Two

"Are you a big boy, or a baby?" I ask the wiggly boy in my lap.
"BABY!" he yells.

He is not just any baby, he is my baby.

When I wordlessly held the stick with the very clear two lines up in front of my husband, you could have knocked him over with a feather. We had never gotten pregnant without trying, and sometimes trying and trying, and we were surprised. Very surprised.

As we watched a fuzzy black screen come to life as a cold wand slid over my jellied belly, and listened to the tech say the words "There is your son," we were surprised.

When he was born in an unexpected way, we were surprised. When he walked sooner and ran faster and climbed higher, we were surprised, and slightly terrified. He hurtles his little body through space at alarming speeds, with frightening velocity and little regard for the laws of physics, or his mother's nerves. Our days are filled with near misses and bumps and bruises and boo boo packs. Our days are filled with surprises.

He is adored by his sisters and babied and mommied and loved within an inch of his life. He is the sweetest and the cuddliest and the most charming, we all agree. There is not a woman of any age who is safe from him, all long eyelashes and sweet smile and chubby little hands waving. He has us all wrapped around his tiny finger.

And so today, as I pulled him into my lap, I ask again-

"Henry! It's your birthday! Are you two today?"
"Jep!" he answers.
"Yes, you are two! Are you a big boy, or a baby?"

He smiles his Henry smile and cuddles closer and says without hesitation, "Baby."

Yes, you are. Now and always, my baby.

My Do It!

My children's independence is a great source of pride. Oh, look! I'll say. She just marches right in there and doesn't look back! Or, I've never had to teach them to do it, they just do it! Independence is a hallmark of good parenting. Either that or complete neglect, but I'd like to think it's the former. "My do it!" has been the battle cry of all my children.

But sometimes - sometimes I just want to tell them to let me do it.

Sometimes, I don't have half an hour for you to fiddly fart around with your buckle. Just sit your ass down and let me buckle it and let's go. I have shit to do.

Henry, sensing that his two year birthday is upcoming, has decided to adopt the WAYS OF TWO a little early. For those of you not familiar with the WAYS OF TWO, let me explain: It means your kid becomes a total asshole about ridiculous things. Mostly, things to do with independence. Independent dressing, independent car seat getting into, independent eating. It means that if you dare to take the wrapper off a cupcake, you are risking a meltdown of epic proportions.

It means that you have to take the cheese stick out of the fridge, hide it behind your back, take the wrapper off, then re-wrap it before you hand it to your child to "unwrap".

It means that he will walk around with his shoes on the wrong feet, because he likes them that way! It feels good!

It means that there is nothing too heavy for him to lift, or too tall for him to climb, or to difficult for him to figure out. He is TWO, and you can not fuck with TWO. You know nothing, Parent! I am TWO!

Today, as we were running late to drop Julia at preschool, and I dared to pick him up to put him in his car seat, he threw a tantrum. I'm dodging head butts and trying to use my elbow to fold him down at the waist (like a stroller, or an ironing board, children bend if you apply pressure in the right places), and he is screaming and kicking his legs. Julia, who is calmly sitting in her seat waiting, rolls her eyes and mutters under her breath, "Kids."

The wisdom of five.

Losing It

When Katie was in second grade, she had a horrible time with anxiety. To the point where she was lying in the middle of the floor every morning, crying and begging us not to send her to school. It was heart wrenching, and by far the most difficult thing I have had to deal with as a parent. In talking with her pediatrician, and later with a therapist, they both assured me of one thing - it will pass.

When Julia was just a few weeks old and would not stop crying, her little legs kicking out from her body, her tiny face contorted in pain from what ailment I did not know, when I walked and walked and walked around in circles until I thought I'd surely wear a hole in the floor, I thought - it will pass.

And now, when Henry screams his ear piercing scream at a volume and frequency that makes me wonder how his throat is not absolutely raw by the end of the day, I think, I have to think, - it will pass. 

Because if it doesn't, I will lose my fucking mind.

He is screaming because he doesn't have the words. He screams when he's happy, he screams when he's mad, he screams for attention and for books and for a diaper and for the window rolled down and for everything. Everything. He screams so much some days that I want to cry.

Today, I did.

We were in the car, following a meeting at school (during which he screamed) on the way to drop Katie off at church. He was screaming for...something, it doesn't even matter...and I whipped around and looked at him and screamed just as loud. It served no purpose, made me feel no better, did not seem to phase him, and only frustrated me more. But sometimes the patience, the quiet, the encouragement to "use your words" just gets old and I need to SCREAM.

It will pass. 

He is a beautiful, loving, funny, sweet boy. Who likes to scream. It will pass.

An Apology to My Brother

My brother Mike is the father of three boys. Three boys who are very boy. I remember clearly one visit to their home, when my youngest nephew was two-ish. I spent the entire time suffering from acute anxiety as I watched the boy scale everything in sight, stand in the middle of the kitchen table and yell, and come thisclose to grave injury approximately every five minutes. It was harrowing, to say the least.

And I judged.

Katie was the kind of baby (and toddler, and child) who would keep you on your toes verbally, but would never even consider getting into, well, anything. Julia presents her own unique challenges, but I can generally turn my back on her for more than 3 seconds without disaster.

Then there's Henry.

When my mom told my brother I was having a boy, he laughed. A lot. Hard. I maintained my superior attitude, and even coached my little babe in the womb.

"You are the compliant child. You listen to Mommy. You are a good boy."

For the first year of his life, he did indeed comply. Mostly. He is a sweet natured boy, very loving and cute and funny and charming. I mean, look at the kid!

The picture of innocence.

Sunday, the Husband and I watched for 20 minutes as Henry threw the mother of all tantrums. He lay face up, with only his feet and the top of his head touching the ground, screaming and pushing himself around the room.

What is wrong with him? 

I don't know.

Is he sick?

I don't know.

Should we take him to the hospital?

I don't know.   

He pushed himself under one side of the crib and out the other. I put him in the bath, screaming. I took him out, still screaming.

Is he having some sort of psychotic break?
I don't know.

Well, what is the matter?

I don't know!

I took him outside, naked, and he stopped screaming. He smiled.

He is nuts.
I know.

The face of an angel, the mind of an benevolent dictator.

He climbs the unclimbable. He opens the unopenable. He eats the inedible (Fireplace rocks? Really?). He misses corners by fractions of an inch a million times a day. He is two handfuls. All the while (usually) maintaining a sweet disposition and impish smile that makes it completely impossible to be angry with him.

I thought of my brother, and my nephews, this morning as Henry pushed his highchair over to the table, climbed up on the table and then onto the tray of the highchair, all in the time it took me to look down and dial the phone. I thought of him when I didn't panic and run, but merely sighed and got him down. Again.

Compliant children make for self righteous parents. My apologies to you, my brother - I hope you're enjoying seeing this one bite me in the ass.*

 *Henry hasn't actually bitten me in the ass. Yet.

Wild Man

Katie was born to teach me unconditional love.
Julia was born to teach me humility.
Henry was born to teach me that I will never be fast enough.

When I found out we were having a boy, my brother (the father of three boys) was more excited than anyone. Mostly because he wanted to laugh in my big, fat, smug face for all my years of high horsey "My children would never do that"-edness. Because being the mother of a boy is decidedly different than being the mother of a pretty pretty princess. It just is.

I didn't believe it would be all that different, especially when they're babies. How old fashioned to believe that preferences are so fixed, so early!* How sexist, how silly, how idiotic! My children will never be harnessed by the yoke of gender stereotypes.

Right.

Give Henry a stick and a ball, and he will make contact. Give him anything with wheels, and he will go "brrrrruuuuuummmmm". Put something up high, and he will find a way to climb up to it. Show him a piece of machinery and he will point and yell "OH OH OH!". Take off his diaper and he will, well, he'll do what boys do. Boys.

Sure, he also likes purses and baby dolls and occasionally poops out a sequin. Those things happen, especially when you have big sisters. But he is so different, and that difference seems so natural and unforced, it is really remarkable to me.

But despite all his very boyness, he is also my lovey. My sweetie boy, who would be perfectly happy in my arms all day long. He is my most affectionate, sweetest, cuddliest baby. The same 'they' that say boys are different also say that there is something special about the mother-son relationship. I'm beginning to think that 'they' may be right.

*I am firmly against gross generalizations, except when they fit my particular situation. I am firmly in favor of people (even babies) being who they are, so if your baby girl likes monster trucks and your baby boy likes Barbie dolls, rock on.

Ten-Four-One

At Ten: 
Katie honey, you need to clean up your room.
Awwwwwwww! But why? I was just getting ready to play. Oh my GOD. Why can't I do it later? Why do I have to do EVERYTHING around here? It's like I'm your SLAVE! I just cleaned it! But why? WHY? You don't understand my life!

At Four: 
Julia sweetie, let's pick up your room.
I don't need your help! I can do it! I know how to do it! I know evvvverything about cleaning my room!

At One: 
Henry bubby, let's clean up! Clean up! Everybody! Everywhere!
AAAAACCCKKKK! *Throws toys and hits me with a golf club. A plastic one, but still.*

It is probably the most difficult aspect of parenting for me right now - dealing with three children in such different stages of development. What works with one rarely works with another, thanks to their ages and personalities. And they keep doing new shit, so I'm constantly caught off guard. Just when I think I have this parenting gig figured out, one of them does something completely random. It's like they're conspiring with each other.

Katie: OK, you guys. This week, I am going to freak out about bras. Julia, develop a fascination with your butthole. Henry, bite some kids.

It's hard sometimes to remember that you can't reason with a one year old, nor can you trust a four year old, or expect a ten year old not to be a hormonal lunatic. As if to illustrate this very point, I just now glanced up to see the baby has used a kitchen chair to reach his high chair, and is standing on the tray. Instead of jumping up and running to get him down, I say, "You better think about what you're doing, boy!" Then, remembering that one year old boys are not known for their reasoning skills, I jumped up and ran to get him down.

Last night we all went out to dinner. It was freakishly awesome - no one screamed or threw food or vomited on the table. We left the restaurant in the sanctimonious glow of people with well behaved children. As we walked to the car, I said "Honey, this is the best time of our life. One day, the babies will be grown and gone and we'll be lonely. We'll remember this, and miss it."

I believe it. You know why? Because right now, it's easy. As hard as I think it is, it's a relative breeze. Right now, they're still little. They've yet to experience loss, or have their hearts broken, or realize that sometimes people just plain suck. The worst problem I've dealt with today is the fact that Henry thinks every piece of furniture is a gee-dee jungle gym. I'll take that any day over sitting with my child after their first breakup.

It's something I try to remember on those days when switching gears between the three of them seems impossible. This is a very brief window in our lives, when all three of them are small, and so are their problems.

And so are mine.

Pride Before the Fall

Fiction Friday is delayed, because I am uninspired and a little bit lazy. Look for it this weekend. In the meantime, I will share my humiliation with you!

I am in line at the Ham Store (because apparently, people like ham for Easter? What is it about the risen Christ that says 'let's eat pig!'? Does no one see the irony in celebrating the resurrection of the world's most famous Jew with a meal of the number one unclean animal?) - and the line is 8 miles long. Julia and Henry are being exceptionally adorable and charming throughout our excessive wait, and the two women behind us are especially taken with them. They are going on and on about how wonderful they are, how great their names are (and here I throw a plug in for Katie, too), how well behaved. I am so proud, and as we inch closer to the front of the line it appears that we're going to get out of the store without any screaming, tantruming, puking, shitting or breaking of things. Truly, an Easter miracle.

Now, if you have never been to the Ham Store, it is kind of a weird deal. You stand in line forever, then are greeted by a gal who tries to upsell you ("Buy our $400 ham and we'll give you a turkey breast for only $100 more!"), then directs you to one of half a dozen or so ham-specialists who assess your ham-needs and pick the perfect piece of meat for you. You're then directed to the Pre-Pay Ham Person, who confirms that you have just the right ham, and then directs you to a register to check out.

Things were going great, up until the point that I get to the Pre-Pay Ham Person. She is a lovely woman who gives me a big smile and then confirms that I have, indeed, had a hamtastic experience. She says "Hello, pretty girl!" to Julia and "What a handsome little man!" to Henry, then looks down at my mid-section and says,

"Oh! And you're expecting another!"

Now, everyone who has ever had a baby KNOWS that, unless a woman is squatted down pushing out a kid, you never, ever, assume that she is pregnant. Never. Ever.

If I were a much quicker witted person, I would have told her that I was smuggling out a ham. Instead, I just laughed nervously and said "Uh, nooo." And this should have made the Ham Person sufficiently mortified, and she should have made some lameass comment about my fluffy shirt. Or something. But NO! She says:

"Oh, just a little leftover from this little guy!" What, WHAT? You are lucky I have a baby in one hand and a big ass ham in another, lady - because you are setting yourself up for a big, fat neck punch! And she keeps going, "But he's worth it! He's worth every bit of it!"

Yes, my child is worth every flap, fold and crease of the meat apron. It's something I console myself with in front of a mirror under the harsh fluorescents, in the privacy of my bathroom. Not something I need to be reminded of in the middle of the gee-dee HAM STORE, ASSHOLE!

I can only hope that she's out there somewhere tonight, in a blog, on a message board, or sitting at her dinner table with her family, saying "You are not going to believe what I did today!"

What Are We Doing in the Next Morning?

Julia wakes up READY. Ready for - whatever. When she was very small, her first words in the morning were "UP! I EAT!". Now they are "Where are we going today? What are we doing today?"

That was fine. Today I can handle. And when she started saying "What are we doing in the next morning?" - tomorrow? Sure, I can usually answer that, too. But when she started asking 4 and 5 days out, it was...excessive. Like, make me want to punch someone excessive.

So in a rare stroke of genius, I made her a calendar. The rest of April and all of May so far, each little square with a picture and a word, telling her what's on the agenda. I'm not an artist, so my apple (for school) looks a little like a pumpkin, but she gets the idea. We'll mark the days off so she can keep up. She loves it, I love it, I can't believe I didn't think of it sooner.

I AM BRILLIANT!

In other mundane news, Henry has decided his primary means of communication is going to be screaming, I have a golf ball sized blocked milk duct in my right boob (caused no doubt by those stupid new bras!), and we bought Shutup Roxy a Thundershirt. You may have even seen the ad for the Thundershirt on this very blog (oh, have you not noticed that I have ads? For high quality, topical products? That you want to click?). We tried it yesterday, and it appears that it might actually work. Even on a Jackass of a dog like Roxy. I will keep you posted.

Sleep

My children are, until the age of 2 or so, horrible sleepers. It's entirely my fault - I nurse them to sleep, bring them into our bed, indulge, rock and pacify. I do not believe in crying it out, it is not my way. Because I am unwilling to do any consistent program to help them sleep, I forfeit any right to bitch about them not sleeping. I'm lazy, and not ashamed to admit it.

But every now and again, I decide TONIGHT'S THE NIGHT! and I spend a few hours of frustration with a non-sleeping baby before caving and taking them to bed with me. Last night was Henry's turn.

It started out well enough - he took a bath and read a book and nursed (to sleep), curled up in his bed and that was that. Until the dog woke him up.

"DAT!" he yells. I go in and pat his butt and he falls back asleep! Until Julia yelling wakes him up. "DAT!"

The butt patting does not work this time. He is laughing and crying and DAT!-ing until I finally pick him up and rock him and he falls back to sleep. Quietly, I tiptoe back to the crib and gently maneuver my not-very-tall body over the crib rail and lay him gingerly in the crib. Now all I have to do is step away from the crib and I'm home free.

Except the upper part of my meat apron is kind of hooked on the crib rail. I'm already on my tiptoes, so I can't lift up and unlatch my gut. I'm cursing getting a new couch instead of a tummy tuck. I slide down...plop. Now the rail is stuck under one ribcage, my hands are still under the baby, and I still have to clear the boobs. I decide to go for a clean sweep method, like pulling a cloth out from under a table full of dishes. I yank my hands out from under the baby while jumping back and the crib rail practically sheers one of my nipples right off.

"DAT!"

Okay. You know, if only I could lay down next to him, I know I could get him to sleep. Except he's in a crib, and I can't exactly crawl in the crib. Right?

I push on the crib mattress with my hand. Sturdy. Maybe...I'll just try getting one leg in and see if it feels like it will hold me. So I'm standing there in my nightie, with one leg slung over the crib rail and Henry is looking at me like "Bitch, you are crazy." I can not believe I am actually considering getting in the baby's crib. This is ridiculous. I pull my leg out and, because I am wearing my old woman floor length nightgown, my foot gets caught and I fall flat on my ass.

"DAT!"

You know, maybe we could just lay on the floor. So I spread out a blanket, get Henry out of the crib and settle down on the floor. He latches on to my remaining nipple and sighs contentedly. This might just work.

And then my back seizes up. Oh my God, I laid my geriatric ass on the floor and now I can't move. I have to get out of this room, I have to get help. But my boob is stuck in a vice grip and he's asleep! I'm going to be like James Franco in 127 Hours, except I'm going to have to cut off my nipple to get out of here. I get my finger in his mouth and break the suction, then slowly...carefully...roll onto my stomach and get on my hands and knees. I'm crawling towards the door, all the while doing these weird pelvic tilts that, while helping my back, undoubtedly make me look like an air-humping camel. Oh Lord, there's the door. Almost there...almost...

"DAT!"

One

Happy birthday, Henry.

 

I have been sitting here staring at a blank screen, trying to think of the best way to describe my sweet boy. He is, simply, perfect. A few pictures from our family celebration!

You are perfect, Henry, and I love you so much. What more can I say?

Henry's First Haircut

I have hairy babies. They come out with a head full, and hairy ears and buttcracks and, in Julia's case, hair on her upper back. Julia especially was like a pet monkey, so soft and furry. Their hair is not just long, it is thick, wavy and grows out as much as down.

Katie's first haircut was at 10 months, performed with trembling hands by yours truly. Just a bang trim, but the end result was something like this:  / I waited until Julia was 3, and took her to see my hairdresser mom. She rode into the salon all curls and attitude and demanded "just a little trim".

As the boy approaches his first birthday, he's looking a little shabby. In some pictures he looks like a little Beatle, in others he looks disturbingly like a tiny Hitler. It was time.

At the salon:

And AFTER!

Curls are still there!

And one more shot, because he's such a handsome little man.

Mother Knows Breast

I'm an unlikely lactivist. No one in my family breastfed. At the time Katie was born, I had no close friends, or even acquaintances, that had breastfed. I don't even own a pair of Birkenstocks. And yet, when I finally got the hang of it with Katie, something really kind of amazing happened. In the midst of all the hormones and emotions and doubts and concerns and obsessive worry about what kind of mother I might turn out to be - I found a quiet moment where nothing existed but me and my baby.

Nursing Katie was rough in the beginning. I thought we were doing okay in the hospital, under the guidance of the Tit Nazi (the one who grabbed my boob and shoved it in that tiny mouth). But when we got home, I freaked. Katie cried and cried and my milk didn't come in. My support system, trying to be supportive, suggested I give her a bottle. I didn't want to, and I don't even know why. I don't know why, suddenly, it was so important to me to breastfeed. Before having her, I'd had a pretty take it or leave it attitude, but now it was a matter of pride. Of failing, without feeling like I'd even really tried.

I will always be grateful to a stranger at La Leche League, who talked me through those first five days until my milk came in. For my husband and mother, who indulged me and helped my syringe feed Katie. Who kept encouraging me through those first weeks of sore nipples and toe-curling latch. Within a month I had forgotten how awful those first few days were.

I fell in love with my daughter in those still moments of middle of the night feedings. I felt all the stress and anxiety leave my body as my milk let down. I watched as she grew and got fat on nothing more than what I provided her, and that is something that still amazes me.

When I went back to work, I continued to nurse. I pumped while at work (which takes every bit of sweetness out of breastfeeding. There is nothing relaxing about being hooked up to a milking machine. Moo!) and she got bottles at daycare. It wasn't easy, but it wasn't horrible. She weaned at a year, my milk supply and her interest both dwindling.

And then came Julia. The Barracuda. Who sprang forth from the womb with her mouth wide open, a natural nurser. I remember her at 1, a mouth full of teeth. Friends would watch her cuddle up to nurse and gasp "You're still breastfeeding?" I never considered myself an 'extended nurser', but I happily nursed her until she was 2 1/2.

As Henry approaches his first birthday, he still nurses frequently. His daytime feedings are efficient and all business, because he has better things to do. But when he's ready for sleep, or just waking up, he'll cuddle contentedly for the longest time. Sometimes, he'll pop off and give me a milk drunk smile. It's those moments that take my breath.

I know that breastfeeding doesn't work for everyone, for many reasons. I've had friends who have had issues and gotten frustrated and stopped, and I don't blame them. I've had friends who've had a horribly tough time and kept at it, when I am sure I would have given up. Every mom has to make the choice that is right for her and her baby. I'm lazy and cheap, so breastfeeding was the obvious way to go.

I read stories and hear from friends who've had a bad experience nursing in public. I've nursed babies in restaurants and stores, in the elementary school and during church, in the middle of meetings and movies. I have left a place to nurse in the car, but only when it would be more comfortable and less distracting for my baby. I have never been asked to stop nursing, or leave an establishment. In fact, with the exception of one elderly woman (who said "It is so nice to see a young mother nursing.") I have never had a stranger comment on me breastfeeding.

It has been so deeply satisfying and rewarding to me, in a way I never could have imagined in those first, stressful days. Henry is almost certainly my last baby. I am storing up the memories of him nursing - the funny half laugh, half cry before he latches on, his warm smallness curled up against me, a little hand rubbing my chest, dark eyelashes on a fat cheek as he drifts off to sleep. He is beautiful, and right then, it is only us.

Me and my baby.