOR?

For me, pregnancy was easier.  There wasn’t a helpless child in front of me.  I wasn’t feeling well but I can feel the baby move.  The baby is good.  I didn’t want to be that woman who calls the doctor for every little thing.  I was sustaining life with MY MIND and damnit, that makes me hardcore and if that means dealing with a bit of pain then so fucking be it.  Well, we all know how that turned out.  I didn’t want to be a pest so I suffered in silence without making a phone call.  I figured I’d mention it at the next regularly scheduled OBGYN appointment, if it was still bothering me.  My pride/meekness/laissez-faireness could have killed myself and my baby.  Thank goodness concern rose above my obstinance and I called the doctor about the pain.  Evan was born 6 hours later. 

All bets were completely off when you have a sick baby in front of you.

That newborn with a fever?  Did that: December 1st (Our 1 year wedding anniversary), 2am, ER.  The book from the pediatrician said any baby under 3 months with a fever over 101 needs to be seen immediately.  I called after hours.  I was told to go to the ER.  The ER doctor tried to scare us with a spinal tap “if we really want to find out what’s wrong, but I’m sure it’s just a virus and you don’t want to put your baby through that dooooooooo? yooooooouuuuu??”  I was annoyed; he was making me feel awful for coming in and wanting to know what was wrong and I hadn’t even pressed the question.  It was drowned out by the relief I felt because Evan was OK.  But lemme tell you, if the euphoria high of relief were not coursing through my veins, I would have slapped the bastard.  I’m not a fucking doctor.  He would have been much more annoyed if I acted like I was.   Not only was I worried, but I was directed to go there.  I paid for the service with my cash and some good insurance.  I am Evan’s advocate.  Get irritated the with the parents who refuse to be an advocate for their children.  Treat me with some respect, please.

I am now in toddler illness hell.  For a child that is obsessed with washing his hands and a mother obsessed with Clorox, you’d think we’d have a fairly healthy kid.  But no.  Kids get sick.  And with every. little. cough. you get to feel like a bit more of a failure of a parent.  Woo!  A sniffle! Go me. 

I don’t, I swear I don’t, send my child with the doctor with every little cough he gets.  I don’t call the nurse’s line with each sniffle.  I don’t go to the ER for every fever.  When I feel it’s necessary, I do.  If I’m extra worried and I need reassurances, I do.  (They don’t call it a Mother’s Instinct for nothin’.)  But you know what?  Who cares if someone does go in for every little thing?  I mean, really?  They go to someone, pay for a service… who really cares if it’s not necessary?  Like getting your oil changed every 100 miles.  (Which reminds me…)  Change my oil and take my money… YOU’RE WELCOME

This is not to say you should go to the ER for a splinter because they have to treat you even if you can’t pay.  This isn’t saying you should insist to be seen first by a busy doctor with sicker patients.  But I should feel free to schedule an appointment.  For no reason other that I want a doctor to take a look-see at my child.  I have insurance.  I’m going to pay.  Please provide me service.

Parents don’t want to be that person.  The one always calling the doctor.  Worried about every hangnail.  I know I don’t.  And I know that sometimes I pause before I call the doctor because of it.  I look at my child with a 105 fever and worry that if I call they doctor they might scoff at me because their book SAYS that a 105 fever is nothing to be worried about.  I’ll lose sleep… not because of another $20 co-pay or the fact that I’m out of vacation hours… I’ll lose sleep because I don’t want the doctor to not take me seriously because I bring my child in too much.  I feel stupid typing that.  I am Evan’s advocate.  He can’t roll his eyes at me because I’m being silly and call the doctor himself.  He can’t even tell me what hurts.  I have to be the one that describes the slight change in Evan’s behaviour or sleeping habits.  I have to detail his appetite.  That’s my job.  Being that I’m not a medical expert, I tell the doctor the symptoms.  That’s their job.

My tirade comes from an odd batch of symptoms Evan has been producing lately… fevers, rash, peeling fingertips and toes.  Weird.  I called the nurses line and she tells me it’s no big deal and I’m OK with that answer and I go about my merry way.  The next day there’s more weirdness so I get uncomfortable and call again.  This time I want to see a doctor.  Hi, if you don’t think something is wrong I’d like to just come in… a doctor can take a look and put my mind at ease.  I got sighed at.  I heard the rolling of eyes over the phone.  As in, “I’d like to bring him in for an appointment” then, “*sigh* holdon.”  It infuriates me.  Rudeness.  To a customer.  To a worried mother.  Fuck that.

I’m on the look out for a new doctor.  STAT.

My 22 Month Old…

July 30, 2010 at 3:21 pm | Posted in As the Months go by..., Baby Weight (Evan) | Leave a comment
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… OMG: two more months and he’s 2.  As in “ALIVE FOR TWO YEARS”.  Whoa.  I’m trying to teach him to say and show “2” when I ask him how old he is.  I figure it will take him a couple months to perfect it.

… is about 27lbs now.  And tall.  Really, really tall.  So tall I can’t remember how tall the pediatrician said measure him.  He’s all arms and legs.  And he knows how to kick and hit.  Hard.

… is talking up a storm… in evanspeak.  Somethings I can pick up: mommy, dada, help, ball, hat, eat, baba, caca (color / cracker / Lilah – not that he’s calling his girlfriend a cracker), apple, car, dog, truck, choo-choo, book, baby, Dora, Gaga (Yo Gabba Gabba), bye, coat, shoe, etc… and other stuff I can’t pick up.  He will look at me very serious-like and point at nothing in particular and say, “Ahbe meh saa”.  I’m all: “Wha?”  Evan: “AHBE MEH SAA!” and stab the air with his finger that’s pointing at nothing in particular.  “Speak English, Evan. Show me.”  He’ll run into another room with me not far behind and point at another nothing in particular, “AAHHH. BEE. MEEEEEEH. SAAAA!”  Still at a loss, I distract him with this question, “Want an apple?” “Yes!  App-ah! App-ah! Yes!”  Crisis averted.

understands almost everything you say.  This creeped me out a little.  If I was talking to him, I’d try to stick with words he knew.  I’d use simple phrases and show him a lot of things at the same time.  One day after he spent that last 2 hours whining about BYEBYE I said, “Fine.  Go get mommy’s shoes, purse and keys and we’ll leave.  I don’t know where, but we’ll go.”  Minutes later I look down at my son still screaming BYEBYE only this time he has my purse hanging off his shoulder, there is a pile of 3 pairs of my shoes and my car keys at his feet.  He managed to get his Crocs on too, albeit on the wrong feet. 

… will answer any question you ask him and try to do what you tell him to do.  Most answers to questions and requests to do things are “NO”.  Sigh.

… is just now getting into the picky eater phase.  When he started eating solids he would eat whatever you put in front of him.  Now he won’t even try most things.  You can let him sit in his highchair, you can wave a time-out possibility at him, you can do the flying airplane of food that flys into the mouth thing and nothing works.  HOWEVER.  I while ago I was eating a wonderful raspberry sorbet I wasn’t looking forward to sharing but couldn’t wait until bedtime.  Evan looked at it so I offered him a bite and he said, “NO!” and I said, “GOOD!”

… is kinda potty training.  I gets sat in there sometimes before bathtime and whenever he asks.  He has two books for the potty and I usually have to read them to him twice and then he will “read” them to me.   Then he wants to do Itsy Bitsy Spider and Wheels on the Bus over and over, (the horn part… no others.  Don’t even freaking THINK about talking about the damn wheels.  Beep!  Beep!  Beep!  Only!)  I bought some “big boy” undies with the intention of letting him run around the house in them and doing frequent potty breaks and using any accidents as a learning opportunity.  So I haven’t done that yet, but the intention is there.  That counts. 

… still gets a morning bottle and a bedtime bottle at home.  The morning bottle is going to be a tough one to break.  He’ll say BABA before his eyes are open.  Nothing like being woke up via amplified baby monitor to: “Ehhhhhbaaaabaaaa.  Ehhh… mah ba baaaaaaaaa.”

… has way too many toys.  He has a toy overflow room!  Not to mention his “Playroom” is my living room and my feet haven’t grown used to the legos yet.  Evan will help you pick up his toys… but then he will dump everything out again and put the container on his head and say, “HAT!”

… went raspberry pickin’.  Just me and him, Daddy was working.  It’s hard to pick berries whilst holding on to a toddler you guys.  And then when I told him that he had to pick the RIPE BERRIES?  Pfft!  It went downhill from there.  Luckily, they were serving cider slushies and that got me back into his good graces.

… is still in size 4 diapers and 24 month clothes… he’s getting DANGEROUSLY close to wearing 2T clothes.  He does wear some 2T jammies.  His 24 month pants adorabley fall down his legs all the time.  He’s a skinny guy.

… has a hand washing obsession.  If it’s quiet for too long I know to search the little downstairs half bath that houses his potty seat and booster steps.  He’s normally trying to get the soap to squirt on his hands or running the hot water at full blast with his hands in the flow. (!!!) I believe it’s time to turn down the temperature on the hot water tank.

… is taking showers lately.  With Mommy or Dada of course.  He does pretty good.  If you tell him to wash himself he washes his hands *eyeroll* or rubs his soapy hands on his belly and then attempts to stick his pushed out belly in the water stream.  Why isn’t he using a washcloth, you ask?  Well, I’ll answer.  He doesn’t like them maybe?  I don’t know.  He has no problem with us using it on him, but don’t you dare let it float around in the tub or hand it to him in the shower.  EGADS!  The whines go up about 10 decibel if you do that nonsense.

… has a problem with my singing.  I’m no Beyonce or anything but DAMN!  The minute I bob my head in the car and start mumbling, “Mah telephone… mah, mah, mah telephone”, Evan shouts: “MOMMY!”  I’ll stop and say WHAT and he’ll give me a look like don’t ever do that again. So I do what I’m told not to do (probably not a good example for Evan) and turn up the radio and sing louder: “MAH TELEPHONE… MAH, MAH, MAH TELEPHONE… When I’m out in the club and I’m sippin’ that bub then I’m not gonna reach MAH TELEPHONE!”  Evan screams: “MOOOOMMMMEEEEE!!!! NOOO!!!!  No, Mommy!!!”  The look… the horror.  I’m gonna be a great mom to a teenager.  *rubs hands together in an evil manner*

… had his first carnival ride.  He rode a horse that went up and down on a ferris wheel.  I think he enjoyed it.  I hung onto him for dear life and made all of the “OOOOOoooooOOH!  WHOA!  Cool!  This is fun!” sounds to make sure he didn’t freak the hell out. 

… is growing up just too darn fast.  I say this all the time but it’s true.  I want to make another Evan.  Once this one can change diapers and cook a proper meal of course.

Birthday, Doctor, Roseola and LAS VEGAS!

April 14, 2010 at 12:28 pm | Posted in Baby Weight (Evan), I shouldn't have even posted this, It's OK to be confused... I am, Love and all that other mushy stuff, Me myself I and me again, The Others | Leave a comment
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Here is your last few week’s summaries of stuff that has been going on because for once things have been going on and I haven’t been here to tell you and I’ll try not to ramble on and on and on.  (Damnit.  I fail.)

April

1st – The first of the month is a hectic time at work for me.  It’s delicious.  I have a big fat list of things to punch out and I love playing the work horse.  Also the first was Evan’s daycare Easter party and I had a dozen little eggs ready to go.  I should have known the night before that we were in trouble.  Evan was fussy and started getting feverish and Wayne called at about 8 or 9pm to tell me he got a flat tire on the way home from fishing.  So while my husband was on the side of the highway changing his tire in the dark, I was struggling with bedtime and an ill toddler.  The next morning, Evan’s fever was at about 103 so I had to call in ‘Kid Sick’ to work.  I miss the 1st of the month and Evan misses his party.  I did get a lot done around the house.  Eventually however, Evan was getting ultra-cuddley.  Like, I would be standing on a step stool and he would climb up just to wrap his arms around my leg… or I would be washing the baseboard and he would lay his head in my lap.  Finally I took him to cuddle on the couch and he fell asleep.  I went back to cleaning and when he woke he was ON FIRE!  Well, not literally kinda, but his temp was over 105!  Panic Mommy in me wanted to run him to the ER or something but Level-headed Mommy saw that he was not acting sick… just a little uncomfortable.  All night we were dosing him and making him sip water and trying to cool him off. 

2nd – He woke up fever-less.  I took him to daycare and went into work.  Mid-day, I got a call that he was getting the fever back.  Bummer.  Wayne’s sister got in town that day from West Virginia and we were really excited to see her.  I picked Evan up and we went to Wayne’s Grandmother’s house.  He still had a fever and he was cranky, but OK.  Right before we went to leave, he started looking really unwell.  I picked him up and as we were saying our good-byes, Evan became a fountain of vomit.  3 times.  Right after a bottle.  All over himself, me and Grandma’s kitchen.  Wayne changed Evan, I changed me and Grandma & Sister cleaned up the kitchen.  I felt awful for everyone. 

3rd – My birthday.  I turned [inaudible] on this day.  Evan’s fever was down and Sister was still in town, so we went shopping and out to lunch.  I spent the day fearing that Evan would become a fountain again.  He did not. 

4th – Easter Sunday.  Evan’s fever was gone and when he woke up we sent him downstairs to inspect his Easter basket. 

He had a little rash on his neck.  I figured it was from the fever or something along those uneducated lines.  By the time we got to Grandma’s house the rash was really kicking in.  It covered his belly and back.  He didn’t seem bothered by it.  He was still cranky.  A cute little sourpuss.

 

 

5th – Back to daycare, back to work.  Evan still had the rash but Ms Di was OK with him hanging out.  Mid-day she calls and thinks it may be Roseola.  I call the nurse and she says to come in for an appointment.  Sure enough: Roseola.  Too bad it’s one of those ass backwards viruses that are all contagious but completely UNcontagious once any sort of symptom appears. 

6th – The rash is still hanging out.  I’m stressed because we are leaving in 2 days for Vegas.  As in LAS VEGAS but with child.  My bestest fabulous friend Stephanie is getting married on the 9th and we are all flying out to join her.  Packing, or more-to-the-point OVERpacking.

7th – Evan is being a complete asshole  butthead  boogerhead.  A cute asshole  butthead  boogerhead that I adore and love and is my pweashus! wittle! baybee!… but a temper tantrum throwing, inconsolable baybee as well.  Ms Di says the word EAR and I place the word EAR with AIRPLANE THE NEXT DAY and call the nurse AGAIN.  Nurse says EAR and APPOINTMENT and we head to the Doc’s office AGAIN.  Evan’s mood is improving by then and by the time the doctor walks in the room Evan is ready to great him with a full on smile.  “So, what’s up?” Doc says.  (As I’m editing… HAHAHAHHAHAHAAH!!!!1!! ROTFLMAO!!  What’s Up Doc.  I SLAY me)  “I’m here because my kid is super grumpy” I deadpan.  Evan giggles.  My god.  Sure enough his ears might-just-be-looking-a-little-pink so let’s-get-him-on-antibiotics-right-away because of the airplane situation, you know, TOMORROW.  I spend the evening packing up the last of our stuff as my husband is out buying stuff he needs last-minute, which is good because if he didn’t I would wonder what the aliens did with my REAL husband.  Wayne’s last-minute like that. 

8th – I work until noon and head home to load the car and button up the house.  Then I go to daycare to pick up and pajama-clad Evan.  He gets strapped in and we drive the hour and a half to Wayne’s work.  We pick him up and quickly dash to the airport.  And it’s a damn good thing we did because I would hate not to arrive 3 hours before the flight takes off.  SIGH.  Evan runs UP the terminal and BACK to DADA over and over and over. 

The flight goes OK and I have to switch this over to the

9th – because we are landing in Vegas and it’s now the 9th.  Just to sum that up for you.  We get checked in and get up to the hotel room.  And Mandalay Bay has no milk located in the miles and miles of its sin city acreage and I would say that they shouldn’t… they should have vodka and NOT milk because it’s VEGAS and not DISNEYWORLD but you would be SHOCKED at the amount of children I saw there.  Even that late.  Half of them weren’t even drunk.  Wayne ended up walking across the strip to an AM/PM for a gallon of milk and a cooler.  It worked.  We sleep.  We wake. 

We get together with THE BRIDE.  We pool.  Evan hates the pool.  I get ready.  I taxi to THE BRIDE’s hotel.  She get’s ready.

I capture gorgeous bride.

Stranger takes picture of us.

We wait for non-english-speaking limo driver that is lost.  We hop in the limo and head to the LAS VEGAS sign.  Wayne is there with a passed out Evan who is awesomely so cute in a little white shirt and tie.  We push through the masses and I listen and watch as THE BRIDE becomes THE WIFE.  It was beautiful and I know she’s so happy.  Then we are all back in the limo and smushing and drinking champagne (well, except for me cause its icky and Evan because he was asleep.  I’m kidding, he was awake but I didn’t have his sippy cup.  I kidding, I had a sippy cup with me but I was too lazy to take it out, so no champagne for him.  I’m kidding for fuck’s sake.  I’m not lazy.)  We arrive at dinner and are greeted with MEAT on a SWORD.  I casually grab a diaper and some wipes to go change Evan and find no changing table.  Restaurant is attached to hotel/mall – walking everywhere to find restroom with changing table – back in my seat lots of minutes later.  After the noms on a stick, Wayne and I and Evan head out to catch a cab.  Did you know that you can’t catch a cab on the strip unless it’s at a hotel?  We did and yet we started walking anyway.  OMG.  Ouchy-foooty-ouchy.  Hubby crying about shins in his splints or something.  Evan chillin’ in the stroller accepting hooker cards being handed out by non-english-speaking over aggressors.  We walk from the Planet Hollywood hotel to Mandalay Bay.  OMG. 

10th – By today we make it back to our room.  We pass the hell out.  We eat.  We pool.  Evan still does not like the pool.  We meet up with THE WIFE and THE HUSBAND and THE BEST MAN.  We go eat.  (Did I mention that Wayne has a couple in him?)  Wayne is kinda drunk.  We go to a restaurant that has a GINORMOUS BURGER that they will give you for free if you can eat it in 5 minutes and 20 seconds.  Wayne is down for it.  I am mortified.  Evan’s getting cranky.  I leave early to get Evan situated and eating.  Wayne comes back all WHOA BIG BURGER and falls asleep.  I meet THE WIFE for FROYO and wish her a pleasant flight home.  I go to bed at a decent hour.

11th – Our last day in LAS VEGAS.  We eat and do touristy things. 

We head to the airport.  4 hours early this time to shake things up.  Evan falls asleep and

12th – we are mid-flight home.  Wayne is headed right into work so I am on hold EVER HEAVIER baby during flight and don’t let him kick neighbor and baby is only comfy if you are not.  I turn into ZOMBIE.  We land in Metro Detroit and I drive Wayne to work.  I drive Evan to daycare.  I drive my ass home and sleep.  Sleeeeeep.  Opps.  I mean, Bwaaaaaains.  Eh, I’m so confused.

Things are all sorts of normal now.  Getting prepared for the March for Babies walk.  Then 4 days later flying to Arizona and then 4 days after I get home from that flying to Florida.  On Mother’s Day.  Without mah baybee.  Again.  Something to whine about on another day.

Hey there, thanks for reading the whole way through, you one person you!  I have a unicorn for you.

My Egg Hunt

March 23, 2010 at 3:23 pm | Posted in Baby Weight (Evan), In Evan's Words | 1 Comment
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Hi!  I’m Evan. 

Mama’s being lazy and hasn’t told you about the Easter Egg Hunt we went to at Aunt Stephanie’s house so I will.

Mama kept telling me that we were going BYEBYE so I kept running to the bottom of the steps so she could put my SHOOs on.  Then she would say things like NOT YET and HOLD ON and LET MOMMY DO THIS AND THAT and I had no idea what she was talking about.  I opened up the closet to get my CO, but Mama shut it again and told me we’d put my coat on in a minute.

FINALLY Mama put on my SHOOs and CO and we gave DADA kisses and said BYEBYE.  Then we went for a car ride.  I watched the trees go by for a minute and then I took a nap.  When we got there, Mama said, “Yea! We’re here” so I clapped for her.  Inside we went and it was full of people.  I forgot how to wave and say HI so I stared at everyone.  Rudely. 

I was sat down so I could EAT.  Mama let me eat with a plastic big boy fork.  But only one.  I tried to get more but Mama kept saying NO.

Then Mama put on my CO and made me hold onto a big blue bucket.  We went outside and Mama started pointing at all of these bright little BALLs on the ground.  I picked one up and dropped it in my bucket.

 

 Mama started clapping and saying YAY EVAN!  So I kept doing it.

This was VERY SERIOUS work.  There were other kids around and they were PICKING UP MY EGGS.  Mama didn’t understand this and kept bugging me to LOOK AT MOMMY!  This is what I gave her:

LOLz

Anyway.  Everyone went inside and Mama and I sat down to look at all my eggs.  I was so proud.  Mama went to touch one of them and then had the nerve to pick it up.  I don’t know how to say WOMAN YOU BEST PUT THAT THING DOWN so I said something like, “EEEeeehhhhh!”  Mama said it was OK and held it up to me.  OK.  Then SHE BROKE MY EGG IN HALF!

You read that right.

BROKE IT IN HALF RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME!  Of course I screamed at her.  My face turned red and I was shaking I was so mad.  She tried to give me some crap about BUT THERE’S CANDY INSIDE BLAH BLAH BLAH but I didn’t care of course because she broke this thing I had worked so hard for.  Parents just don’t understand. 

So after I stopped screaming she showed me that I need to break the egg, take the candy and put it in a baggie and then we could fix the egg.  So I did that.  Mama kept tryin’ to meddle in my business but I think I made my dissatisfaction clear when she’d try.

Then it was back outside to get some more eggs.

But Mama was sure to pop my balloon on that.  She kept saying, NO MORE.  So I put on my best innocent pouty face and said, “ALL DONE” and we went back outside right away.

Alas, it was all in vain.  I was pointing this way and that willing her to show me where I could find some more and she kept saying NO MORE.

Then she muttered those awful words: I TOLD YOU SO.  I’ll learn what that means some day.

BYEBYE,

Evan

I’ve been bitch slapped a few times in my life

March 19, 2010 at 11:50 am | Posted in Baby Weight (Evan), It's OK to be confused... I am | 1 Comment
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When you have your first baby you are completely overwhelmed.  You can try to block it out until you walk into the Big Box Baby Store and you waddle rather quickly out of the store screaming WTFITSJUSTABABYTOOMUCHSTUFFWaaaaa!!  Then you return the next week and register for two of everything.  After you’ve received two of everything, you go out and purchase just ONE MORE of everything JUST IN CASE.  You know, 20 cute newborn excruciating-to-dress-your-newborn-in-but-you-don’t-know-any-better-YET outfits aren’t enough.  One more  – JUST IN CASE.

Suddenly, whether it’s with warning or without, your baby comes screaming out of your body.  Then it spits up on you… it pees on you… it makes you stick a thermometer up its butt… and then it bitch slaps you in the face.  It’s a bitch slap to get you to face reality – to keep you on your toes – to let you know: Why no, you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing.  You were all wrong before.  ALLLWROOOONG.  You find yourself in the Big Box Baby Store again, this time to purchase shit you actually need.

Life with baby starts to get easier (HAHAHAHHAHHALOLOLOLROFLLL!!!1!).  The sleep schedule might regulate itself.  The baby holds its own head up.  You both stop being so damn fragile.  You learn what he needs and what to feed him and when to put him to sleep.  It stops being foreign.  You’re a mom.  You’ve been to that war.  You can now share the secret handshake with all the other moms out there.

So I was in the coasting state.  The only thing I know about toddlers is that they become terrible at something when they turn two.  Then I hear it:

… no more bottles …

… NO, not even the morning bottle …

… potty training …

… crib transition …

FORGET the fact that Evan is a runner and even though it’s SO PRETTY outside and LET’S PLAY IN THE FRONT YARD means certain death because ROADS ARE EASIER TO RUN ON.  So let’s go in the back yard, you say?  I say: NO FENCE.  RUNNING TODDLER.  MAMA DOESN’T RUN. 

FORGET the fact that Evan now prefers to sit on the BACK of the couch.  You know, where your head goes. 

Forget that he loooooorves his spoon and fork and how funny it is when mama freaks out when you stick your fork in your eye (The boy has willpower when he hurts himself and you TOLD HIM SO so he pretends it didn’t hurt when you totally know it did but it still doesn’t offer the opportunity to say I TOLD YOU SO like you were told you got to say all the time in your Mommy Contract).

I’ve got the bottle thing DOWN COLD.  Diapers DO NOT FAZE ME.  I can lay Evan gently down in his crib even though I have to get in there a little bit myself in order to do it. 

But it doesn’t matter.  Those things are BABY things.  The potties and sippy cups and toddler beds I ignored in the Big Box Baby Stores are coming back to laugh at me.  I’ve just been bitch slapped.

So I have a question.  Just how in the name of all that is holy am I supposed to keep my kid in his bed when he’s not in a cage crib?  He can open doors, you see, and drawers!  How does he stay safe?  I can see him getting up in the middle of the night and then me waking up in the morning finding every coat in our closet on the floor with a pile of every sharp, shiny thing in our house on top.  He can also climb is damn changing table.  Speaking of changing tables, do you need one of those when you start using pull-ups?  What about wipes?  Do I pull down the pull-ups and wipe him down as he stands?  I don’t want him to smell all pee-y.  And just what do you do about the poo-poo in the potty when it’s all said in done?  Do you plop in the toilet?  How do you properly sanitize that thing?  Toliet bowl cleaner?  Bucket o’ bleach?  Dishwasher (EWW thought, Shoo!)?  Evan likes to stand in the potty right now.  Do I have poopy footprints in my future?

I was getting comfy in my routine.  I was OK with the little strides Evan would make where Wayne and I would look at him and be all OMG DID YOU SEE THAT OUR KID’S A GENIUS!   

Just how bad are the stares if your kid is sucking down a bottle and wearing a diaper at 10 years old?  I can’t be THAT bad.  I could probably deal with THAT.

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