Category Archives: Parenting

And then she was Six…

Dear Emily June,

You climbed in to bed with me at a little before five in the morning on your sixth birthday.  “Is it the middle of the night or very early in the morning?”

“It’s night time,” I told you.  I am fairly sure I have a limited time left to tell you these white lies in the hopes of buying time in one way or another.  You rolled over and snuggled up against me.  You were quiet for just a minute before you said “I saw all those streamers, Mom.  But I didn’t look at my presents.”

When I was a little girl my mom used to decorate our rooms at night so when we woke up on our birthday we felt special right away.  And really I can’t think of a better way to start a new year.  I hope you feel special every day of this year, little girl. Continue reading

“So Perfect to Hold You”

From my office door

My favorite time of the day is climbing in to Em’s bed first thing in the morning.  She has a morning voice that is both squeaky and scratchy all at once.

I rub her back and kiss her on the cheek.  These days I smile at those long legs sticking out from that tiny pink blanket she insists on sleeping beneath.

“Goood morning, kiddo.  You have to get up in about five minutes, ok?’ Continue reading

My baby’s take on the baby…

“What’s that?”

“It’s like a vitamin, kind of,” I said , stirring the glass of Metamucil.

“What kind?  What is it for?”

“Well, when you’re pregnant your stomach and all of your insides don’t have a lot of room so you have trouble going to the bathroom and stuff.  This is fiber, and that helps.”

“So you don’t only have really small poops?”

“What?”  I asked her, realizing this entire conversation was going to be repeated at school in all likelihood.

“I mean, you just have small poops, right?  The baby poops and it comes out your butt.”

“Not exactly.  We have to leave in five minutes.  Get your backpack.”

It’s easy to feel like I am the only person in the house that feels so pregnant all of the time.  But I have to wonder how much time she devotes to thinking about it… because when it comes up she seems to have a pretty well thought out vision of how it all works.  Right or wrong.  And really there is no telling her she’s wrong these days.

 

 

 

My Oldest

My first child was a sloppy mess from the start.  He peed in the house.

The Baby & his Grover

He whined when left alone.  And he had very sharp teeth.

The Choppers

He ate the corner of my couch.  He stood in his food bowl when he ate his dinner.

My Sloppy Dining Companion

I loved him from the very first night we brought him home. And I was proud of him as he grew in to a big strong boy.

The Handsome Teenager

When I was pregnant with Emily I imagined the two of them fast friends.    Fisher and I would lie in bed at night and I would tell him everything I was afraid of.

Snoozing with My Confidant

When Emily was about two months old I was sitting on the couch with the two of them, tears rolling down my face.  Her dad asked me in that way that a man talks to a post-partum woman if I was okay. “Yeah, I was just thinking that she will grow up with him and then one day she will have to understand what it is like to lose a dog, and it breaks my heart.  I mean she is going to love him so much and he is going to die…”   Through the hormones I could see that perhaps I was getting ahead of myself.

Tiny Pals

There were a million hard things about Em’s dad and I separating.  But the hardest may very well have been pulling out of the driveway, Fisher’s head poking through the pickets on the deck.  I missed that dog every minute of every day.  But as I said to anyone that would listen, you can take  a man’s kid and half of his stuff, but only an asshole would take his dog, too.

My Kids at Play

Fate and a cross-country move brought Fish back to me last year.  He still smells like corn chips.  He still likes to sleep in the middle of the bed.  I still get choked up when I think about the relationship that a kid has with their dog.

First Trip on the School Bus

And now Fisher is eight years old.  I hope that he is around to walk to the bus stop when the time comes to send this new baby off to school.  He’ll be a little grayer, maybe a little slower.  I was thinking about whether or not he will have the same patience for this baby that he had for Emily, if he will be as tolerant with the “pony” rides and the dress up games.  For now I find peace in the fact that he is already forging his relationship with the new baby.  Recently I remarked to MQD that it seems I pick dog hair out of my belly button almost daily lately.  That’s what that means, right?  Fish is bonding with the new baby?

Saturday

Saturday was the most fantastic day of the week when I was a kid.  Two days seemed like an eternity to do whatever I pleased.  Saturday mornings had the promise of cartoons and big breakfast and pajamas.

Saturdays when you are moving in six weeks are not so lazy, they more closely resemble a meeting of war officials.  You round up the troops, you assess your abilities and you develop your plan of attack.

We didn’t quite tear the roof off last night. But we did stay up past one in the morning.  This is not  a small piece of news in our household these days.  So, at least two-thirds of the  troops were  struggling this morning as we were developing the  day’s agenda.  Unfortunately the remaining third is not quite as gung-ho about a trip to Bed Bath & Beyond to measure some blinds or scouring the thrift stores for a dresser for the baby.

This pregnant lady might have only had four hours of sleep.  But she is ready to kick some “We are moving in October” ass this morning.  After a Saturday morning that was more like Saturday circa 1982 than I had anticipated I am ready to take on the world.

Thanks, MQD and Em.  Flowers + Pancakes + Sausage = Happy Mom

Tear the roof off the mother!!

As we were leaving to go the bus stop this morning I realized we were running well ahead of schedule so we opted to hop in the car and run a quick errand.  As we were driving I asked Em “Do you wanna listen to the band that dad and I are going to go see tonight?”

Parliament’s “Give Up the Funk” started filling the car with it’s funkitude and there were smiles all around.  I swear even Fisher was feeling it.

I pulled up to the bus stop and parked the car, turned around to see my little lady with a face full of tears.  I turned down the funk and asked her what was wrong.  “It’s just not fair!! Why can’t a kid see a good band EVER!?  I didn’t know you were going to see THIS band!!!”

I tried not to smile.  I really did.  But man, oh man, I was swelling with pride.  “Baby the first time I saw George Clinton and and the Parliament-Funkadelic I was twenty years old.  I promise you that I will take you to see them before you are twenty, okay?”

She seemed to think that was sufficient.  “Okay… fine.  Can you just turn it back up, please?”

Em has been bringing the funk since she was very small.   I hope I can make her proud tonight.

 

Day 87: Morse Code

Tonight, send a message in Morse code from your window.  See if anyone responds.

This was a fairly simple task. I wake up anywhere from four to nine billion times in a night so a couple of days ago I looked up a Morse Code translator  and saved a quick message to my phone.  Saturday night was a tough night for me what with the freaky dream and impending hormonal meltdown so when I woke up Saturday night it didn’t seem like the right time to bang out a This Book Will Change Your Life challenge.  And for some reason I had made up my mind that this would be a late night missive.  I think everything that happens in the middle of the night is open to greater interpretation.  No one plays Bloody Mary or Light as  Feather Stiff as a Board (with any success anyway) in the middle of the day.   Where is the fun in that?

Sunday night I woke up several times.  My neighbors across the parking lot  had decided that Sunday, the night before the first full day of school, would be a most excellent night to sit on the porch and drink cognac and listen to their car stereos.  And since I hadn’t saved the Morse Code message “For fuck’s sake, can you turn down the bass!” or “Remy Martin from a brandy snifter beats the shit out of Hennessy from an orange juice glass!!” I didn’t really have an appropriate message planned out.  On the off chance they even heard my message, tapped out on my bedroom window.  But really…. if you were ever inclined to think someone was sending you a Morse code message –  half lit on cheap cognac and three blunts deep is the time.

(And lest you think I am being presumptuous with regards to their choice of beverage, our walk to the bus stop takes us right past my neighbor’s recycling bin.  They make keep late hours and have little regard for potential noise violations, but they seem to take their recycling quite seriously.)

So, Monday night.  It was on.  I hopped in bed with MQD at a reasonable hour. Fish snuggled between us both, his head in MQD’s armpit.  I read for a short while, the snoring from their side of the bed a kind of lullaby, I quickly decided to hit the hay.  It usually takes me in the neighborhood of 45 minutes to fall asleep but last night I was out by about 9:30.

Pregnancy Wake Up Round One was not until almost 1 am.  Almost a full four hour sleep cycle, who is the luckiest girl!!??

Standard routine:  Wake up, assess need to pee.  Need to pee is urgent.  Wiggle feet around until I am free from the shackles of dogs and cats sleeping on the blankets between my legs and stumble in to the bathroom.   Pee.  Flush. (This is a change to the routine.  (We were formerly an “If it’s yellow let it mellow household”  but the cat pee frenzy of 2011 has put a temporary ban on that plan.)  Throw the animals out of the bed.  Reclaim some bedding and my Snoopy if MQD was sneaky enough to snag it.  Assess level of sleepiness.    Check email or read RSS feeds.  Listen to a chapter of current audio book if that doesn’t do the trick.

Last night’s routine:  Wake up, assess need to pee.  Need to pee is urgent.  Note that Fisher is still in the middle of the bed.  Quick trip to the bathroom, throw the animals out of the bed.  Wide awake.  Remember I am not listening to any kind of a book right now and wonder what I am going to do to kill time for the next half an hour.    Remember the Morse Code message.

(600+ words later and I got to the point of my story!  Record time, Kelly.)

..  .-.. — …- .  -.– — ..- I tap out on the window.  Morse Code for “I love you.”  A good positive message to send out to the Universe.

I waited, let my mind wander.  Mentally wrote an outline for this scintillating post in my head.  And just before I fell back to sleep.  BOOM!  That incredibly loud one note blast of a sound that I generally associate with a big power generator blowing or a single clap of thunder.  As I wondered to myself if that was Universe Morse Code shorthand for “Go Fuck Yourself” I got distracted.

……………  Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap, parental Morse Code for tiny kid woken from sound sleep by loud ass noise hauling ass down the stairs to your bedroom.  “Mom?”

I pulled my covers back.  She climbed in.  The Universe did not respond to my message exactly as I had hoped.  But I got a late night snuggle with a little lady that is growing up way too fast for my liking.  So, I am calling Day 87 a success.

Emily June, six weeks old. You know the sappy hormonal woman is going through old pictures lately, right? That was predictable.

Monday’s Lesson

Sunday afternoon I took Em aside and apologized for having a bit of meltdown.  There had been a lot of tears in our house and she deserved some kind of explanation.  “The worst part about being pregnant Em is that you are so tired all of the time.  And you know how when you are tired you kind of cry a lot?  About mostly nothing?  Thanks for cheering me up, kiddo, but it really isn’t your responsibility to deal with me being a big baby.”

She thoughtfully explained how when you’re tired your eyes just make tons of tears and it isn’t your fault.  “You’re not a big, fat baby, Mom, don’t even call yourself a big, fat baby.”  In the spirit of melodrama only she and I can muster she had a few tears in the corners of her eyes for emphasis as she said it the second time.

“Hold up,” I stopped her.  “I didn’t say I was a big, FAT , baby!!”

And we laughed. By then we were at the pool.  She jumped out of the backseat grabbing her towel and said “I’ll carry this stuff, Mom”  and she hugged me.  “No matter what we always have a good time.”

Monday morning I was standing in the bathroom feeling just like my own mother when I said “Please return that hairbrush when you are finished.  It is the only one I have left.”

It was Em’s first day of kindergarten but it could have just as easily been her first day of middle school.  In the last few months she likes to get completely dressed, including doing her own hair in her room with the door closed so that there can be a satisfying and momentous reveal of her full ensemble.  It is a moment I relish.

She took the hairbrush and went in to her room, closing the door.  “Getting ready” can take any where from five to thirty minutes so I reminded her that she had a bus to catch this morning.  As if it could possibly have slipped her mind.

I brushed my hair, put on make up, lamented the fact that my thighs rub together when I am pregnant, applied baby powder to said thighs.  Paused, reflected on whether or not I might be ready to throw up, brushed my teeth.  Put on my make up.  She flung her door open.

She looked cute.  And had on a new, to her, hair-do.  A low side ponytail.  “See this, mom?  How it is like… down here?  This is how you can make a side ponytail a little bit less… rock star, ya know?”

“Really? You know who wears her hair like that a lot?”  She smiled and just laughed… “Are you trying to say I am NOT a rock star AND I am a big, fat baby?” I said.

She giggled all the way down the stairs until I couldn’t see her.  But I know she was shaking her head.  “You ARE a little bit of a rock star, Mom.”

Exhibit A: The side ponytail of a woman that is NOT a big, fat baby but only a little bit of a rockstar.

Exhibit B: The side ponytail of MY baby, and no matter how she wears her hair, a TOTAL rock star.

hȯr-ˈmō-nəl: of, relating to, or effected by hormones

I was standing in a crowd of people that all smelled a little like sweat and a lot like beer when he said “Hey, how the hell are you?”  And I smiled the “Oh wow, I haven’t seen you since high school” smile.

We exchanged some “You look greats” and a few “What have you been up to” kind of questions when I started to feel my cheeks get flushed.  There are obligatory “you look fantastic”s and then there are the kind that you can dish out to someone you knew long ago in a meaningful way.  These were definitely the kind of compliments that can make a gal stammer but not the kind that make you feel like you’re being hit on. 

He leaned against the wall and suddenly the crowd of people seemed to be gone.  I got all antsy and took a big swig of water just for something to do.  I could remember seeing that smile in the hallway when we were young and thinking I wish I had known him better because he always looked like he knew a funny secret.  He grinned and said “Just water for you, huh?”  and I smiled and gestured to my pregnant belly and somehow he managed to say in a way that didn’t sound like bullshit “oh wow, I hadn’t even noticed.” 

And he hugged me and I felt like my whole body was on fire. Like if I held on just a little longer I might know the secret that made him smile, too.   It was awkward when I let go and I said “I better be careful, I am a pro at making a scene” and my eyes welled up with tears inexplicably.  He smiled and hugged me again, dipped me like a movie star. 

“Me, too.” he said.  And that smile again. 

“Who cares about the scene, huh?” and I laughed.  “You just get this one life, right?” 

“Oh, I know that.  But do you?”

And I woke up.  That kind of wide awake from a dream where you turn to see if your alarm clock had gone off and then are surprised to find it is the middle of the night.  My first conscious thought was that I was going to blush when I saw him next.  And I rolled over and reached for MQD and he wasn’t in bed.  In the same breath I realized that MQD was gone (likely he had fallen asleep on the couch) but that the boy that made me blush and suggested that I was the one that needed to remember that we have just this one life had passed away a little over two years ago.

Analysis of one’s dreams is the height of navel-gazing in my book.  But this one really got me.  “You just get this one life” is my standard advice.  Why was I having it handed back to me?

I have remarked recently on the fearlessness with which MQD and I have taken this Marriage Bull by the horns.   I am, by nature, not one to take kindly to change.  I stay put.  It’s the Taurus in me, perhaps, that doesn’t want to give up combined with the laziness that is bred of insecurity.  But lately I have made great strides in that department.  For years it scared me to say out loud that I wanted something, the good old “don’t try and you never fail” hadn’t served me so well in my twenties.  By thirty I had so little to lose it seemed like a good idea to start wishing and trying.

Five years later I am trying and wishing my ass off.

MQD is a do-er not a talk-er.  It is inspiring.   I talked and talked about a baby that I wanted so desperately.  And science be damned, I think he made this baby happen.  Because he gets things done.  We sat up late nights and laughed and drank wine and planned on getting married “someday” and it was MQD that put on our shared google calendar “Go ring shopping.” I fell in love with a house and five days later he had a mortgage broker, a real estate agent and a plan.

Sometimes I feel like I am riding the coattails of his actions.  They may be our  dreams but much of the time it his actions  that get the ball rolling.  If pressed he’d tell me that my belief in him and my support is crucial to him having the courage to take these big steps.    We have a pretty perfect marital synergy in that respect.

So when I found myself sitting on the floor Sunday afternoon with my head in my hands, big fat tears rolling down my face I realized what it was that I wasn’t letting myself do.  That advice about how you only get one life?  That is just one of my inner mantras.  The other I have adopted in the last five years is the simple “fake it ’til you make it.”  It seems I have gotten a little too good at the latter.

It is so important to me to identify and reach for my dreams these days.  And in order to do that I need to feel positive and capable.  So I have focused extra hard on the “fake it” part, and believe it or not I have “made it.”  I feel good almost all of the time.

But in doing so I was failing to let myself feel afraid.  I just crammed it all back down so I could keep reaching for the next milestone, keep dreaming bigger.   Maybe what my dream visitor was encouraging me to do was to go ahead and voice my fear?  I am not sure yet if that is what he was telling me to do… but I know that after I said it all out loud I felt better.  So, I thought I’d better write it all down before I lose the courage it takes to be afraid.

I am terrified.  I am afraid I won’t be able to love this baby as much as I love Emily.  I am afraid I won’t be able to love MQD as much as I do now once I have to share my heart with the baby and Em.  I am afraid MQD will resent me not bringing in the income I am now. I am afraid that it will be five more years before I feel like myself inside my body and that I will be forty god damn years old next time I lose the “baby weight.”  I am afraid that I will repeat the mistakes I made in my last marriage.  I am afraid because it is all happening so fast and it is what I wanted so desperately.  What if I get what I have always said I wanted and I am still blue?

This weekend I came up with a bunch of questions and very few answers.  I’m still not sure if I am taking full advantage of “this one life.”   But I am present.  And I am feeling.  Even the shitty hormonal-pregnant-putting my baby on a school bus feelings.  I am even feeling those.  And I feel pretty okay.  The one answer that I managed to come up with that I completely believe is the one that will tide me over for a while. I sent MQD a text on Sunday post meltdown “I am scared, but in my “not crazy” mind I know we have what it takes.”

I went to sleep last night with the kind of burning eyes you can only get from a good cry.  And it felt good.  And I slept hard.

How do you measure…

“Rent” asks the question  how do you measure a year?  They suggest you measure it in “in daylight, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee, in inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife.”

That sounds satisfactory to me.  But how do you measure two years?  On August 27, 2009 Emily started preschool.  She was excited.  And maybe a little nervous.

This morning, she jumped out of the car triumphantly. Headed in for her “Last Day” party!  Lucky for me she did not roll her eyes when I said “Go stand by the sign so I can take your picture.” Almost two years ago to the day.

That’s how I’d measure two years.  Two years = two bricks had she been standing up straight.