So you know how you watch movies and think, “My life is so not like that”?

Well, not that I run a bookstore — but I did work in a library. . . .

And not that I met a blind date online that developed into more of a relationship — but Hubby and I did connect initially a great deal through the world wide web. . . .

But when your son wanders around saying, “F-O-X spells ‘fox‘” but doesn’t do that for any other words, and you never taught him how to spell ‘fox’, you have to wonder . . .

[And I don't even own the movie!  Now that's some powerful osmosis that takes place in utero].

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When I was in high school I decided that I was never going to have children:  I would be a horrible parent, and why contribute to the overpopulation of the earth?  But to continue on the family line, my *brother* should have kids.  And they would be adorable, and his firstborn would be a boy named “Aidan” because I loved that name and it would be “Aidan and Auntie Dren,” and we would be bestest of buddies, because everyone knows it’s much more fun to be the aunt that the primary caregiver.

Well, he didn’t have kids (yet).  But I did.  And so did his friends.  One of which named his firstborn “Aidan,” who now goes to school with my firstborn.

If you’re my brother, that collision of worlds along with the oddness of the reality of adulthood will just blow.your.mind.  If you’re not my brother, you can just look at the oh-so-cute boys carrying their pumpkins around in grocery sacks, just like every other good American preschooler.

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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. 

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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.

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Dear Son JJ:

A little less than a week ago you turned three/fwee years old. That means it’s been three years since I tried to convince your father that I could indeed go to church even though I was having labor pains every five minutes: I’d just pace in the balcony and no one would be the wiser. He didn’t go for that. So we engaged with the Trinity of the Three Amigos and the disciples of Jesse and Chester from Dude, Where’s My Car? And finally when I was having contractions every two minutes, I figured maybe we should call the doctor. To which they told me to haul patootie to the hospital. I tried to get your dad to let me walk to keep labor going: again, he was a party pooper. But that’s okay, because the party really didn’t get started until you showed up, and I’d say it hasn’t slowed down since: you like the night life, you like to boogie.

I must apologize, son: you’ve been born into a non-partying family. Correction: we have little parties all the time - dancing parties, wrestling matches, let’s-run-crazy-like-up-and-down-all-the-isles-at-Costco parties. But they’re a bit more on the spontaneous side. The whole “plan a birthday party, send out invites, have a pony and dog show” thing ain’t my schtick. But we did have fun for your day of birth. Some friends and fam went up to Magness Memorial Tree Farm to run around, eat yummy food (provided by Gran - she’s amazing), munch on Martha’s cookie cake (courtesy of me: you know I got your back when it comes to cookies), and then back to the house for opening presents and general merriment. I would put up pictures, but your father didn’t put them on his flickr account: methinks I’m going to have to get my own if your life is to be properly illustrated.

AND you got to go to MOPS this week. AND you got to start soccer (that’s a whole other post of its own).

AND you got to bring treats to your very first day of preschool to celebrate your birthday (because, you know, I didn’t have enough going on). We made treats, and then found out we were supposed to bring store-bought stuff. Joy. Yes, you’re too young to go to preschool: we’ll see how it goes. Please, learn to share. Please, don’t throw toys. Please, please, please: “schoo” is such a happy place, for you and me. You come out of class and are SO hungry, and you take a great nap, and you babble endlessly about the “park” (playgound) and mumble a song about “cleaning up.” Dude: I dig the clean up song, something about everybody everywhere doing their share - Martha would so approve.

Your backpack is a present from Granddaddy. He had one just like it as a kidwhich is also the same backpack your Unca Matt and I got to wear when we would be indoctrinated into backpacking at the tender age of five, except yours doesn’t have the smells of thirty-year-old-boy-scout-camping-trips-with-sticky-fifth-graders-who-don’t-bath-a-whole-lot. I can’t wait until you get to go on a trek with your Grandaddy and come back all stinky and tell me how many trees you got to pee on and how much kool-aid you got to drink and how many ritz and easy cheese and salami cracker sandwiches you ate - life doesn’t get much better than that.

You are such a good big brother. That’s the thing folks ask the most when they see us at the store/library/church/Costco/our other daily haunts: “Does he like his brother?” To which I can answer with a resounding: “YES!” When we walk by folks at the store, you point Little A out to everyone - whether they’re paying attention to us or not. Because obviously they should be excited that he’s around! Just like you are. Every morning the first thing you ask is to wake up Little AA: you refer to him by first and middle name, the proper Southern gentleman that you are.

Except that you’ve stopped calling me Mama. Or Mom. Or Mother. Or Sainted One Who Loaned Me Use of Her Womb Room for Nine/Ten Months Even Though I Tried to Renovate and Create More Room By Shoving My Long Foot into Her Rib Cage on a Half-Hourly Basis. Nope: you’ve started called me “Babe.” Just like your Pappy. Because if he can, you should be able to, too. Let me warn ya, kid: that’s what Grandaddy calls Gran, and methinks you calling her “Baby” won’t go over so well. Just a friendly FYI if you still want her to buy you that firetruck.

I just asked you to bring down a rattle for your brother: you brought all of his toys down. And surrounded him with them so that he’s nice and over-stimulated. So I’d best step in and de-rattlefy. Oops: except now Little A has pooped, and you’re bringing him to me - just like your Granddaddy: you may have a little of my genes in ya after all.

Love, Ma (got that? MA!!!)

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Thank you for the well-wishes in regards to my not-so-wet-sockets: they’re healing. What: Dren have more mouth problems?!! That is *shocking*.

Word to the wise: if you are still covered by your parents’ insurance (i.e. in high school or college), get your wisdom teeth taken out. Otherwise, it comes back to bite you in the, well, mouth.

I’m doing better: yay for pain meds. But Dren, you say, why did you decide to have your wisdom teeth taken out now? When your son is turning three? And MOPS is starting? And Bible Study is starting? And preschool is starting? And dinner coop time is here?

Because I’m me. You should know better by now. And because my dentist told me, “it’d be a piece of cake.” I went in for a cleaning one Monday; the next Wednesday I have my remaining three teeth pulled (in like two minutes - really: the numbing part took twenty five: it was kinda weird).

Icing our faces.

I felt crappy, but not too crappy. Then I felt better - you know, the days that my sainted mother came down to take care of me. Then I hurt - you know, the days that my sainted mother had to go back to her normal life that for some reason doesn’t revolve around me and my woes. Then I hurt more. Then I was on the floor crying because my pain meds were running out, and it was Labor Day weekend, and there was no way I could make it to Tuesday without hitting the streets to look for the illegal stuff, and somehow I don’t think the ‘dee has a plethora of backdoor “pharmacists” - although you never know what may be going down at Calamity Jane’s after hours (that place is always hoppin!). After Hubby paged my dentist on a Saturday at 8pm, I got more pain meds and was told that “you have dry socket. It hurts. I’m sorry.” Wow - thanks. I went back to the dentist on Tuesday to which I was told, “we could put stuff in there, but it will impede healing, and you’re healing nicely. Here’s more meds and a sample of Crest Pro-Care” (not bad tasting stuff).

I feel like a weeny. I mean, I didn’t go into the hospital until I was dilated to 8+ with both of my kids. But good Lord: now I know why a) they tortured Sydney Bristow with extractions in the pilot episode of Alias and 2) why people DRANK through tooth problems in previous centuries. Not so much an option for me, seeing as how I’m someone’s refrigerator right now (or maybe more of a crockpot - I dunno - see, pain meds make me FUN!).

So, I’ve had a lot of other things to distract me from the aches, such as being on too many committees and making too much chicken (64 chicken thighs is a LOT of chicken thighs) and signing my eldest up for too many activities. Why? Just because. Really: why do you keep asking.

But we’ve had some down time. And some time to take picture. Because that’s what good moms do. And really good moms actually print those pictures off and do things with them like put them in frames or scrapbook them. But I’m not a really good mom; I’m a mediocre mom who prefers to share stories about her children online without their permission so that they can have lots of “my mom exploited me for laughs and comments” fodder for all the Journey to Wholenesses that they’ll need.

JJ was excited to share a bed with his BRUDDER; we’ll see how he feels about that a few years down the road.

Little A is prepared: he knows it’d dangerous to turn your back on the sea or your brother if he’s named JJ.

JJ (and I) got a box of goodies from Hubby’s folks. JJ got a sticker/coloring book of JAKERS! (which is one of the kid shows that ROCKS on OBP) to which he took all of the stickers, and the sticky part surrounding the stickers, and put them on the kitchen floor while I was front-packing a yowling Little A and dredging 64 chicken thighs in flour, then eggs, then parm/oatmeal/garlic and herb seasoning mixture: it took a while to clean all that up - counter and floor (and my socks . . . and his pants).

Because the boy loves stickers.

And I love Goo Gone.

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Seriously.

Now the only question is when he’s going to start balancing random things on his head . . .

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• with a toddler who steals your cell phone on a regular basis and calls:

– the husband of a friend
– your brother
– your mom
– your dad
– voicemail
and brings you the phone babbling excitedly?
on a daily basis?
or sleeps with your cell phone, without your knowledge until morning time when you find it in his bedding?

• with an infant who prefers to be walked around being firmly patted on the butt at pretty much all hours of the day? Prefers it more than

– sleeping
– nursing
– cuddling
– being a pleasant member of society?

• with a toddler who likes to bring you things, hiding behind his back things like:

– purple flowers for you to wear in your hair
– toilet brushes
– cell phones
– his brother’s diaper
– library books
– your books like “God’s Ultimate Passion” and “Martha Stewart’s Housekeeping Handbook” - that’s a biggie to hide
– your nursing pads because you must need a new one
– a knife to cut the apple he’s hiding in the other hand
– his underwear and shorts - usually these aren’t handed but flung in the face
– his brother

• with an infant who does not realize that daily outings are an integral part of life and could care less that people adore him at:

– freddies, aka home away from home
– safeway, aka shop only with coupons
– the dollar store, aka cheap entertainment
– church, aka the happy place where mama gets a break
– the library, aka the other happy place where mama gets stuff that makes her brain work
– the park
– the other park
– the other other park
– win-co, aka yay bulk bagels!
– Ray’s, aka yay fresh produce!
– Naps, aka yay for the place that employed Uncle Bubba and Uncle Kyle for too many years
– the gas station that doesn’t make his mother go in to pay because they see the hint of craziness in her eyes at the thought of dragging two kids in to pay for gas when she has exact change in her hands

• two boys who love each other and sit together and make faces and work at simultaneously delighting their mother and pushing her just that much closer to the edge?

What to do . . .

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The other week JJ, Little A, and I were at a park for a play date. JJ made friends with four-year-old twins, twins who (because of the fact that they’re, well, twins) shared toys as though it was natural to always have a companion about. They had discovered a baseball underneath the play equipment and took turns hucking it in various directions at the park, and they quickly decided that JJ needed in on the action. Their mom and I were chatting about important political decisions such as which library story time to attend and when to put the munchkins in preschool. Out of the corner of my eye I saw JJ throw the baseball towards the playground rings, you know, the kind you swing from one to another while trying not to dislocate your arm.

“Wow, did you throw that right though the ring?!! Good job!” exclaimed the mom.

The ring moved as though it had been hit: I figured he just hit the ring and the wonderful, kind, affirming mom was giving him the benefit of the doubt.

The twins heard their mom’s praise and deemed it necessary to earn some themselves. They spent a good ten minutes trying to throw the ball through the ring (which, really, is not all that big); their shots didn’t even come close - a good foot away from the silver hoop. Finally JJ had enough, took the ball from one of them, and hucked it. Just as I was admonishing him not to take toys from other people, WHOOSH - the ball sailed right through the ring.

“Uh, yeah, he gets that from his dad.”

Eye-hand coordination is not so much a trait associated with my genetic background. And oddly enough, I assumed that all of JJ’s traits would be evident in Little A as well: Hubby’s genes totally laid the smackdown with our first born. But this is not to be.

Ever since Little A had a crying fit that was immediately ceased when placed on my chest, I realized that we have a cuddler. And a napper . . . but only if someone’s holding him. Now, one of my dad’s favorite activities is napping: he excels at it, takes great pleasure in nodding off. He even does this (weird) inhaing/puff thing which I’ve heard come now in a Half Pint version. He also loves being outside: just a brief jaunt outside can cease a yowl-fest. My dad’s other favorite activity? Backpacking. Let’s just say that I already know which pack JJ and Little A will be sporting in just a few brief years.

Tonight Little A had his first bath. Yes, he’s been bathed before, but it’s generally of the laying-on-the-counter-and-sponging-him-off variety because, well, we’re lazy. And he doesn’t require a lot of water. He hasn’t really dug the sponge bath - he hasn’t hated it, but there are definitely protests that there are other ways he’d rather spend his time, such as contemplating if the iphone will be as technologically significant as all the technogeeks think. But tonight, as we’re solo and running out of things to entertain him for “activity time.”

I ran the water, undressed him, and placed him in the bath, expecting severe protesting. He curled into a little fetal ball . . . and then tried to fall asleep. But not before he pooped. I cleaned him off with the washcloth while Little A stayed curled up, eyes closed. The crying came eventually, but only after I took him out of his little bathing sanctuary. For as long as I can remember, one of his granddaddy’s nightly routines is a bath. My Nana did the same thing: she didn’t even have a shower in her house.

Little A is so his grandaddy’s boy.

(And as for the pooping in the tub, that is a trait that historically has been associated with a member of my family who shall remain nameless so that we may still have holiday dinners in the same room.)

JJ Jawings, Little A Adventures | 3 Comments »

Date: July 10th
Location: Gran & Granddaddy’s where the temperatures are bearable and the arms to hold yowling infants and to corral squirrelly toddlers are more abundant
Time: 8:30pm
Situation: Gran and Dren in living room - Dren permanently twitching due to bouncing a bouncy seat for over two hours straight in order to keep the yowling to a minimum (on both parts); Gran laughing at Good Eats and saying positive words to Dren during commercials (a verbal bouncy chair, if you will); JJ in his room, having been there for forty-five minutes because he’s been “put to bed” (yes, that would be a full 1.5 hours before he normally slumbers)

Begin Scene.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Creak.

Dren glances at Gran.

Gran: He’s out of bed again, isn’t he?

Dren: Yep.

Gran: Okay, I told him if he got out of bed again, I’d swat his bottom. Is that okay?

Dren: (In the words of the KoolAid guy) Oh YEAH.

Moments pass.

More moments pass.

A pathetic cry.

More moments pass.

Gran returns.

Gran: So I went into the room. His clothes are all over the floor. The lamp is on, and the blinds are opened. He took off his pajamas and pull-up and was wearing jeans and a t-shirt. He looked at me, threw his arms up in the air, and said, “Mornin!”

Dren: Lord.

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