Hallotween

 

I love my kids so much.  Like when Addie and I are in bed at night reading books, and she snuggles in my lap, and we sing "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" or "Over the Rainbow" and we tell stories about crazy-colored elephants and Dora the Explorer and "Ben the Boy" (based loosely on a little boy in her preschool class whom Addie loves). 

Or when Nolie wakes up in the morning, stretchy and farty, making a little moonpie face before breaking into gigantic smiles of glee at the sight of me, as if she were hurrying through sleep all night just to wake up to my face.

 

But, man, there are so many ways for these kids to be annoying.  For instance, Nolie has been super-addicted to the boob lately, probably because she's been sick and is going through the three-month growth spurt.  She has developed a finely-tuned boob radar that sets off an alarm if my breasts are more than 2.5 inches from her face at all times.  It goes like this:  I'll feed her until she sleeps, waiting until her breath sounds have deepened and she's stopped murmuring and twitching and you could drop her off the balcony, bounce her off the awning and into a pricker bush and she wouldn't wake up.  Then, ever so slowly, I'll try to pull my bra up and my shirt down to avoid the phenomenon I call "boob freeze":  to put it bluntly, your nipple is wet from the kid eating and then she's blowing cold nose air on it while she sleeps.  This may sound sexy (rowr) but it is totally uncomfortable, kind of like an ice cream headache in your areola.

 

So, I get the boob covered, and immediately she wakes and wants to eat some more.  I know, I know, I should be grateful she’s a good eater and is growing and all that glass-is-half-full stuff.  But mostly it’s totally annoying.  And cold.

 

Even given Nolie’s superior nipple chilling skills, though, Addie is by far the more annoying child at the moment.  (I feel compelled here to reiterate how much I love my children—how beautiful and smart and sweet they are.  But they are annoying, too.  They just are).  Addie is at that in-between age where holidays like Halloween and Christmas are subjects of interest but not yet obsession.  In other words, Addie is interested in the idea of costumes and trick-or-treating, but we could have easily got away without doing either yesterday without any major meltdowns.

 

Still, when I saw the fleece Piglet costume at Target a few weeks back, I had to get it.  Addie loves Winnie the Pooh and friends, and it was a cheap, warm, practical costume, so I got it.  And, as predicted, Addie loved it.  For several days, in fact, we couldn’t get her out of it.  She would stand in front of the full-length mirror, preening, admiring her Piglet ears and long tail.  “Can you see my tail, Mommy?” she would ask, stroking it.  “Yes, honey.  I see your tail,” I would nod.  Five minutes later:  "Can you see my tail, Mommy?"  "Yep, honey.  Still there."

 

Finally, I was able to pry the thing off her long enough to wash it and then stash it in my closet so that it wouldn’t be totally worn out for Halloween proper.  I got it out a few days ago to prime the pump for the big day, and Addie has been pretty excited, randomly screaming “It’s almost Halloween!” throughout the day.

 

Addie’s preschool had planned Halloween festivities for yesterday, including a little parade where all the kids could put on their costumes and troll for treats in the different classrooms.  I was pretty excited about this, figuring Addie would get a kick out of being Piglet in front of the other kids and seeing their costumes.

 

I got her out of bed yesterday morning, and prepared to get her dressed in said costume.

 

Nothing doing.   Here’s where things went wrong:

 

M:  Addie!  Happy Halloween, honey!  Are you ready to be Piglet?

 

A:  No!

 

M:  What do you mean, no?  You love your Piglet costume!  You love to wear it!  It’s comfy and cozy!

 

A:  No!

 

M:  You’re not serious.  All the other kids are going to be wearing their costumes.  Don’t you want to wear yours, like the other kids?

 

A (a little more interested now):  What will Rhea be wearing?  And Benjamin?  And Brooke?

 

M (stuttering a little):  Uh, I don’t know.  There will probably be pirates and witches and ghosts and [big mistake coming] maybe even Winnie the Pooh!

 

A (brightening):  Winnie the Pooh?  I want to be Winnie the Pooh!

 

M:  What?  I mean…what?  You can’t be Winne the Pooh.  You’re Piglet!  You love Piglet!

 

A:  I’m NOT Piglet, I’m Addie!  And I want to be Winnie the Pooh!  I WANT TO BE WINNIE THE POOH!

 

[Exit scene, with Addie crying all the way to the car and hiccupping, “I want to be Pooh!,” dressed in her regular clothes, me lugging the Piglet costume along with the 10,000 other things we need to get out of the house in the morning].

 

Like I said.  Annoying. 

 

 

More on Poop

 

Like the oh-so spooky, shadowy picture of Nolie?  Happy Halloween, folks.

Addie's fine.  Just an ear infection in both ears (just!).  Nobody seemed to concerned when we told them that our kid couldn't hear (couldn't hear!).  The doctors just gave us more of that pink amoxycillin, the kind they've been prescribing to kids forever.  I can still remember what it tastes like, for chrissakes.  So, anyway.  We're hopefully on the road to recovery.  Except the doctor said we can plan on her being sick throughout the winter because she's in preschool.  Yay.  Like working moms don't have enough to feel guilty about. 

So now I can go back to worrying about the non-essential things, such as the fact that Addie has peed or pooped on almost everything we own, and that she peed on everything in the doctor's office today.  And that she has finger-painted objects in her room with her poop.  Now, I love my child, and poop is just a fact of life, but really.  Really, folks.  No, really.  This is too much. 

This from an otherwise angelic child, my good sleeper, my girl who loves to read and make art and sing.  This is her one area of rebellion.  And boy, is she rebelling.

We started the whole potty training thing this summer because, honestly, I thought it would be nice to have Addie potty trained before Nolie came.  And, at first, it seemed like it was going to be nice.  Addie sat on her little portable potty and went pee.  Several times.  No problem, no fuss, no nothing.  I'm pretty sure I could be quoted as saying something like, "What's the big deal with potty training?  I don't get it.  It's so easy!"

Ha. 

There has been no single thing more frustrating than potty training.  Not getting kids to sleep through the night, not colic, not fussy eating, nothing.  This has almost killed me, my friends. 

So, the doctor gave us permission today to stop.  That's it--we can just stop.  We're just not ready.  Addie's not ready.  And she is much, much stronger than us.  "In a war of wills," the doc said, "you will not win."  Boy, was he right.  I was so grateful I almost hugged him.  When we got home, I gleefully put away the potty seats, the underwear, the stepstools, the potty charts, and happily put Addie's pull-ups back on, figuring she'll tell us when she's ready to start up again. 

Right?

 

The Razor's Edge

 

Flashback to Thursday Night:  Addie and I are driving home from the Fall Festival at her wonderful preschool.  We're both tired, and it's cold and dark outside.  I get Addie out of her carseat and she immediately goes over to the snow--the first big snow of her toddlerhood--and this conversation ensues:

A:  Mommy, can I eat some ice?

M:  Sure, go ahead.

A:  Mommy, can I eat some ice?

M:  Yes, Addie.

A:  Mommy, can I eat some ice?

M:  ADDIE, YES!  YOU CAN EAT SOME ICE!  YOU NEED TO LEARN TO LISTEN!

Flashback to Friday Morning:  I'm getting Addie ready for school, and this conversation happens:

A (playing with something on the floor, not looking at me):  Mommy, can I have some juice please?

M:  Sure, what kind?

A (still not looking at me):  Mommy, can I have some juice please?

M:  Yes, Addie.  What kind?

A (still not looking at me):  Mommy, can I have some juice please?

M (angry now, maybe a little red in the face):  YES ADDIE!  I SAID YES!  YOU NEED TO LEARN TO LISTEN TO THE ANSWER WHEN SOMEONE ASKS YOU A QUESTION!

Addie looks up at me now for this last answer, and sees I'm angry, and her face crumbles.  She flies into my arms.  A lightbulb goes off for me as I realize she didn't hear me the first two times.  But still I wait a whole day, wondering if I've imagined this.  Wondering if instead this is just toddler willfulness.  Finally, last night, Eric got home and confirmed what I had been suspecting:  that Addie hasn't been hearing us.

Does that freak you out?  It's been freaking me out.  Luckily, our reference book of choice--The Baby Book by Dr. Sears--says that this can be a result of inner ear fluid, left over from an old ear infection, and might not be serious if caught early enough.  Addie had an ear infection at the beginning of October, and it may never have resolved itself, even with antibiotics.  The doctor on call at Addie's pediatric practice last night seemed to think this is what is going on, and we're trying to get Addie into the doctor this morning to confirm this diagnosis, the most probable explanation for her not hearing us.

For me, this is what is so hard about parenting:  you have to constantly trust your instincts and be aware and watchful of your kids, and advocate for them.  And at the same time, you have to try to maintain a level head, not rush to the doctor with every little sniffle, try not to panic with every little bump on the head.  And then something like this sneaks up on you, and even though your kid will totally be fine, you get a taste of what it feels like to have something really bad happen in your house.  We're yelling so Addie can hear us, and she is watching our lips to decipher what we're saying, happy as ever, not even knowing that anything is different.  And we have a taste of what it might be like to have a child with hearing loss.  Just the littlest taste, and knowing that she is going to probably be fine.  But still.  This is the razor's edge, the breathtaking, heartbreaking tenuousness of parenting.

Houston, We Have Poop

 

This is a picture of my friend Ashley and her daughter Scout with us at People's Fair this year.  Ashley has that awesome vibe of the first-time mom, totally blissed out and relaxed.  I love hanging out with her because her Buddhattitude is contagious and because she's not afraid to breastfeed in public.  It's nice to have someone you can hang out with and who understands the need to plop down in the middle of the mall and whip your boob out to calm down your kid.  If we were lightbulbs, Ashley would be that soft, kind light you like to have on when you're reading late at night. 

I, on the other hand, am currently the harsh fluorescent kind, vibrating at this annoying frequency, running around trying to corral two children.  Oh, every once in a while I get a glimpse of the softlight me, like when Addie and Nolie are cuddling up to me, and I'm managing to read a book to them both without anyone screaming.  Or when nobody's nose is running.  (Okay, that's never really happened.  But if it did, I'd be softlight).  But when I've got both girls, I mostly feel fluorescent, in a Vegas Strip sort of way.  I wonder if other people see me vibrating, or if it's just an internal frenetic energy.

Today's exciting news:  first, I did not light myself on fire at all today.  Not even once.  Second, Nolie let forth two giant fecal emissions (sound the alarm, Beyonce), thus relieving the gastastrophe that had been brewing.  It probably sounds weird to be so excited about poop, but I am.  Mama's gonna sleep tonight!

On a more somber note (I know, what could be more somber than poop?), we have yet again let Addie get so sick that by Friday evening she needs to go to the doctor.  Her ears are hurting again, and she can't hear very well, and the runny nose has reached epic proportions.  To test this, I asked her three times if she wanted chocolate cake, and she didn't respond.  Normally she'll scratch your eyes out to get chocolate cake, so I consider this a very scientific experiment.  The results indicate some seriously f*&^ed up sinuses. 

So, I ask you this:  how the heck are you supposed to know if your kid has a virus or a bacterial infection?  I mean, doctors are always lecturing you about not bringing your kids in if they have "just a virus."  But these viruses always seem to brew into infections in Addie.  There's no green boogers, no wildly high temperature, no oozing pustules.  But invariably, Addie gets an ear infection.  On Friday night.  When the doctor's office is closed for two more days. 

Maybe Mama's not going to sleep tonight after all.

Fire It Up

 

So, this funny thing happened today.  Funny in an I-almost-died sort of way. 

It snowed about a foot here this morning, and the kids have had bad colds.  When Addie woke up, I decided I'd make blueberry pancakes, because her usual blueberry yogurt--which she eats every day of her life--is phlegm-producing, and always leaves her shivery and cold.  And pancakes sounded cozy and warm.

I'm standing in front of the stove, flipping pancakes and commenting to Eric how I've always been sort of nervous about gas burners, because I'm scared that I'll lean over too far and light myself on fire.  To illustrate how such an ignition could occur, I twirled the tie of my terry cloth bathrobe around a few times.  I told him I had been particularly afraid of lighting myself on fire when I was pregnant, because I couldn't see my belly very well.

Not sixty seconds later--no kidding about that--I was on fire.  I didn't know it at first, but noticed Addie looking at me strangely (still shoveling pancakes into her pie-hole, though).  A split second later I smelled smoke and then Eric was batting at me and I was skedaddling out of the robe as fast as I could and hopping around like a maniac.  I thought at first my hair was on fire, but it wasn't.  Actually, everything was fine.  As soon as the robe hit the floor, the fire put itself out, and I didn't get burned at all.  I'm not even sure which part of the robe was on fire.  I haven't wanted to look at it. 

Our reaction to this bit of excitement was to laugh that nervous, giggly laugh you get when something crazy has just happened and you've narrowly averted major disaster.  "Wasn't I just saying that I didn't want to catch myself on fire?  And then I was on fire?  Phew!  Close one!  Have a good day at work, honey!  Drive safe!"

Addie just kept asking what happened, still cramming pancake into her mouth, but mostly was unfazed.  I, however, am still a little shook up.  We'll have yogurt tomorrow. 

The Magnificent Horker

I look back on yesterday's ebullient post with nostalgia.  I miss yesterday's Jen.  Because today's Jen, my friends, was not pretty.

For some reason, my kids go on poop strikes.  Addie did it, and now Nolie does it.  The last time Nolie pooped was over a week ago, and now she is paying the price, writhing and contorting, emitting giant bursts of gas like a pissed-off whale with an overactive blowhole.  Then, just when you think the kid is going to explode, she poops.  But you can't just call it a poop--that's too ordinary.  It doesn't capture the scope and scale of the event.  It's a poonami.

I tell people this, and they are horrified.  "That's not right," they say.  "Have you taken her to a doctor?"

Have I taken her to a doctor. 

I live at the doctor's, my friends.  I should pay rent there.

The doctors shrug and insist this is normal.  Breastmilk is so efficient that there's just very little waste.  They can't explain why the babies of my friends who breastfeed poop everyday and mine don't, though.  I'm just lucky that way.

So, we're on day 8 of a Nolie poop strike.  That, mixed in with her vicious runny nose, means that she wants to constantly nurse, and yet can't stay on the boob because she's writhing in pain.  So she latches, then pulls off, screeching, taking my poor nipple with her. 

Here's what last night looked like:

11pm:  Finally get Nolie to sleep in sling.  Got to see the conclusion of Flavor of Love, possibly the worst show on television.  Slip baby as quietly as possible into vibrating chair, since she has to sleep sitting up.  Wakes up immediately if put on her back.  Climb into bed with husband and pass out instantly.

12am:  Nolie wakes up, nurses, doesn't nurse, nurses, doesn't nurse.

1am:  Nolie finally asleep again, sneak her back into vibrating chair.  Collapse into guest bedroom bed.  Pass out instantly.

1:30am:  Nolie wakes up, nurses, doesn't nurse, nurses, doesn't nurse.  Nipples are angry now.  Fall asleep sitting up.

2am:  Addie falls out of bed, screams.  Eric rescues her, but I'm wide awake too, and wake up Nolie, who must nurse, can't nurse, nurses, can't nurse.

4am:  Addie kicks the wall and screams.  She doesn't wake up, but I do.  Back aching now from sleeping sitting up.  Can't nurse lying down because Nolie horks everywhere when I do.  Nolie still on boob, working away at dislocating nipples.

6am:  Nolie needs to nurse, not nurse again.

7am:  Addie up for day.  I'm up for day.

Needless to say, I am not in good shape.  I feel like my head and my body are not actually attached, and every little thing makes me want to cry, which I can't do because my eyes are so dry from not sleeping.

Addie takes two hours to fall asleep for her nap, pooping twice before finally passing out on her little bed.  I lay down with Nolie, trying to force a pacifier into her mouth in order to give my boobs a break.  She gags on the pacifier and projectile vomits two gallons of milk all over the bed, necessitating that I wash the comforter, duvet, pillows, sheets, everything.  This also means that I must start all over with feeding her.  I give up on resting and count every last minute until Eric gets home to rescue me.  Which he does. 

Pray for poop.  Not that I believe in the parenting gods anymore.

The Beauty of the Breakthrough

Every once in a while the parenting gods throw you a bone.  You're on the verge of total meltdown, you're investigating the possibility of running away to rural Virginia where no one will think to look for you, you're about to drink an entire Magnum of Yellowtail and eat a whole pan of brownies, when...when a small gift appears.  A gift others might see as inconsequential, ordinary, obvious. 

Maybe your kid sleeps through the night for the first time and you wake up wondering, what is this feeling?  What is this utter lack of exhaustion I'm experiencing?

Or maybe you figure out how to lay the newborn across the boppy just right and prop your laptop up just so that you can simultaneously nurse and type on the keyboard at the same time (even though you'd gotten pretty good at typing with one hand).  So what if your spine may be permanently curved into a soft C?  You can answer email now, by God!

Anyway, here is my little breakthrough:  Last night, I was on a pronounced crying jag, triggered by some hee-haw at the mall asking me when I was due.  I don't even remember how I answered, I was so floored.  Later, I thought up many sharp-witted responses I could have used, mostly consisting of some form of the retort, "I'm not pregnant, bitch!"  So I was feeling my ten pounds of leftover baby weight profoundly, and then didn't eat enough dinner and so felt deprived and hungry and low blood sugary, and then started fretting about everything I wasn't accomplishing in life.  How I have so much work to do and Nolie is sick again and so I'll be home with a sick baby all day and only able to watch reality tv and never be able to accomplish anything ever again. 

Eric just listened, and told me I wasn't fat, and that he wasn't going to leave me because I was ten pounds overweight--wouldn't if I was 100 pounds bigger, he said--and gently told me that, in the hee-haw's defense, my wearing a maternity shirt may have led her to assume I was pregnant.  And that we would figure out some time for me to get work done.

I got up this morning knowing I couldn't take Nolie to Debbie's because of the snot fountain, so I decided, screw it.  The baby and I would stay in bed, and that I would bring the laptop to bed, and that I would just nurse her all day, which is what she wants when she's sick, and I would try to get work done when she dozed off.

Lo and behold!  I am PRODUCTIVE!  I clean out my email inbox, get an article reviewed, get a meeting planned, review a book, on and on.  I even eat my lunch in bed.  I may do yoga in it this afternoon.  I may never leave it.  Sure, it will begin to stink eventually, and when Nolie is, say, six or seven, she may protest my keeping her here, but I'm in LOVE with my bed and my baby.  I'm in love with my laptop.  I'm in love with me. 

Experience tells me that this probably won't work tomorrow, but who cares!  My therapist would remind me that my self-worth isn't tied to my weight or my so-called productivity levels, but who cares!  I have today!  I answered emails with two hands!  Thank you, parenting gods!