Initiation: A Bloody Tale

While we've had two ER visits over the course of being parents - and a couple of stomach viruses, a freaky vaccine reaction/infection, ear tube surgery and a bout with pneumonia - we've been relatively unscathed (knocking on wood and anything else that will prevent Murphy for unleashing his Law after uttering that) in the illness/injuries department.

(Thank heaven for little girls).

In fact, until Saturday, we had not had a single incident that involved blood. The ONE bodily fluid that doesn't make my toes curl and it doesn't make an appearance in Life as a Parent for almost 4 years.

We've now been initiated.

It wasn't a beautiful day on Saturday, but it was warm, so when Woodstock asked to watch a movie after General Conference was over, I told her she had to get some exercise first. Two minutes later she sailed by me, wearing snow boots with her capris, and right out the back door. She ran laps around the yard for almost 15 minutes. Still not worn out, she begged me to play tag with her. It's not that I don't like tag, it's that every step I take lately involves shooting pain down my left leg - still, it turns out I can almost out-run a pre-schooler. Almost.

Tag lasted long enough for Pebbles to wake up from her nap, at which point she demanded to go "Ow-sigh" (outside) with "Gee Gee" (the name which Woodstock has instructed Pebbles to use). Of course, Pebbles is not the most stable on her feet, particularly on uneven ground when wearing shoes.

Blood. Curdling. Scream.

And then the dreaded silence that lets you know all is not well.

Pebbles had lost her footing and tumbled chin-first onto the patio. I picked her up - her chin was scraped up and blood was coming from somewhere.

Woodstock raced over and calmly asked what was going on. I said, "Pebbles fell. Her mouth is bleeding, so I need to take her in and look at her."

Absolute hysteria ensued. Woodstock - the unharmed older sister, dissolved into hysterics. "Mom!" She yelled (even though I was standing right next to her) "Pebbles is BLEEDING. Call an amb-lee-ance (ambulance). We hafta go to the hospital." At which point she raced by me and into the house.

I scooped up Pebbles and took her into the bathroom - only to discover the light source was too poor to ascertain exactly where on her face the blood was coming from. I grabbed some sterile gauze pads, the hydrogen peroxide and relocated to Pebbles to the dining room table (under our bright-as-noonday new light fixture - hooray for energy-sucking light sources).

That, apparently, was bad news for Woodstock who, no longer crying, yelled in a panicky voice, "Mom! You're not a doctor! She's BLEEDING!" Thank you for stating the blatantly obvious.

**I should note here again that blood is the one bodily fluid that neither grosses me out nor makes me panicky. I may be high-strung but am a very useful person to have around in emergencies or when someone is bleeding.**

After taking a look around (as well as one could while wrestling a 23-pound crying, squirmy child with razor-sharp teeth poised to chomp down immediately on whatever dared venture near the rapidly swelling lip), I phoned Himself to get his opinion on my assessment. (Himself has a knack for missing nearly every dramatic moment that happens - he was at work yesterday). We agreed that watching it and icing it was the best course. If it stopped bleeding, fabulous. If not, well, a visit to the doctor was in order - sans the ambulance Woodstock was still insisting we needed.

Of course, a 19-month-old, a mouth injury and ice do not go well together, so we determined a Popsicle would be the best remedy for both the crying and the swelling. I got off the phone.

"Dad says she needs a Popsicle," I remarked to Woodstock - hoping she'd give Himself more credit than she was giving me. After all, he's not a doctor either.

"A Popsicle?" Her panicky voice vanished. She sounded downright hopeful.

Then, her sister's ailments and her rallying cry for an amb-lee-ance forgotten, Woodstock asked, "Can I have one too?"

Funny how suddenly her sister's still bleeding lip took the backseat to the mention of frozen sugary ice water.

As it turns out, Popsicles cure more than just bleeding lips. They also cure hysterical pre-schoolers.

Lesson learned - keep the freezer stocked. (And don't let Pebbles near concrete).

Mourning.

My sister lost her baby yesterday. A baby whom she had carried for nearly 3 months, who had taken a very long time to come into being - who would have joined his/her 4-year-old sister and parents in a brand-new home. A home with a nursery - just in case.

A baby that was due around Pebbles' birthday. The one I greeted with even more joy than normal, because it lessened the discomfort of packing all of my baby clothes and maternity clothes and infant items in the dark corner of the garage - not quite certain I was ready to part iwth them forever, but nearly certain there will be no more babies. A baby - in the same season mine were born - meant some of my things would get more use, more love, more memories. I got the news, via text, at work. I tried not to cry. I tried to be an adult and not grab my keys and my wallet and drive the 300 miles to mourn with my only sister. I pulled out a journal entry later to re-read my own experiences with miscarriage - vastly different, but still painful.

I told Woodstock - who has been praying for the baby at every meal, every bedtime. "Aunt's baby went to heaven," I said - using that vague phrase parents pull out when they don't know how to give any more details.

Woodstock grew solemn, and then brightened, "I know! I can be Aunt's baby for a little bit - so she won't miss her other baby." Then her little face looked as if she was deep in thought. A while later she piped up: "Did her baby go to heaven with the raccoon that got ran over?" I was startled - a year ago, on our walk, Woodstock had seen a raccoon lying in the road - having her first brush with death. I was surprised she even remembered.

"Yes," I said "Something like that."
"That's good she said. The raccoon can help the baby."

Funny how kids instincively have a belief of the continuum of life - that we once existed, now exist, will always exist. Without question, they understand the eternal nature of life itself - even if their application is a bit off.

Today, I noticed Woodstock's prayers changed. "Please bless Aunt's baby to be okay in heaven. And please help Aunt have a new baby."

Amen.

In Gratitude

In 2005, as I waited in an airport two days before Christmas with thousands of other people, I pondered what it would feel like to not have to spend every major holiday stuck in an airport, a rental car, or a traffic jam somewhere on the Eastern seaboard.

I should have been more specific.

Holidays now don't mean airports, rental cars or I-95 traffic jams, but it seems we've traded those for long road trips, icy mountain passes and no sleep. We might be closer to relatives, but there is a whole lot of nothing - vast open wilderness - between us and them.

Last year, I issued a moratorium on road trips during the month of November. It worked so well, I did it again this year. This year, we decided to play grown-ups and host our own holiday - something we haven't done on any major scale since moving to the Frontier. It was all carefully planned ... and then, Mother Nature decided to make things interesting and brought in a winter storm that turned every road into a sheet of ice and, as a result, no Thanksgiving guests.

When I wished for no traveling during the holidays, I didn't really mean spending them alone. Again, I should have been more specific.

Stuck with a 15-pound turkey (courtesy of work - at least I didn't have to pay for it) and a fridge full of ingredients for a family-sized traditional dinner, I set out to craft side dish upon side dish for Himself, myself, and two little girls who chose today as a day to eat like birds. I will be eating reincarnations of Thanksgiving dinner for weeks - if I was really creative, and had room in my freezer, I could probably make it last until Christmas.

At some point in the morning, I realized I wasn't having any fun. Cooking a holiday dinner for 2.5 appetites isn't terribly exciting. I put the turkey in the oven, left roasting instructions for Himself (who ignored them, being a man), bundled up the girls and took them to the zoo.

It was my favorite part of the day, and it was then I realized: I am deeply grateful to not only have a child, but to have two of them. I watched as Woodstock, looking for all the world like a pink marshmallow with stick legs (thanks to a puffy coat and skinny leggings) pushed Pebbles (who looked like the kid on Christmas story - complete with arms out to her sides - bundled too much to put them at her sides - it was only 27 degrees after all) around the zoo in her stroller. No people + a cumbersome umbrella stroller over which one can barely see = very little risk of out-running Mom, and Woodstock relished her freedom. She chattered away at Pebbles - detailing every exhibit and opining about this or that. They giggled at the turkeys wandering around and Woodstock (ever one to make me want to be vegetarian for animal reasons and not just health reasons) asked if they were like the turkey roasting in the oven at home.

They giggled at a sleepy crocodile. They laughed at the echos in the giraffe enclosure - who knew that a big empty building full of nothing but giraffes and two little girls could provide such amazing acoustics? Pebbles squealed at the leopard and Woodstock excitedly told me that we were going to visit a rain forest (I will admit - the rain forest/reptile house was my favorite - as it is the warmest building at the zoo). I marveled at how - now that Woodstock is potty trained, Pebbles sleeps through the night and both feed themselves - my joy was doubled with two children without necessarily doubling the work.

Our noses red, our fingers frozen, we returned home to put the final touches on the meal and to give thanks. Woodstock gave thanks for animals and family and the funny looking food on her plate (when else do you serve soggy bread?). I gave thanks for a few hours that lifted my spirits and made me realize Thanksgiving can be a holiday even without a house stuffed full of people. Fresh air, sunshine (cold sunshine, but still - sunshine), good food, family and two beautiful little girls.

I'm thankful, once again, for the simple things. The ones that warm my heart the most.

Next year, the Thanksgiving travel moratorium may just have to be re-instated.

Badge of Honor: Mean Mother

I've always aspired to be a Mean Mother. Not in the grouchy, grumpy, mean-just-to-be-mean kind of "Mean Mother" way, but the "There are consequences to every action - you choose the action, I choose the consequence - no discussion" kind of way.

I anticipated it would take me awhile to achieve the title of Mean Mother. After all, little girls adore their mothers and are convinced that the women that brought them into this world really can take them out of it by wiggling their nose or counting to three or vowing to sell them to the gypsies if they continue to try to ride on their sister like a horse.

Boy was I wrong.

The other day I put Woodstock in timeout for what seemed like the 475th time that day. It was a particularly rough day, and it wasn't even lunchtime. It's rare that there are days like that, but even fair-haired, blue-eyed impish little elven children have days where the world of "bad choices" is far more tempting than the staid, boring array of good choices available to them.

As I put her in timeout, Woodstock (who was crying) said, "But I said sorry!" I launched into another rendition about choices and consequences and how being sorry is important, but so is "doing the time" for making a bad choice.

With tearstained cheeks, Woodstock looked at me and said, "You're not the best mother in the whole world anymore. You're MEAN."

She'd only been three for just over a week.

I need a new goal.

Explanations and Potty Chairs in the Desert.

Every day I think about blogging. I think of funny, sad or introspective things to say (at least I think they are funny, sad or introspective, which is all that matters I suppose), but I'm on a self-imposed exile from personal computer use for awhile. Mostly because I like going without it. After 3 years of constant attachment to a laptop, up-to-the-minute content, responsibility over messaging and conversations and brands and so forth ... I'm tired.

And so, because my work system is like Fort Knox (I deal with revenue and client data), and I no longer have to dabble in social media and such for work, I just quit, cold-turkey, and feel ... well, I miss my friends, but I feel a bit liberated when I think about it being one less thing on my to do list.

The problem is, I like blogging. I just am not ready to return from exile yet.

At the same time, I just have to share a Woodstock story.

The girls and I went to visit The Parents for the holiday weekend. This is the second road trip we've taken since Woodstock began potty training 3 1/2 months ago. On the way down, I put a pull-up on her. But I didn't bring enough to have her wear one on the way up (she only wears them now in situations where I think it may be an absolute disaster were she to have an accident). I was a bit nervous, but she's been pretty good about telling me she needs to go - and we do travel with the potty chair in the trunk of the car on road trips.

In the dead center of Nowhere (I'm not kidding - NOWHERE. Right in the middle.), Woodstock says, "I hafta go potty." So, I take the next ranch exit, pull off to the side of the on ramp, get the potty chair out, set it in the bushes on the side of the road and put Woodstock on it. I stand in front of her to shield her from the 1 car that probably passes that on ramp in a 24-hour period. And wait.

And wait. And wait. And wait.

Then Woodstock says, "Der's poop in der, but it isn't coming out." I remind her that she has eaten almost nothing for three days and that fruit and veggies will help it come out. And then wonder how long this is going to take.

Minutes later, she leaps up and exclaims, "I did it! I pooped all by myself!" (Um yes, not sure how one would do it with help, but ... to her credit, it is the first time she has ever poop in something other than the regular toilet and it has to be a bit disconcerting to try and do one's business on the side of the road on a potty chair).

I tell her how happy I am and then she grows serious and says, "I need a magazine. Dis is going to be awhile." (I often use the phrase "this is going to be awhile" - so I'm pretty sure it was just parroting it back to me, but it was still funny - until I thought about standing on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere for the rest of the day).

30 minutes later, Woodstock was the happiest kid on the planet. She had accomplished her task. I was highly relieved it had been done in the potty chair (even if I did have to clean it to put it back in the car - GROSS) rather than her car seat and Pebbles was glad to be doing something other than sitting in her seat waiting for the two of us to get on with our lives.

As we climbed back into the car, Woodstock says to herself, "You did a good job Woodstock. Now, let's see ... what should my special potty treat be?"

I expected something huge - something spectacular (the last time she pooped, she got her hails painted). Instead, she remarked, "Mama, can I have a Smartie as my special treat?"

Um yes, I think we can handle that.

Too Noisy

The great bedroom experiment has officially been declared a failure.

Pebbles isn't (much to my chagrin) sleeping through the night as consistently as I'd like. It leads to bad sleeping habits, because I bolt in to "save the day" when she cries at night, to avoid waking Woodstock, who is Little Miss Cranky if she doesn't get 11 hours of sleep a night. (Well, so is her mother, but one of us has to be the grown up). It becomes a self-perpetuating cycle ... Pebbles now DEMANDS to be picked up and whisked away to be rocked before she'll stop hollering. She's smart. She knows I love to snuggle, but this middle of the night stuff is for the birds. She also knows snuggling wins out every single time over having a grumpy sister the next day.

Additionally, Pebbles tummy ceases to be happy 11 hours after she last eats ... so she wakes up about an hour before Woodstock. At that point, no amount of cajoling that it isn't morning until the sun comes up (what are we going to do when it rises at 5:45 a.m. in the summer?!) works and Woodstock is raring to go.

I knew it was near the end when Woodstock complained the other day, "Pebbles is too noisy."

Yes, she is. Because not only does she cry at night, Pebbles cannot wake up quietly. Oh no. She has to wake up with SCREECHING peals of laughter and loud thumping noises as she swings her legs up and lets them fall over and over (and over) again. She doesn't need to be "rescued" come morning, she is perfectly happy entertain herself - the problem is, she hasn't learned the concept of "inside voice."

This morning I asked Woodstock if she wanted Pebbles to still share a room or if she wanted her to sleep elsewhere for now. Her response was telling: "Pebbles can sweep in my room, but she's too noisy."

Let me put it this way: we've never had to use a monitor with Pebbles. We can hear her regardless of how far apart in the house we may be.

Pebbles may be banished to the guest bedroom - for now. She's adorable. I love her, but I cannot continue to endure months of waking up every single night.

The only problem is, it involves furniture rearranging and stairs and more time off than I have at the moment.

Maybe if we all don't get enough sleep no one will notice we're grumpy...?

The Grumpies

(Sent as an e-mail to The Parentals - who don't read this blog - earlier today)

--
So this morning Pebbles, who has a bad cold, woke up at oh-dark-thirty (5:40 a.m.). She slept in her bouncy chair in our room last night, since she understandably wasn't comfortably sleeping lying flat. Not wanting Woodstock to wake up (everyone sleeps with their doors open to keep from freezing to death), I bounded silently down the hall only to be met by a sleepy Woodstock at her door (she is loving the fact that she doesn't have to yell "All Done Sleeping" or anything else for that matter from her bed in the morning - she merely pops out when she feels like getting up. In this case, 5:40 a.m.).

I tried the old "It's not morning yet" trick. Didn't work. She wanted to snuggle. So back we went into our bedroom. She climbed into bed next to Himself. It really wasn't morning or time to get up (according to my sleep-deprived self), so I got Pebbles, gave her something to suck on and all four of us "snuggled." Really, Himself pretended to sleep, Pebbles moaned. Woodstock told her over and over and over (and over!) to not be afraid. I counted to 100. Silently. Hoping some fairy would drop magic sleeping dust on at least the two littlest.

Alas, it was not to be. We all ended up getting up. Most of us having a case of the grumpies. (Himself not so much - he got to immediately escape to work, so he was likely spared).

Fast forward to breakfast. Woodstock, who had requested cinnamon oatmeal with blueberries sat staring at her (now cold) bowl of oatmeal - missing only a single bite. The entire time I was feeding Pebbles she snuggled up next to me and said over and over and over (and over!), "I hungry mama!". Which would be why I switched up the order and gave her breakfast first instead of last thing before we left (after all, it's a long time between 5:40 a.m. and 7:40 a.m. - our normal breakfast time - for a little tummy). Of course, even though she got exactly what she ordered for breakfast, Woodstock ate only her vitamins and one bite of oatmeal. She then lay her head down on her tray and dropped blobs of oatmeal over the edge of her tray onto the floor while exhibiting a very-tired-toddler case of the grumpies. Pebbles moaned her discomfort and relative displeasure from her swing. Over and over and over (and over) again.

I said, "Woodstock, you are going to be in big trouble if you don't find a way to get rid of the grumpies." One of those vauge parental threats that all the parenting books warn you to never use, but the parenting books have never functioned for weeks on end with little sleep and an actual grumpy toddler who is really just acting in exhaustion and not out-and-out wantonness. She continued to drop oatmeal onto the floor. I continued to eat my own oatmeal and ignore her. I was determined to not have to eat breakfast in the car, like I do most mornings. (Note: I did clean up the oatmeal after I was done ... I have to mop the floors tonight anyway).

We finally got ourselves out to the car, got the car unburied from the snow that found us last night, got everyone buckled in. Headed toward Miss Jan's, with me already counting the hours until bedtime - for all of us. And feeling a little bad that I was about to unleash two of the three grumpies on poor Miss Jan.

We were blocks from Miss Jan's house when Woodstock piped up from the back seat.

"Mama, I not in bery big trouble anymore."

Curious, I said, "Oh, really? Why not?"

"Cuz I not mad anymore. I not in bery big trouble now, cuz I so happy."

And right then, my heart melted.

I still have a case of the grumpies, but they're mellowing out. Woodstock and Pebbles seemed to leave their grumpies behind as well - as both were beaming big happy grins when Miss Jan opened the door.

She has no idea how close she came to having the grumpies come to visit today.

(Totally unrelated side note: Woodstock got out of the car at Miss Jan's, bounded over to the sidewalk, looked up at the tree and said, "Hey birdies! Whas going on?" like she does every morning - grumpy or not. It makes me laugh every single morning - grumpy or not.)

Slumberless Sleepover

There are three things about being a mother I have dreaded so far, and not just casually dreaded, but dreaded-deep-down-in-the-pit-of-my-stomach dreaded.

1. Weaning Woodstock off her binky
2. Moving Woodstock into a "big" bed
3. Potty training

We accomplished 1 in December. After a month of talking about the binky fairy and a week of counting down the nights until the binky fairy arrived, one Thursday night in December Woodstock awoke to find her binky had been replaced by a note and a Curious George puzzle. (She strategically came on a Thursday night to ensure there were two non-work nights to deal with any fallout).

Surprisingly (or maybe not, since she was clearly ready to give it up), there have only been a couple of the briefest mentions of binkies since.

So I decided to tackle #2 on my "dreaded list of mothering a toddler tasks."

On Tuesday night, after having her "big" bed in her room for 5 months, Woodstock finally agreed it might be fun to sleep somewhere other than her crib.

One should note that Woodstock LOVES her crib. Never has she tried to climb out (though she can climb in - more worrisome at the moment, as the last thing I need is her trying to co-sleep with Pebbles!). Never has she wanted to sleep anywhere else (except when sick - she wants to sleep on the couch - weirdness). So it was a big deal I convinced her that it was high time she move up in the world.

Since Himself was out of town on business, I suggested we have a slumber party. I put both girls down - Woodstock on the trundle bed (low to ground), Pebbles in the crib and, after they had both gone to sleep, I crashed on the day bed. They thought this was very cool (well, I'm assuming Pebbles did, she didn't protest, after all). I thought it was a good way to spy on Woodstock to ensure she didn't try to sleep with her sister (a valid concern, it's happened before when Pebbles was in the bassinet in the other room).

They both slept like rocks all night.

I woke up every single hour. First, it was the darn nightlight that Woodstock insists on having so she can read before she sleeps (I tried turning it off after she went to bed - she inevitably wakes up and yells "my yittle yight is not on, come fix it!".

Second, it turns out that the day bed mattress is the one I put the plastic mattress pad on. I do not sleep still. It meant a night-long ordeal of hearing "crinkle, crinkle, crinkle" every single time I moved.

Third, I do not wear footie pajamas and the blanket on the day bed is not long enough for a full-sized adult (easily rectified, but annoying nonetheless).

Fourth, while Pebbles is a blissfully quiet sleeper, Woodstock is not. And since the trundle was right next to the bed I was in, it was like she was snorting right in my ear.

Fifth, Woodstock woke up at oh-dark-thirty and proclaimed "All done syeeping!". No amount of cajoling could convince her it was a full 2 hours before her normal "wake up time." Pebbles, apparently wary of missing out on the fun, then awoke herself. Realizing it had been 10 hours since she last ate, she refused to reconsider going back to sleep as well.

Somehow, my "sneaky plan disguised as fun" ended up as a joke on me.

More on Monsters (and Childlike Faith)

As I mentioned a few days ago, Woodstock has a newfound fear of monsters - which apparently inhabit every dark corner of our house.

In an attempt to help arm her with tools that she could use to banish the monsters herself - therefore preventing me from having to "rescue" her over and over (and over) again - I told her, "When you are afraid, say a little prayer and Heavenly Father will help you."

Several nights of me going in to help her say a little prayer later (thinking "this is not going how I planned") ...

Tonight Woodstock called out from her crib (yes, she's still in a crib; no she hasn't tried to climb out yet; yes, we have a real bed for her; no, she isn't interested in it *sigh*), "Mama! I scared of da monsters, but is okay, I say a yittle prayer." I then heard:

"Heabenly Fader, Dank you for dis day, pa-yease bless Woodstock to not be afraid of da monsters. And help Mommy and Pebbles to not be scared of da monsters. Jesus name AMEN."

I could hardly keep from laughing for the sheer cuteness of it and crying from the absolute faith she has.

10 minutes later, the monsters returned. Woodstock called out, "I scared of da monsters, but is okay, I say anoder yittle prayer."

Sometimes, being a parent has payoffs much greater than I could have ever dreamed.

You Must See These Kids

You must see these kids.

They're beautiful.

We won't discuss how much weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth occured on the part of their mother during the TWO photo shoots (two because one 3-hour session of torture wasn't enough to get good shots).

These photos are evidence that there is a good reason why their mother is not the photographer. While she was off worried that nothing was going "just right," the photographer was capturing memories of her beautiful girls.

Woodstock is the big one. Pebbles is the little one.

Their mother is in absolute heaven.

Beware of the Monsters

Woodstock has discovered monsters ... where I'm not sure, but she doesn't like to go into dark rooms because "I scared of da monsters!"

Apparently, Pebbles is ALSO afraid of the monsters - who knew an almost-5-month-old could even be aware of such things? Apparently 2-year-olds. Anytime that Pebbles yells or cries or anything of the like, Woodstock rushes to her side and yells, "Mama! Come get Pebbles. She's afraid of da monsters!"

She has also made up a song to sing to Pebbles until her very lax, very slow mother can come rescue her.

Don't be scared.
Don't be afraid.
It's okay.
Da monsters won't get you.

Of course, Woodstock thinks that in order for Pebbles to be properly comforted, she must be IN the bed with Pebbles. "Because she's afraid of da monsters. She needs me."

Certainly.

I hope they love each other this much in another 13 years.

Contemplating the Eternities

Tuesday wasn't a very good day.

First, the earthquake of epic proportions hit Haiti. Second, our around-the-corner neighbor lost his 7-week battle with cancer. He was 49, four kids - two still at home.

Gives one a lot of perspective.

I attended the funeral today and I watched his four children and his wife stand and give beautifully composed messages. I laughed and cried right along with them.

Life is too short.

As his kids talked about him and their favorite memories of him, I wondered what mine would say. Would Woodstock comment on the one where we went on her first trip to the dinosaur museum on a day when my "natural self" felt particularly burdened by the adage "work before play?" Will she realize what a massive effort it took for me to leave the house as is, shut the door, load the girls into the car, and drive 30 minutes south to spend my last weekday as a Stay-at-Home-on-Maternity-Leave Mom with my two favorite little girls? Will she ever know how much I wanted to cry as I listened to her squeals of delight about "Oooh, dat's a BIG dinosaur!" or as she played in the sand at the hands-on exhibit?

Would Pebbles realize that I inadvertently messed up our whole sleeping schedule for weeks by failing to implement a bedtime routine when I should have, because I really just wanted to stay up and snuggle her longer? When she's 13 and shouting, "You don't love me, you don't understand! You're mean!" will she realize how much I will miss having her ride in her Snugli next to my chest and how I cry thinking she may be the last baby I have that is mine?

Would Woodstock remark "Silly mommy!" (as she sometimes does) if she knew that I come in, every night, before I go to bed and kiss her good night a second time? Would Pebbles wonder if mom had lost her marbles if she knew I'm probably procrastinating moving Woodstock into her "big bed" because it means there are no more excuses for having Pebbles sleeping in her bassinet next to my bed?

Would the people I love the most know just how much I love them? Does my heart say one thing and my actions another?

Every day, my resolve to lower my expectations hammers home. Life is too short to spend it wishing it away.

Have You Ever Wondered...?

Have you ever wondered what a giraffe says?

Yeah, me either.

However, Woodstock is going through a (very long) phase of wondering what EVERYTHING says. And, since she managed to get us to scramble and obtain a giraffe costume for her for Halloween (*story below), she is now insisting on knowing what a giraffe says.

And I'm totally stumped. Other than the sound of munching leaves, I'm not sure I've ever heard a giraffe make a noise. And I've seen a lot of giraffes.

Of course, she also insisted on wearing her giraffe ensemble to Miss Jan's this morning. After I dressed her, she was wandering around the house quacking. I said, "funny girl, giraffes don't quack." She stopped, looked at me and said, "Giraffes say?" (translation: "what do giraffes say?")

Um ... still no idea.

Silly mommy.

*How Woodstock came to be dressed as a giraffe instead of a lion:
We'd planned on Woodstock being a lion this Halloween. However, at some point she's developed rather strong opinions on things - one of which is apparently about suitable Halloween costumes. She INSISTED she was going to be a giraffe. For days, every time someone asked her she'd say "I be a giraffe." Every time we'd tell her, "How about a lion?" She'd reply, "No, I be a giraffe."

Oooookkkkaaaaay. Except I couldn't find a giraffe costume that didn't cost a small fortune that would fit her. And I'm far from being one of those moms who can just "whip something up."

The last straw came when she told the pediatrician, who asked what Woodstock was going to be for Halloween, "Not a yion (lion). I be a giraffe."

Fortunately, my mom happened to mention the above funny anecdotes about Woodstock to a friend. Her friend (bless her, bless her!) said, "I have a giraffe costume for a 2-year-old you can borrow!" Happy days. The package (mailed priority) arrived yesterday. Woodstock has only taken it off to sleep.

She does make an awfully cute giraffe.

Things That Make Your Heart Melt

Sunday was the children's program in church, as a result, the opening hymn was "I am a Child of God."

Woodstock, who loves music almost as much as Pebbles, looked at me with delight - as she knows the words to two of the verses.

She sat there, all 25 1/2 months of her, and sang all the words to the first two verses.

I had to concentrate on the chorister so I didn't start crying.

I love that kid.

End Radio Silence

We're still here.

We're (er, I) am sleep-deprived, a bit overwhelmed and not at all sure if my sanity is in tact, but ... I have two of the cutest little girls on the planet, so that makes most of it tolerable.

Pebbles is starting to make cute baby noises and Woodstock is chattering non-stop about anything and everything and is making herself heard, even when we'd rather not hear her. Like when the phone rings. Apologies to anyone who calls. You'll be met with a shrieking, "MOOOOOOM!" in the background followed by "Who's it?" (who is it). She'll pause for the answer, then regardless of said answer she will respond with, "Talk to her?" (or talk to him) If the answer isn't "yes," (it rarely is), she pulls out all of her 2-year-old weapons of ear drum destruction. Oy.

I was never much for phone conversations, but this takes my telephone hibernation to a whole new level. Play phones are no longer satisfactory now that she's discovered the real ones talk back!

I'm Not Dead ... Yet

Things that make one (or at least me) feel really old:

• Having two kids
• Owning both a guest bed and a chest freezer
• Canning - I did apricots, raspberry jam and applesauce this year, and will likely can green tomato sauce before the first hard freeze (which may be coming sooner than later - yikes)
• Getting excited over leaving the house without having two carseats to buckle
• Most of all ... spending more and more time at home and dreading anything that involves the words "road" and "trip."

This past week, I spent 8 days at The Parents' house. I bravely took Woodstock and Pebbles down to visit Grammpy and Papa - a 4-hour drive if one drives 70-75 mph the entire way. 6 hours if one has to stop and pick up apples (for the father-daughter applesauce canning project), feed a newborn, change two diapers, feed a toddler and do two emergency binky rescues.

Fortunately, I am apparently blessed with two children who don't mind the car so much (Woodstock likes it better than Pebbles, but that is to be expected, I suppose), because every relative we have requires a drive of some length. Unfortunately, the whole thing made me want to swear off road trips forever and ever. Especially the drive home, where Pebbles decided 64 miles from home that she had to eat rightthisverysecond. Sitting in a WalMart parking lot at 9 p.m. with a tired toddler and a ravenous infant is loads of fun. Especially when the toddler pipes up from the back seat and says, "Mommy, my bottom hurts! All done sitting!" You and me both kiddo!

Ever the glutton for punishment, I will again be testing fate in a few days as we load up the girls and everything we own (at least it feels like it) and set out for a 700+ mile trek to the Pacific Northwest for Himself's father's memorial service. At least this time there will be two adults, but the trip is 3 times longer - at least until you figure we'll be stopping every 2-3 hours to feed Pebbles, which means about 70 minutes of driving over every 2-hour span - not very good odds. At that rate, we might arrive in time for Thanksgiving.

And all I can do is sit here and stare at the mountain of laundry and the two-page "list of things not to forget for road trip" and try not to cry.

It's times like this when living in a familial compound don't sound so bad after all.

From the Mixed-Up Weekend Files

Exhaustion and boredom and gratitude and overwhelming surges of every emotion known to man (or woman) would sum up the last few days of this past week.

Starting with the whole "Drama Tuesday" that included a sideways Pebbles and a dying father-in-law I have rocketed through the rest of the week with Himself's last-minute gold-plated (or cost enough it should have been) flight to (and 5-day stay in) the Pacific Northwest, a car rental employee who hooked Himself up with a 5-day rental for a total of $72, including tax, twice-a-day chiropractic visits (which, even with the co-pay each day, are still cheaper than whatever my share of a c-section would be), another midwife/OB consult (in tandem, since my midwife leaves for vacation in three days and doesn't handle breech babies anyway), a massive work project that has consumed me, my intern leaving, an inability to sleep or eat much, a networking gig I had to staff, a toddler whose vocabulary has grown to include the mysterious phrase "shame on you!", a near record-breaking heat wave and a house set to self-destruct.

This morning, I woke up at 3:30 a.m. I'd felt very little fetal movement the night before and none in the quiet hours of the obscenely early morning. Because Pebbles position (while back to head down on Thursday) is tenuous and there is some concern regarding the cord position, my instructions are to "Head to L&D the minute your contractions become regular, your water breaks or you stop feeling movement." I lie in bed for an hour, wondering who on earth I'd call at 4:30 in the morning to watch Woodstock while I drove myself to L&D for lack of fetal movement. I then realized that I'd left two days' of kitchen mess, and there was no way I could possibly admit anyone to the house who could witness that.

So I got up. I scrubbed the kitchen, re-organized two cupboards, unloaded and re-loaded the dishwasher and cleaned the guest bathroom before Woodstock decided to get up at 6:30 a.m. - a full hour early. By this point, one thing had led to another, and I needed to get her fed, dressed and presentable if I needed a sitter. She then "helped" me water the lawn, sweep and half-heartedly mop the kitchen/dining room, straighten the upstairs rooms and throw the kitchen rugs in the washing machine.

By 8 a.m., I was ready for a nap. Besides, I still had to try the sugary drink (oj) and food trick and lie down on my left side to get the baby to move. I fell asleep on the couch before Pebbles even woke up. Woodstock, free to roam the house, got bored with the Food Network programming I had selected and wandered into the dining room. I woke up 20 minutes later covered in spread-out napkins. Woodstock, who was sitting next to me calmly said, "Go to bed, mama. Woodstock cover you up." Hard to be too grumpy about picking up 20 napkins and re-folding them (in addition to the trail of napkins left from the dining room to the living room) when one's child has done it to make sure one is "covered up" for one's nap.

With slightly more energy (and slightly less sanity), I decided to quickly tackle the basement bathroom and take a shower before I started calling to find a sitter. Mostly because I really just wanted Pebbles to move on her own. I straightened the family room, ran a batch of towels through the wash, scrubbed the basement bath (minus the tub - my belly is too big to effectively lean over the tub to scrub it) and vacuumed. I threw the last stray items into my hospital bag - just in case. I showered, much to the delight of Woodstock, who kept pulling back the shower curtain to peer through the sheer plastic curtain and exclaiming, "Mama's naked!" while giggling.

At that point, it was 11:30 a.m. and Woodstock was starving. Feeling the need to make sure she was fed before I called anyone, I made lunch for both of us. She sat in "Grover's chair" across from me at the table, chin resting on its surface, and kept up a running commentary. I focused on eating more than I had at breakfast.

Whether it was the work or the food and the nearly 60 ounces of water consumed in a few hours' time, Pebbles woke up, did a dance and stayed fairly active for half an hour.

The relief was palpable. Woodstock and I celebrated by taking a long early afternoon nap.

I'm now trying to get up the energy to inflate and fill Woodstock's pool for an afternoon diversion (curses to Himself who couldn't get the $6 plastic kiddie pool and had to get the fancy inflatable one that requires an army - not to mention a whole lot of patience - to set up).

It's the strangest week/weekend I've had in recent memory.

Woodstock at (almost) 2

Woodstock hit the 23-month mark on Sunday. Which means two things: a) I must figure out ASAP what on earth we're going to give her for her birthday and b) Pebbles is arriving SOON!

I don't blog often about Woodstock - her antics are, like any first-born child, typically trophy and giggle worthy (after all, the starry eyed first-time parent hasn't worn off yet), but no one else needs to agree (or labor painfully through my ruminations on how delightful she is).

But there are some things just too good to pass up:

• Recently, Woodstock has taken to vanishing for periods of time. For all of 5 minutes, I was concerned - how does one lose a toddler in one's not-terribly-big house?! I wandered into her room - no Woodstock. It was the last room I checked, so I said, "Woodstock? Where are you?" And a little voice from underneath the crib (which has a bedskirt, so one cannot immediately see under it), "Hiding mama!" As to what she was doing under there? Well, most times she is sneaking a hit on the binky (banned at all times of the day other than bedtime). Sometimes she is hiding with contraband (lately something she swiped from Grover). Sometimes she is simply hiding from bedtime or anything else she doesn't want to do. The good thing is, she always lets us know where she is - she hasn't quite figured out that "Hiding" means not admitting to it.
• On Sunday afternoon after her nap, Woodstock called to me, "Mama. Come in here." I followed her into Grover's room/toy room/guest room. She pointed at a spot on the floor and said, "Sit here mama. Project." Miss Jan has "project" bags - bags that contain a puzzle or alphabet letters or other such things - Woodstock loves them and now "project" is code word for "puzzle" at our house. She set me up with one of her puzzles, then grabbed my scripture bag and her (large) purse and her plastic keys, & hoisted all of them over her shoulder (leaving her to walk a little tipped to one side) and said, "Bye bye mama. Got to go." She got as far as the front door before she had to come back to check on my puzzle progress.
• On Saturday, I set up the bassinet in our bedroom and got out all the newborn diapering supplies for the bassinet changing table. Woodstock "helped" me put all the diapers in the drawer. Unfortunately, she figured out how to open the drawer - and newborn diapers are just so cute she can't keep her hands out of them. This morning I was dressing in my closet (she had shut me in). I hear her little voice on the other side of the door, "Mama, yie down (lie down). Yie down mama, change your butt." (Heaven bless Himself for teaching her the phrase "change your butt" - just what I want my daughter to be saying). I came out. She was convinced she was going to put the newborn diaper on my rear end. I was convinced if I lie down, there was no getting off the floor in my condition. She was not happy about that in the slightest.
• While camping, my mom kept Woodstock and my niece happily occupied by giving them baby wipes and letting them "clean" - the side of the truck, the camper windows, the table, etc. Woodstock found this delightful. Since then, she has demanded to wash the windows at least once a day. Of course a dry tissue is not acceptable. It must be a "wipey" like the ones Grammy gave her. I am hoping Grammy wants to wash the insides of my dining room windows when she comes up over Labor Day - since, after all, the whole cleaning toddler thing was her idea.

There are days I feel so bad lately because I barely have the energy or strength to pick her up, there is no room on my lap to cuddle and rock her before bed (necessitating that she now sit in her bed for me to sing to her), and her diet has gone way downhill since she discovered all of the wonderful things Grover eats (none of which are healthy). I figure that's why God made toddlers indestructible - so they can survive the late stages of their mother's pregnancy.

Bless her little heart, Woodstock seems to be taking it all in stride - so far. After all, she's not quite 2 yet.

The One Where The Pregnant Lady Ventures to the Pool

There comes a time in every mother's life where she must risk personal humiliation to provide a stimulating activity for her child. It would do said child a great deal of good to remember this when she believes at the wise old age of 13 that her mother is purposely trying to humiliate her. Turnabout is fair play.

Grover is here for his summer visit. In an attempt to engage both he and Woodstock in an activity suitable for a toddler and a teen (and a pregnant woman), I brought up the idea of venturing to the neighborhood aquatic center for a few hours over the weekend. Both kids loved the idea. Woodstock exclaimed happily over and over "poo! poo! poo!" (not to self: work on pronunciation of the letter "L").

An hour before our departure time on Saturday morning, I began to panic. Taking a teen to the pool is no big deal - at nearly 13 SS is old enough to merely be in the same room, not under constant eyeballing. However, taking a toddler to the pool would require that I myself get into the pool - 8 1/2 month pregnant belly and all.

The first challenge was finding a suitable bathing suit option. Since it is quite likely that I will not venture into a swimming pool more than a handful (if that) times in the next 5 weeks, buying a maternity suit was quite out of the question. Last year's ridiculously ugly tankini was also out, because it looked like Hilda the Hippo was trying to cram herself into someone's itsy-bitsy-teeny-weeny-yellow-polka-dot-bikini. (Not that it was either a bikini, polka-dotted or yellow, but the general effect was the same).

I ended up fishing a two-piece out from the depths of the garage that I bought back in college and wore for years pre-childbirthing/stretchmarks/poochy stomach days. It fit (if you consider "fitting" to mean it stayed on my body without glue, suspenders or looking like it shrunk in the wash). Of course, there was no way on earth I was parading my large, late-pregnancy belly (complete with stretch marks - old and new - and enough heparin bruises to make me look like a bad accident victim) in a two piece to a community pool (I wouldn't even wear it in my fenced-in backyard, after all). I dug deeper into the garage and came out with a long tank that covered everything from my neck to my upper legs.

But, oh, the legs. In my haste to be maternal-figure-of-the-year, I had neglected to think about the fact that there was no way to escape my legs being the object of attention during this venture. They are lily white. As white as Woodstock's, who have never seen the light of day without being slathered in sunscreen repeatedly. And my skin is translucent, which means you can see every vein, scar, spot and ... every single spontaneous heparin bruise. Not to mention I hadn't shaved my legs in recent memory - thanks to the fact that they are stuffed into granny socks for 15ish hours a day.

I set out to rectify the problem, forgetting that I can't even see my legs when I look down, let alone maneuver well enough to get a razor to be effective at all. Not to mention I'm currently mildly phobic about razors, given my propensity to nick my ankles and my current regiment of anti-clotting drugs. After 30 minutes of trying, I gave up. I have no idea what the end result looked like, and at that point, it didn't really matter anyway. What with the ghetto bathing suit get up, the big belly and the white, bungled legs - a little bit of hair on my lower legs certainly couldn't make me look that much worse ... could it?

It was about this point when Grover declared he had a headache and was no longer interested in this mixed-up family outing. I considered calling the whole thing off until Woodstock ramped up her pleas of "poo! poo" which were unsatisfied by her baby pool on the back lawn.

I schlepped us both to the aquatic center, where Woodstock promptly decided the water was better from a distance and clung to me like lint on a sweater for the first 30 minutes. While the water helped buoy up her 25 pound bulk, it did nothing for my image as an uber-cool mom ... standing there in knee-deep water with a toddler suctioned to my right hip, my belly sticking out under a wet tank and my spotted legs available for closer inspection.

About 30 minutes in, Woodstock abruptly changed course and decided that pools were fine as long as she could WALK by herself, sans parental supervision. This would have been fine in the zero-depth entry portion, but she wasn't content to stay where she could actually touch the bottom with reliability. I spent the remainder of the time praying that I would be able to move as fast as my lightening-quick toddler, who suddenly delighted in the "poo" and the water and the other kids and felt she was much too advanced to be tethered to her mother. I'm sure the lifeguard kept her eye on us, just waiting for me to do a belly flop as I dove after Woodstock, wondering what kind of sane pregnant woman dons a bathing suit and takes a toddler to the pool by herself.

I myself was wondering the exact same thing. I'm filing this under "things to think about more thoroughly next time before commencing activity."

The pregnant lady, the toddler and the tent (and one obliging Himself)

The first indication that a camping road trip with a toddler and a pregnant woman was a bad idea should have been when I ran over a screw in the 1.5 blocks between work and the bank on Thursday afternoon, necessitating a new tire (replacing the one, I might add, that we just replaced six months ago *grumble*).

Undaunted, I forged on with a spirit befitting a pioneer (or an asylum resident, it remains to be fully determined). No matter, we'd delay our start a bit in hopes the tire could be fixed. When it couldn't, I not-so-cheerfully loaded everything into the smaller car - the one that would mean a backseat ride with virtually no leg room (long car trips with a toddler are best fared with one adult in the back seat).

Flat tire, late start ... no matter, we were well on our way to the Great American Road Trip, clean air, cooler temperatures and some memory-making.

However, there are a few things that seem to always have to happen to make life into one adventure after another when it involves me:

• The late start meant it was raining by the time we reached Yellowstone. Raining buckets. I'm tough, I can rough it, but something about dealing with wet camping gear, a toddler and pregnancy (and a grumpy Himself) didn't appeal. We decided to keep driving until a) the rain quit or b) another alternative presented itself. The alternative presented itself around 7 p.m. Friday night (after the obligatory stop at Old Faithful, where Woodstock delighted onlookers by trying to put her hat on Himself, then giggling hysterically as Old Faithful erupted - she loved it!). At that point we were in Gardiner, Montana. We found a quaint little group of cabins with this sign: Enough to make you want to stop, right? It took some convincing, but they really were cute, charming (and antiquated) little cabins - and cheap (not as cheap as tent camping, but one cannot be picky if one doesn't wish to sleep on soggy ground). We stayed in this one:


• Sleeping with a toddler. I'm not sure how the co-sleeper people do it, but I am convinced they are probably so exhausted no one realizes how little sleep they are getting, because little people were not meant to sleep with big people. Night one we let Woodstock fall asleep in our bed before relocating her to (gasp!) her makeshift bed of quilts on the floor because we only had one bed. And the only way to confine her to one spot while falling asleep was to put her in between us. Night 2 we all shared a tent - where she again enjoyed prime sleeping space between us to minimize nocturnal acrobatics. I've never gotten so little sleep on vacation before. Woodstock kicking me one way, kiddo #2 kicking me from the inside.


• Tent camping. Did I really just do this at 32 weeks pregnant? Yes. And it wouldn't have been so bad if a) my small backpack tent would have actually been long enough for Himself to stretch out in (oops). b)It had not involved a wiggly toddler who slept beautifully even as she ensured her parents would not. c)I didn't have a hip that causes great pain when sleeping on hard surfaces - normally I sleep on my back or stomach while camping. Kind of an issue when one's tummy is out to here leaving no other choice.


• Holiday camping. Camping across from a group of teenagers, to be specific. Himself and I had just commented on how much we liked our campsite when viola! enter a group of 30+ teens and one or two people that might have passed as possible adult chaperones. It wasn't so bad until about 9 p.m., when we were still trying to get Woodstock down for the night and they had Bon Jovi blaring full volume, along with 30+ teenage voices singing along. Add in normal teenage shrieking and it made for a very curious Woodstock and a very grumpy mama bear. She got them back them back the next morning though when she woke up at 5:45 a.m. and declared, "All done sleeping mama. Go 'side (outside)" Turns out, toddlers aren't the most quiet morning people known to man.


• Driving. So the trip to Yellowstone on a good day with no stops takes about 5 hours. Throw in a toddler and a pregnant lady who has to pee every 90 miles and it can take ... oh, much, much longer than that. We spent A LOT of time in the car. Hundreds of miles in 3 days. We saw the West, North and South entrances of Yellowstone. We drove 190 miles within Yellowstone itself. Add in a 45 mph speed limit, numerous stops for photos, meandering down walkways and random animal sightings (buffalo herds crossing the road - or walking down the middle of it, bears on the side of the road, etc.) and it took up a good portion of the weekend, especially if you add in the fact that it the drive to/from is about 600 miles round-trip to begin with. Woodstock has proven herself as a road warrior - only the last day did cries of "Ouchie bum!" emanate from the back seat.


• Hard labor. Camping as a kid seemed easy. Camping as a single adult was only slightly more difficult. Camping with a kid while pregnant? Yeah, not so much. Keeping up with the toddler who was fascinated by the woods and didn't understand why she couldn't wander as she pleased was exhausting. Doing it on 4 hours of sleep in a two-night span is even more so. Doing it while dodging herds of enormous mosquitoes adds a particular element of fun. Adding in the tent set-up, cooking, clean up, tent tear-down, potty runs, and unpacking and re-packing the car makes one want to schedule a spa day on a beach far, far away. Coming home and realizing it will take 5 batches of laundry to get the campfire smell out of every piece of cloth that made the trek makes one just want to sit down and cry - especially given the sore hip, the 20 mosquito bites (turns out mosquitoes can and do bite through compression stockings!) and the sore muscles from sitting and/or hiking.

We definitely made memories, but I'm thinking we'll shelve planning any more vacations in the near future. I can't imagine repeating this scenario until I can actually bend over, breathe, sleep in my own space and hire a maid to clean up after we dirty every conceivable thing we own.

I need a vacation.