The holiday season brings all sorts of joy and cheer.  The loveliness of watching folks who rarely shop attempt to navigate the store.  And better yet, the foolish mortals who think they can work the self checkout without regular usage.  The happiness of school programs where parents stuff kids into uncomfortable clothes and then expect them to perform like the carrier monkeys that they are, except all they do is stand front and center with their hands firmly placed in their pockets and their lips locked shut.  Why this position cannot be assumed while working the aforementioned self checkout in a curious question of nature.  The pleasantness of tykes being hyped up on a constant stream of available crack sugar and then acting out when their schedules are completely turned topsy turvy, they’re given tons of attention, and then they keep hearing “stand straight!  stop moving!  be quiet!  but say thank you!”

And then there are the photos.  Oh, the photos.  The pictures in front of the Christmas tree.  The pictures before the opening of presents.  The pictures during programs and Santa visits and tree cuttings and Christmas parties.

We happened to catch one set of pictures with the boys that are actually pretty cute.  They’re from Little A’s dedication (one blissfully lovely holiday day).

Little A:  You really want me to sit?  Sit up? Sit up with JJ?  Alone?  In a chair?

Both:  Are we cute?  Are we done?  Is that all?

JJ:  I wonder how far I can push Little A over before he rats me out.

Little A:  Why are you kissing me?

JJ:  Cause they told me to.

Little A:  Seriously?  Since when did you start listening to them?

JJ:  Listen:  it’ll make them stop taking pictures faster.

Little A:  I dunno:  Ma’s got a twitchy photo finger.

Brudders.

JJ Jawings, Little A Adventures, Mama Musings | 2 Comments »

After getting up with the preschooler twice and the mad roll-overer three times in the beginning, middle, and end of the night, it can be easy to be a bit . . . how shall we say . . . cranky?  But my friend Meredith posted a wonderful practice of listing her favorite things.  And so I shall list my favorites as well as the favorites of the wee folk in the house in an attempt to realize they do enjoy things and are not just out to get me.

Starting from the smallest in body size:

Orley

• Sleeping under the Big People’s bed
• Sleeping on the Big People’s bed
• Waiting underneath the Big People’s Bed to stalk the Female Big Person until she slips into bed and then leaping out, jumping on the bed, and walking all the way up her side to sleep on her shoulder which I know she loves because she sighs (contentedly, I’m sure) every time I do it and mutters something about “never getting space” and “having to be mastered by all the males in the house.”  I know she loves it

Little A

• Attention
• Having control over my pacifier, taking it in and out of my mouth, thereby controlling my verbosity (i.e. not allowing the Big People to control my verbosity):  I control the horizontal, I control the vertical.
• My brother and the natural whirlwind he creates wherever he goes:  I may grow up to be a tornado chaser - it’ll be just like being at home.
• Rattles.  I actually play with rattles!  As opposed to my brother, who played with humans, bending them to his will.  I don’t have to do that:  if I can bend my brother to my will, then I’m golden.
• Rolling over.  I’m a rolling fool!
• Oatmeal and applesauce.  Fed to me by the Female Big Person.  She should be in charge of feeding *always*.  Because she makes lovely faces when I request for her to be my server, and she makes funny muttering noises.  Funny lady.
• My lion on my carseat.  Bangy bangy bangy.
• Moonlight rendevous with the Big People, particularly the Female Big Person (see aforementioned lovely faces and funny noises).
• Attention

Jacks

• Attention
• Food
• Attention
• My blue plastic bone that I work at picking off the teeny tiny pokey bits that are meant for oral stimulation but I can’t handle that much stimulation because I’m all twitchy like.  Hence, the constant picking.
• Attention
• When the Female Big Person flops over onto her stomach in bed and lets her arm (I’m sure on purpose) hang over the edge to I can walk underneath it and help her pet me.  If she groans, then I lick her on the nose to let her know she *wants* to pet me.  I’m sure she does . . . .
• Attention

JJ

• Singing songs, even though I make up most of the words “E-E-N-G-O spells his name-O” and “oh my DAHlin lemontine”.
• Telling the Big People what they need to do:  “mama, come on”  “mama, look at my face”  “Little A:  quiet!  You understand?” “mama, you say ‘yes, sir, JJ!  yes, sir!’” (and boy howdy, does his mama love it as well)
• Playing with dinosaurs - with Big People.
• Playing with cars - with Big People.
• Playing with beans - with Big People.
• Telling Mama about how I take toys out of people’s hands and go to time out at school.
• Reading stories, especially unwrapping a Christmas book every night until Christmas time.
• Bath time.  With Mama.   And then spelling words.  With Mama.
• Elmojoestevebluecwiffordboblarrycookweemonster.  All.  At.  Once.
• Stickers from the store.
• Praying at night when I pray for family members and friends and school and the store and the library and friends and ABCs and 123s and friends and the store.
• Helping my brother understand that he will be much happier with a pacifier in his mouth being quiet in the arms of the Big Person I don’t want to play with so that I can play with the Big Person I *do* want to play with.
• Turning on the Christmas lights in the morning.
• I can’t remember:  did I mention playing with Big People?

Dren

• No attention
• The lock on my bathroom door (although it’s often used by JJ to lock out everyone else except him and Mama).
• My ipod  (listening to Satellite Sisters over the yowlers is quite enjoyable)
• Hearing “Mama bake cookies with JJ?” every night
• Seeing Little A smile with delight at folks captured by his charm
• Women’s Bible Fellowship:  and childcare!  Women who *want* to play with my kids!  And tell me:  this, too, shall pass.  Ah, Great GranMaribeth - my patron saint.
• A hubby who says, “Bad night?  You know what, I’m going to come home after lunch and stay at home.”  Of course, I tell him to stay at work, but still:  aw.
• My hubby.  And his dimples: they’re just so cute (and so are all my boys’ dimples).
• A Gran and Granddaddy who come down to visit, take us out to lunch, bring gifts of food and clothes and ornaments and homemade breast pads and say nothing but affirming words to everyone in the house.
• A decaf sugar-free something-or-other Americano from Chapters:  mmmm.
• My friends who can still laugh with me even though we recognize we’re all a little on the looney side.
• Singing “Feliz Navidad” with my brother:  chh chh chh chh.
• Driving around the week before Christmas looking at Christmas lights.
• Peace on earth, good will towards men - or a solid night’s sleep.

JJ Jawings, Little A Adventures, Mama Musings, Random Remarks | 1 Comment »

Dear Son A,

Happy day after your half birthday!  As you will come to understand, in this household we celebrate the half birthday, sometimes with more fondness than with the actual birthday because a) it gives us something to look forward to instead of having to wait a *whole* *year* to be happy that you were born and 2) I’m me.

So what did we do to celebrate the fact that on this day six months ago I regained my ability to hold more than a tea cup full of fluids in my bladder?  Not a whole lot to be honest:  sorry to let you down.  But see, my mind is not functioning at full capacity so much at the moment, what with the holidays ever looming, the preschooler ever climbing, and the babe never sleeping.  What was that last bit?  Oh, that’s right:  you.  Lack of sleeping.  Makin’ the mama a little crazy in the head.  And if you think you need to help me be any more quirky than I already am, thanks for the help, son, but we’re all stocked up on loony around here.

I’m trying to think back over the past month, but it’s a bit hazy, kinda like trying to remember college.  Which, funny enough, your father and I had our first final together ten years ago this week.  Except neither one of us remembers the other being in class with the other one because, well, we weren’t in class all that much.  Which, again, was funny because the class was Ethics.  Skipping.  Ethics.  Doesn’t seem quiet kosher, eh?

So, let’s see:  what did we do this past month?

You learned how to make rolls with Gran for Thanksgiving.  These are special rolls.  These are the rolls we have at all family celebrations because they are So Good.  So good that your uncle tries to live off of them.  So good that he will take an entire roll and shove it in his mouth and make a happy noise, much like you do when your pacifier is inserted.  I think if these rolls were distributed worldwide we would have peace on earth and good will towards men, and even if they had something cranky to say, they couldn’t:  because their mouths would be full.

You’ve gained the love for the Jumperoo.  This contraption, large and obnoxious as it is, is a LifeSaver.  Your brother bounced and bounced and bounced in it.  We pulled it out when his legs were too short and we had to put photo albums underneath so he could reach and boingyboingyboingy to his heart’s content.  Either your legs are longer, or we waited a while, but you too have an appreciation for all things bouncy.  You love it so much that you try to incorporate jumping into all of your activities:  sitting on people’s laps, sitting in your high chair waiting to spit food at us, nursing.  Yes, nursing.  Though I may look like a large plastic contraption with bells and whistles and shiny plastic figures, I’m not.  And my jubblies have not been approved by the Fisher Price folks to have the elasticity to hold up to the constant boingyboingyboingy.  Please, refer to your owner’s manual:  mama’s jubblies don’t work that way.

You’ve gained the reputation of being The Happiest Baby!  Everywhere we go, folks always comment on your natural sunshine:

“Look at that smile!”

“Oh, he’s just so sweet!”

“What a happy boy!”

Of course, they don’t see the other side.  The side that comes out at night.  To quote a well-referenced poem (at least in my Home of Origin):

There was a little girl
who had a little curl
right in the middle of her forehead
and when she was good
she was very good indeed
but when she was bad she was horrid.

What’s that on your forehead? . . . .  If your Daytime Self could teach your Nighttime Self some matters regarding well-being, contentedness, pleasantness, and the general “This is the way you should act so that you are not shipped in a box to Abu Dhabi”, that’d be great.

You experienced your first snow.  Which really was nothing:  just a bit of wandering fluff that didn’t stick.  But still:  it wasn’t rain - it was pretty white flakes that fell from the sky.  Which meant you had to come on your first “Hey:  it’s snowing!   We must walk in the pretty whiteness!” walk.  I used to do this when I lived in Boise:  my roommate and I would walk around our neighborhood, come across a big untouched field, and run in circles because we were 23ish and we could.  There certainly was not enough snow to make pretty designs in, but there was enough that we felt the need to get hot donuts and big peanut butter cookies.

And now you’re getting to experience your first Christmas.  Not that you really care at this point.  The lights on the tree are nice.  The constant shuffling of the 25+ Christmas cds in the stereo is enjoyable.  You mostly enjoy that folks at the store are wearing antlers and that your brother seems to be on a constant sugar-high.

So, if I could put a wishlist in for Christmas from you I would ask:

• that I could get some time to be unconscious for a few sleep cycles:   cause waking me up in the middle?  Every night?  It hurts, my friend:  don’t be a hurter.
• that you could continue to eat solids like you did last night, chowing down on rice cereal and applesauce like it’s old school.  Food is your friend.
• that you could reread that Mama Users Manual regarding jumping and eating.
• that you could keep getting cuter and smilier and bringing that sunshine and delight you seem to have bursting forth from your sweet darling soul into the world:  we need it.

Love, Ma

Little A Adventures, Mama Musings | 4 Comments »

Dear Son A,

You’re five months, and a bit.  Which as you’re learning, it’s not unusual for me to write you your month letters a few days late.  Although it is fairly pathetic since I’ve been posting every day due to Nablopomo.  But due to my lack of sleep (which you may or may not have something to do with:  I’m trying not to point any online fingers), I’m a bit fuzzy with dates.  Because I thought yesterday was your five month birthday.  But it wasn’t.  It was Sunday.  So I figured hey:  I can wait another day because I’d rather post happy youtube clips - they’re faster.  And another product of my lack-of-slumber is my tendency to talk in one really long sentence.  Which this paragraph really is:  I’m just putting in periods for those who don’t dig the Jane Austen writing style (i.e. TAKE A BREATH AND USE A PERIOD UNLESS THOSE WERE INVENTED ONLY DURING THE INDUSTRIAL REVOLUTION IN WHICH I TAKE BACK MY ALL CAPITOL LETTERS RANT pleaseandthankyou).

So enough about that.  On to you.  Because that’s what this blog post is all about:  you.

I wish that I could write more specifics about how you’ve grown, changed, developed over the past month.  But honestly:  I can’t remember.  Gran will ask me what I did the day before:  can’t remember that, either.  At least I haven’t forgotten about *you* yet, although this morning when I was getting your brother ready for school and you were pleasantly babbling at the toy that hangs above you on the changing table, I did momentarily think as I was loading stuff in the car, “Something’s missing . . .”

Perhaps that’s why you’re the more “verbal” child.  Lordy, you talk.  “Aaah, ooooh, aaaah.”  Throughout most of the day.  You coo for the ladies at the store.  You giggle for your dad.  And you happily babble at your brother.  It’s so pleasant.  Except for, uou know, the times that you’re yowling because “the sky is falling:  someone is not holding me:  this is not right:  oh, the injustice of it all.”  Or “call child services:  I’m starving and have not had my feeding needs met when I had an inkling that I was hungry:  but wait, what is this boob thing you’re giving me?  I hate it, and I’m never going to be full again!  Oh wait, shiny pacifier . . .” or “I . . . . HATE . . . . SLEEP!!!!”  You know, those times.

I must admit I’m not on top of what you’re “supposed” to be doing developmentally.   A friend with a younger baby asked, “Is he sitting up?”  With your brother I knew exactly what he was supposed to be doing and when:  and he did it on the nose.  For you, I’m happy to know that you’re fed, dressed, and have not been packed away in a box by your brother who gets a little irritated when you’re irritated:  “Little A!  Hush!  Now!”  Hmmm:  however could he have come up with that phrase . . .

So, I don’t know what you’re “supposed” to be doing.  But I can tell you some of the things you do do.

• You do not poop for 36 hours if fed rice cereal.  And then the motherload happens.  I’m honestly scared to take you out when I think we’re due for The Arrival and warn people not to squish you too much.

• You enjoy eating sweet peas.  Hopefully your tookus enjoys getting *rid* of sweet peas as much.

• You like to arch your back.  Rolling over - not so much.  But arching is big fun.  I think it’s your way of being non-committal:   am I on my back?  Or my belly?  Or neither?  Tricky . . .

• You enjoy taking your pacifier out of your mouth.  And sometimes you enjoy putting it back in.  And I have an inkling that you use this power for evil sometimes, say if you want attention, so you throw your pacifier out and yowl and I put it back in to quiet you down and then resume my activity (which usually is driving) and you flick it back out again.  My favorite is when you throw it under your brother’s car seat.  Your dad doesn’t so much like to hear how I’m driving down College while reaching for your plug cause, you know, I’m on the phone with him as well.  What can I say?  Moms can multitask in all situations (some are more safe than others).

• You like my Ipod.  Correction:  you like my headphones.  And want to use them.  Or at least do not want me to use them and grab the cord and wrap it in your teeny tiny freakishly strong fists.

• You love your brother.  When he comes in the room exclaiming, “Little A’s awake!  Mornin!  Happy to see you!” you smile.  Unless you’re wrapped in the Swaddle Blanket of Life and are fairly upset that no one has freed your arms, in which case you continue to voice the injustice of trapped limbs (if these scaring experiences cause you to become a lawyer, please be one that fights for human rights; otherwise, I fear you may become unbearable).  When JJ brings you toys, you pleasantly take them, but mostly you want to play with your favorite toy:  him.  He dances and sings and falls over, all just to make you laugh.  He’s your puppet.  Granddaddy commented that you probably won’t get into as much trouble as your brother, but I said that’s because you’ll be the evil genius planting the mischief in JJ’s head and then put on your innocent look:  “Don’t look at me:  I’m the good one.”

• You love your pappy.  When he comes home for the day and we’re sitting on the couch reading The Berenstein Bears and the Messy Room for the twelfth time that day, you stand up straight.  Then arch your back.  And start pumping your right arm.  *Always* with the right arm.  Over.  And over.  And over.  Whang.  Whang.  Whang.  It’s almost like you’re one of those flashlights that don’t need batteries:  you just wind this handle which somehow charges it.  Perhaps that’s why you don’t dig the swaddle:  we’re inhibiting your life expression.  But if you could learn to be expressive at appropriate times of day (i.e. not all 24 of them), you can gain your freedom.  Until then, Pappy loves you, and Pappy loves you all sausaged up.

Love, Ma

Little A Adventures, Mama Musings | 1 Comment »

The older brother must play . . . or something like that (do you see the joy in someone’s eyes, and the panic in the other’s?).

Note:  I was upstairs minding my own business slaving over a hot stove to make a meal for my family (or probably reheating a meal from my meal swap group and strategizing my next Scrabulous move).

I heard noises about “stinky poo” and then the clunk of the closet doors where we keep things like the washer/dryer, the mop, and the diaper changing gear. . .

My multitasking mind finally realized, “Hmm.  What could he be doing?  JJ’s downstairs.  Little A’s downstairs.  ‘Stinky poo.’  Wait, did he say, ‘Stinky poo’?  Oh, Lord.”

Downstairs I found one de-diapered Little A laying on the changing pad with big brother JJ muttering about putting on the Rear Schmear.

Needless to say, Little A was a mite concerned about that.

If JJ could get the diaper on with the frontside front and stop getting distracted by “BUSTERS!” on tv, that might’ve helped.  That, and actually wiping Little A’s tookus before attempting to schmear and diaper could be helpful as well (don’t worry:  this Reality TV photographer didn’t have a contract stipulating non-interference).

JJ’s also wanted to be a helper in other areas, like giving Little A toys, giving him a bath, and feeding him:  some of those helps have been more effective than others. 

Daily Drivel, JJ Jawings, Little A Adventures | No Comments »

It’s 7:48 a.m.

Both my children are still asleep.

……. !!!

One wonders if the rapture has happened:  are you feeling more ethereal and didn’t tell me?  Actually it’s the wonders of a preschool nature walk combined with some serious evening playroom time/couch jumping/running around bizerko hopped up on a dinner of M’n'Ms for JJ, while for Little A it was a morning of shots then screaming in the afternoon while Ma made a cheesecake (which is now dubbed the King of Pain cheesecake because that’s what Little A thinks he is:  him and Sting) and then watching brother in his cracked-out state.

Yes, poor Little A had his doctor’s appointment yesterday.  I was actually excited to go in because I felt like I had prepared well:  he can roll over, he’s very alert, and he’s feeling (dare I say it) pudgy.  Well, two out of three ain’t bad.

STATS

• 25 inches - 50th percentile
• can’t remember head size, but it’s 25th percentile
• 12lbs 15oz - 10th percentile

Stinkin.10th.percentile.   I thought we did so much better than that!  Apparently I need to start buying the gallon jugs of milk at the store instead of the half gallon, cause I must be weak:  the kid’s feelin’ heavy to me!  Or at least heavier.  His cousin who is a mere six days old only has to put on 3lbs 12oz at his own four month check to pass Little A:  not much of a feat since he’s already gained back all of his birth weight.  Overachiever. 

AND Little A was weighed a) directly after I fed him breakfast and 2) before he chose to pee ALL over the scale.  While we were talking with the nurse about how he had peed all over Dr. Tami right after he was born.  And how he peed all over Hubby that very morning.  And how he had projectile-pooped at 6am the previous morning (I was not harmed in the incident, but our diaper basket took a hit from the drive-by pooping).

We moved  him to the table to be examined, and he yarfed.  Twice.  Hello:  this one is defective - it’s sprung a leak.

I suppose I could be productive with this time of solitude.  Or I could finish watching Sting all decked out in his Dune gear:  with hair like that, he really must be the King of Pain - or maybe he’s just trying to share his pain, cause seriously:  ouch.

Little A Adventures, Mama Musings | 3 Comments »

Dear Son A,

Happy day: you’re four months, and one day! And where better to celebrate it than take a trip to the beach with the Gran, Granddaddy, and Unca Matt? Where we can stay in an abode that is new and pretty and has a t.v. in every room with extended direct tv, because that’s what one wants to do when they come to the beach: watch reruns of Perfect Strangers (okay, guilty as charged).

I find it amazing every day the things you know and do. With your big brother I was all up on the Developmental Stages (thank you babycenter.com emails): “your child should be rolling over” “your child should be babbling” “your child should be climbing on objects so as to steal freshly baked cookies from the counter”

But this time I’m floored every time you do something new. Like grab a toy. Or almost roll over. Or laugh at your brother falling flat on his face for laughs, because pain in the best means of humor. I’m sorry that I’m not so up on everything. It doesn’t mean I love you less, but if you’d sleep more, I could actually have some free time to read up on the amazingness of a four month old. Although some people have pointed out that your kind aren’t so kind to others right now: please, please don’t be a joiner, or rather, stop being a joiner.

You are a sensory junkie, my friend. Friend Lion, a dangly rattley toy that hangs from your car seat carrier, is oh so your friend. You grab his crinkly, crunchy mane and bop him around to hear the tinkle sound that could only be made by the little fairies trapped inside (poor fairies). You’ve finally recognized the goodness of your swing. The other day I was folding yet another load of laundry, meaning my attention was divided, meaning the balance of the world was WAY off kilter. So I put you in your swing and simply turned on the lights’n'music option - you know, the “let’s start overstimulating our young as soon as possible” option. And you.loved.it. Looking glazed like all the high schoolers piling into OMSI to watch the midnight showing of the Floyd lazer lights show: oh, the pretty lights.

But being so sensory-oriented isn’t always such a good thing. Because your arms - they have sensors. Meaning you must twitch and flail and conduct a spastic orchestra when you are the least bit sleepy. But it does not help you sleep. Or me sleep. And your tummy? Sensors. Which say, “I’m HUNGRY NOW WOMAN” or “I DON’T LIKE WHAT WE’RE HAVING FOR DINNER WOMAN” OR “MY BELLY HAS THE TEENSIEST BIT OF AIR IN IT WOMAN” which is cause for great weeping, wailing, and gnashing of gums (which also have sensors telling you that someday you’ll have teeth, and you might start voicing the pain and discomfort that will come with that now, because you’d like to be ahead of the game). And your brother? Well, he’s the embodiment of all the lights and sounds on the earth: kinda like white - absorbs it all. Which means he might be a *wee* bit much for you at times, but don’t worry: you’ll get used to your nervous twitch - we all do and actually find it a bit endearing.

Tonight you will experience a new sensation: that of solid food. That’s right: it’s rice cereal time, baby. I know a lot of women wait until six months to give their kids solid food. And others talk about how much they enjoy the wonders and miracle of nursing. Those are the Good Mothers, which God did not deem for you to have. But know that when you want to do things like get your drivers license or work the grill or be the youngest kid to climb Smith Rock, I’ll hand you all the appropriate manuals and a batch of freshly baked cookies because you always need a batch of freshly baked cookies. And the other kids with the Good Mothers will have to be eating their cookies at home - poor, boring kids.

But as much as you are affected by sensations, you evoke sensations as well. When your dad tosses you in the air and you emit a silent squeal. When you’re getting your diaper changed and enjoy the freedom of your netherregions with kicks, kicks, and more kicks. When you have your Happy Morning time and can’t stop smiling at anyone and everyone who passes your way (oh, how the checkers at Freddies love you: soon you, too, will be showered with Fred Bear stickers - but please use them responsibly). When you grab something and your brother exclaims “Little A grabbed it! He did it! Good job: gimme five.” When you nestle down in my arms and sigh with relief because “finally, you got the message: I want *YOU* and only *YOU* to hold me.”

I want to hold you, too.

Love, Ma

Little A Adventures, Mama Musings | 1 Comment »

So I haven’t been writing a lot since Little A was born. Actually, I haven’t been writing a lot since Little A became more than a sparkle in his mother’s eye. For some reason, I’ve been . . . wordless. But not really, because a lot of posts compose themselves in my head, but then a) I forget the witty words, 2) I don’t have time to write anything worthwhile due to picking up the house over and over and over again.

But more often than not it’s 3) I don’t think my kids would appreciate what I have to write. When JJ was little, he was the sole topic of my blog, and usually it was a forum for a gripe fest: “I’ve only slept this much last night”, “I’ve listening to this amount of screaming today”, “He yarfed in my wireless router and now I can’t connect online, i.e. adults, i.e. my life is oooovvvvveeeeeerrrrrrrr.” I’ve heard not-so-fun stories about me as a babe (and yes, mama, I know it’s not my fault; I know you loved me; but I also know that shipping me in a box to Abu Dhabi probably sounded pretty good . . . more than once), and I don’t know how I’d feel if they were available for all to hear.

Being a melancholy, I tend to look at life as a glass half-empty (or my favorite mug with a giant crack in it leaking sticky, staining liquid onto carpet that I’m never going to be able to get up . . . or something like that), and so many of my posts are not of the Pollyanna nature; therefore, I’m keeping them to myself (although some are pretty darn funny in a doom-and-gloom kind of way). But after last night, I just feel the need to purge. And if it damages my kids, oh well: there’s another necessary Journey to add to the list.

Little A has not been sleeping. Correction: Little A *used* to sleep. And Little A has not been eating. Correction: Little A *used* to eat. Then I had my wisdom teeth taken out. Which apparently removed his ability to slumber as well as for me to produce the edible spread he’s particular to. These side effects were NOT listed on the post-op care sheet.

See, if Little A had been a lousy sleeper and eater from the beginning, it’d be a little easier for me: I would have known no difference. But he’s gone from eating contentedly on one side to fighting me while eating on both sides and the howling bloody murder because heaven forbid he might actually have to work a little bit for his food. And he’s gone from waking once a night (and even a couple nights - not.at.all) to asserting his college night-owl self about two decades too early.

Last night was an especially crappy night (don’t tell JJ I said ‘crappy’: he likes to repeat that: not so good: at least it’s not like when I ran into Mom asking her why Dad said “Damn, damn, damn” :D). Little A woke up at 1:15, which wouldn’t be all that big of a deal if he would’ve gone back to sleep well. But he didn’t. I had to work with him to stop moving his arms and throwing his head from side-to-side for quite some time. Then he woke up at 2:45. Hello: middle of my sleep cycle - so painful. Hubby actually took him, and then things happened (I think he had to be re-swaddled? . . . I was in delirium from FOUR MONTHS OF THIS): there was howling: I ran into the room, ran downstairs to warm up a pumped bottle EVEN THOUGH I FED HIM 1.5 HOURS AGO. He ate it. It wasn’t enough. I had to warm up another bottle. He ate it. JJ woke up. Came into our bedroom. Went into our bathroom. Lifted the toilet seat. Silence. A cry. I got up again: to a wet floor. Joy. Wiped down the floor. Changed his pants (cause he peed *on* them). Got him into bed. Hubby went to do battle with Little A: Hubby lost. I tagged him out and rocked Little A for 45 minutes. Went downstairs to pump because it was 4:30 when he normally eats. In the middle of pumping, Little A woke up. Hubby did not. Had to stop pumping, get Little A back down, finish pumping, and go back to sleep. For 45 minutes until Little A woke up again, and I hauled him into bed with me. And then he woke 45 minutes after that, I nursed him, and hopped in the shower. Hubby got him back to sleep, and he’s been sleeping for the last hour and a half.

Do you see how I could have a hard time trying to find positive things to write? Or even things in general? It’s amazing I can communicate, much less type coherent words: God bless spell check.

During one of the bottle feedings, Hubby tried to warm the bottle up on his own with Little A in tow. But in the midst of getting the lid on, he spilled some of the Liquid Gold. I heard him yell, sprinted downstairs to make sure no one was experiencing bodily harm, and realized I could have two reactions: I could cry or be mad, cause Lord knows how much I *LOVE* pumping (can I get a moooooo?), or I could recognize that it’s just spilled milk. That I have formula if I need as back up. That’s it’s just one night, and that it will pass.

And that I get to spend the weekend with my folks who will help us get some sleep, cause they have the magic Grandparent touch.

I know: they’re innocent darlings, aren’t they? So are harpies: pretty song to lure you to *death* - or at least sleep deprivation.

Daily Drivel, JJ Jawings, Little A Adventures, Mama Musings | 5 Comments »

Dear Son A,

Happy Day: you’re three months old! That means that three months ago, I was telling your father that he should go to work - the contractions weren’t that bad. And then I was IMing your dad that they were a few minutes apart, but he should stay at work. And then IMing your pappy that the doctor’s office confirmed I was in active labor, but I told him I still had time plenty of time even though they said I could (should) come in soon: he logged off two minutes later. After we dropped your brother off at a friend’s house, I told the old man that I neeeeded snacks from Freddies before we went to the hospital. And then that I neeeeeded a Burgerville soda. Which I haven’t had one in years, but when a woman in labor has a need . . . I knew you weren’t coming out: the lease may have been up, but you’re one of those tenants who prefers to linger til the last minute when the eviction crew comes through and throws you out on your cute little patootie which relieved itself all over the eviction folks (i.e. beloved Dr. Tami).

This afternoon I put you in your swing which you are slowly warming up to, only if we sit by and offer encouraging words like “way to swing!” and “what a big boy you are!” - cause man, sitting cute in a swing is tough work. And it’s not like we put you in the swing so we could go do other things: nope, not at all.

So I was offering you encouraging words (and pumping, but I don’t think you noticed my attention was divided), and I noticed something: you grabbed a toy. Most of these newfangled infant toys have an abundance of primary-colored plastic animal-shaped “manipulatives” so that you may be properly over-stimulated and engaging in America’s desire for gross excess at the earliest of ages. Your portable swing has a few hanging toys that make things sing and light up if you pull them: your brother LOVES them (shocking). But you could care less.

Until today. You looked at a hanging orange fish. And you moved your arm. And you grabbed it. It wasn’t a flailing, accidental grab: it was a very calculated move. You let go. And then you went to grab it again: it was almost like a science experiment - can I do this again? Will it feel the same? Is it really these limbs that are grabbing? And am I really in control of them?

It didn’t last long. I exclaimed my amazement at your moves, and your brother had to come and show you how to do it properly (i.e. over and over really fast - he’s going to rock at the bang-the-gopher-heads game at Chuck E. Cheese). But you were okay with that: you had your moment, and another would come again.

It hasn’t necessarily been the easiest of months - I won’t lie. Let’s say an exhausted and stressed mama on pain meds leads to lean pickins in the food department. And you were okay. And okay. And okay. And then NOT OKAY! AND NEVER OKAY AGAIN! I.E. you’d screech with despair at the mere sight of a jubbly because IT’S BROKEN IT DOESN’T WORK AND IT WILL NEVER WORK AGAIN AND I’M GOING TO DIIIIIIEEEEEE!!!!!!!. Which boy howdy does amazing things for the short order cook’s self esteem. But it’s the short order cook’s temperament who you’ve inherited (”I DON’T GET THIS MATH PROBLEM AND I WILL NEVER GET IT AND I’M MOVING TO AFRICA WHERE THEY DON’T CARE ABOUT INTEGRALS!!!!) who inherited it from your look-alike grandparents (THERE’S TERMITES IN THE WELL HOUSE AND THEY’RE GOING TO GET IN THE HOUSE AND THEY’LL RUIN IT AND WE’LL NEVER HAVE ENOUGH MONEY TO SELL AND MOVE !!!!! - they were carpenter ants - heh heh).

But there have been smiles.

And swinging outside.

And cuddles with brudder.

And not-so-cuddles with brudder.

And french fry eating with Dad; dude, you’re going to love chowing down on those things when you’re older.

Maybe that’s what you’re trying to tell me with your yowls: load up on the fried food, woman!

Love, Ma

Little A Adventures, Mama Musings | 1 Comment »

Dear Son A~

Congratulations: you’ve made it to being two months old. Well, you’re two months and some odd days, but you turned two months while we were at camp, and I was too busy reeling from the fact that we did indeed make it one week away from your infant-to-toddler rocker to be able to write. So I figured I’d write today when you had your Two Month Well Child appointment with Dr. Tami - you know, that lady you peed on within the first five minutes of being outside of your Womb Room? And then half an hour later? Yeah, her.

Of course, I’m sure everyone is interested in your stats. Sadly enough, I still remember the percentages for your brother - they’re burned into my memory because they were something positive, or at least not negative, that I could talk about in regards to parenting. Let’s just say having a “spirited” child before the rainy season in Oregon coupled with a melancholy mom leads to some interesting dynamics. Your brother was 90th for head size, 90th for height, and 50th for weight. I don’t remember him being all that long, but I also don’t remember a lot from that time period (thank you God that sleep deprivation wipes out memory, lest you would never have come into existence).

Here are your numbers:
Head: 15.25
Length: 23.25
Weight: 10lb 6oz

Changes from birth:
Head: don’t know, but at least it wasn’t an orange on a toothpick (thank you for that)
Length: 20.5 (I think)
Weight: 7lb. 2oz.

Percentiles:
Head: 25th
Length: 50th
Weight: 10th

Yes, you are in the 10th percentile for weight. No wonder you look so long to me (even though you’re not): you got no belly to fill out that body! Dr. Tami says you’re fine and not to worry - that you’re just an “efficient eater” and “burn off all those calories being grumpy.” Oops: did I tell her that you’re grumpy? No worries: you can add it to the list of “ways my parents scarred me and I need a Journey to Wholeness” list - I’m still working through mine.

Dr. Tami thought you were delightful, and so did her nurse, mostly because you turned on your Early Morning Charm - something that helps me be happy to be awake, especially since I’ve been awake since 5:30 listening to your snort and need a little happy. She watched you almost roll over and told you to wait for two months. The nurse commented on how strong you are while stabbing you with the Poison of Life (shots): it’s nice to let others experience a little of the raucous movement I had while being your landlord.

Dr. Tami then told me about what a horrible child she was and that her mother swore she swaddled her until she was three. We may do that, because when you’re all sausage like and not dealing with the flailing limbs, you chill. And now we really can swaddle you thanks to Gran and the Swaddling Blanket of Life, much like the Jaws of Life, but in a lightweight cloth with teddy bears.

I would write more about what kinds of stuff you’re doing: pooping right after I change your diaper, holding it in at camp so that people would ask “what did you do for free time” and I would say “try to make Son A poop for an hour and a half - a total blast!” (cause let me tell you just how pleasant you are when you’re all backed up - not.so.much), staring at your dad and making happy baby noises, totally chilling out when you go out of doors, etc. But right now it’s Grumpy Baby Time, plus your brother just brought me blackberries that he dumped into a bag, and then he took the sticker that has your stats written on it and plastered it to your forehead: apparently it’s your personal nutrition label.

Love, Ma

Little A Adventures, Mama Musings | 2 Comments »