grossology

Motherhood is wonderful, and amazing. It'll take your breath away, and leave you wondering in awe at the greatness of the universe. But there are definitely some moments you think, okay, that's just gross. For every time you sit and hold your baby for hours just to watch him sleep, there's an equally exciting time which slaps you back into reality. Like (and this is just a random example which may or may not have happened to me) the time when you're throwing the baby over your head to make her laugh and you realize there's something in your mouth. You go to wipe it away, spit it out, look at it, and realize (slowly, and with great horror) that this is something the baby was just eating. That's right, your baby just spit something into your mouth.

How about the "pooping-through?" I remember having my first and wondering what was the deal with those moms always talking about how their baby poops through her clothes? Don't they just change the diaper more often? One day I was holding my older, bigger baby when I thought, geez, I must have spilled something on my shirt. And what is that smell? I need not continue: you already know.

This begs me to tell you of our best "pooping through" story. Ben and I were taking Helena--notoriously hard to manage, being under two (out of a highchair, won't sit in still in a seat)--to a dinner at a restaurant. It was Steak and Shake, so we figured we'd be safe with a little screaming and yelling. I decided Helena and I would go into the bathroom to wash our hands before eating, and when I grabbed her and began across the restaurant to the bathroom, I glanced back at Ben. There he was, four booths back, eyes as wide as saucers, flashing me a peace sign. "Um, okay, see you soon," I thought to myself, wanly smiled, and went into the bathroom. And that's where I saw it.

When I went to place Helena on the floor to wash my hands, I looked down at my clothes and saw that I was covered in poop. All over the place. (Incidentally, Ben was not flashing me a peace sign, but was trying to discreetly signal me that I was covered in number two.) On my hip, where I had been holding her, and-oh no-the poop had already soaked through. Through my shirt onto my bra. But Helena...Helena was something to behold. She had diarrhea'd through her diaper, down her legs, through her jeans, into her socks and shoes. Aghast, I opened the bathroom door and said a single word to Ben, across the restaurant, still sitting in shock. "WIPES."

Of course it all turned out fine. I began stripping her down, wiped her as best I could. One of those miracle times when I actually had remembered to pack extra clothes for her and had another shirt for me to change into. I believe we took the rest of the order to go and drove home immediately for, I imagine, a shower and a stiff drink. Yes, parenthood, you are filled with myriad delights.

It's really something what being a parent does to you. This weekend we braved tent camping for the first time as a family. With a four-year-old and a sixteen-month-old. It was as you'd imagine. Except a little worse than that, actually. And with 40-degree nights that we didn't prepare for. But by the second night we had it together, everyone bundled up to the max, Lilly crying herself to sleep BEFORE it got dark and sleeping the entire night. Next to us camped a couple, obviously in college and dating, and as I lay awake at night listening to the noises around us I wondered what they thought of us. The first thing I heard the girl say when she got out of their car to unpack the camping equipment was "thank GOD for antibacterial wipes!" and she proceeded to wipe down the wooden picnic table.

I did not pity or scoff at this young woman, in her tight black pants and tank top, obviously freezing like we were (only, we could say it; she still had an image to maintain). I just remembered, in holy awe, the times when I didn't know the feeling of a wet diaper, the smell of spit-up on my shirt. Working a half day just to go to the bathroom and notice I've had banana mash wiped across my chest all day, mixed with snot, from the morning's goodbye hug. And I thought of how much better my life is, for all the snot and germs, and diapers, and heartache.

It's amazing how much you love them. It's gross.

you're on baby time

I have never been what one would call a regimented sort of person. When I think about high school, or college, I think of a horrible messy room, long late nights up doing something the very day of the due date, and possibly even doing some things after the very date of the due date. My old friends would be so amazed at my life now, with my schedules about eating and sleeping. I think if you voted for "the person least likely to have a childrens' daily schedule and family monthly calendar posted on the fridge" in college, I would definitely have won that one. But they change your life, kids, and you realize that things are a lot, lot easier with a schedule. Especially if you have a husband who goes to sleep about 8:30pm every night. Then you better bet you put the kids the bed early in attempts at having a marriage too. Geez, cake AND eating? Yikes.

The summer is so hard on people like me, with functioning ADHD and who used to be night-owls, since we get about 4 hours of sleep if we stay up 'til 12 or 1am. I used to live at night, but now it's 8:30 and even I am falling asleep on the couch. But my inner me wants to get out there and DO SOMETHING!! So I get up, put in the laundry, go outside and weed, spray paint a chair, come in and clean the bathroom sink, and then wonder why it's 12:30am again. I have a schedule, but I have yet to fully learn the art of time-management. The late setting sun tricks me into believing it's 10pm every night, but still, I love the summer.

After July 4 every year I basically give up. It's my feeling, as I'm getting the kids dressed into something red, white, and blue, that I might as well unpack the winter clothes, because it's almost OVER. And it does go that fast. I thought summer flew when I was in school--but with kids, your world is in fast-motion all the time. Except when they're nursing at 3am for the 5th time that night, then time goes really slow. You'd be amazed.

Last week my kids and I were at Sears Portrait Studio (I'd show you the photo, but I think that's against the RULES) picking up an order, and I saw a sign on the wall that said, "Please be patient, we're on baby time," with a photo of a baby crawling. And I thought, that's good--baby time. Maybe one day at a time is baby time. One small crawl, or step, or leap.

There's so many times when children are young that you really can't wait for things. I can't wait for this kid to talk, you think a lot, especially with the first. I can't wait for this tooth to push through, or this clumsy phase to end. "I can't wait for this kid to sleep through the night" is a popular refrain among new parents. But soon they're four, and older, and all you really have to do is shout upstairs "GET BACK TO BED PLEASE" instead of rock them back to sleep. Then you have the mindpower to begin thinking about a time when they won't need you so much. And then about the time when they actually won't need you. And then, possibly most scariest, the time that you will need them. And maybe, just maybe, that makes this time of teething and not sleeping through the night just a little more bearable, knowing it won't last. At least that much is true; they always remind you that no matter the schedule, time flies.

Or crawls, but really fast.

pacifier blues

We are slaves to the pacifier.

We began just like any other family. Trying to get the babies to sleep, giving them blankies, rocking them (and rocking them) (and rocking them) (and rocking them)... We tried singing, baths, "nighttime rituals,"--you name it, we've tried it. Suddenly when Helena was being babysat at about 7 weeks old (when I went back to work for--get this--two days before I was laid off), my friend stuck in a pacifier and that's pretty much the beginning of the end. Welcome, pacifier: we are at your mercy.

We call it "the nukkie" actually, which is fine for phrases like "ooh, hon, can you go plug the nukkie back in?" but does get a little tricky when you're shouting at the mall, "OOOH, DOES SOMEONE NEED NUKKIE??" I get the looks, I tell ya.

And so it went, this miraculous plug which both soothes and relaxes, helps aching gums during teething, is part chew-toy and part sleep aid. But as much as we have loved the Nukkie, it has not loved us. Hardly a day goes by without the phrase "Have you seen the nukkie?" or "Are there any nukkies up here?" I tried to buy 10 or 20 and leave one in every possible place--one in the bouncy seat, one in the swing, one in thecarseat. But inevitably we are racing around, crying child in hand, yelling "WHO'S GOT THE NUKKIE??!"

Anyway, when Helena was about 18 months old she was without it at night AND at naptime for about a week. And then she had a very minor eye surgery to correct a blocked tear duct. We brought nukkie to the hospital and it was like magic, but we were stuck to it from then on. Once Helena turned 2 and 1/2 we said Santa was looking for some nukkies to give to the other babies, and she (willingly! it was amazing) put them in a little bag and hug it on the tree, and the next day they were gone. But she never napped the same again, and to this day if you go in her room in the middle of the night you'll find her sucking her teeth as if she had the nuk in.

Now on to Lilly. She's going on 16 months in a couple of weeks (!!!!) (!!) (note: for 2nd child this time really flew), and she is beginning her obsession. She even has begun to say it: "night-night," (more like, "niii-niiii") interchangeably, with "Nuu-nuuu" my favorite Nuk. And although something in me wants to stop it, to get rid of it now, part of my has also learned.

There is some part of a mom (I only know moms, so if you think this applies to dads too, let me know) that isn't ever satisfied with being satiated. What I mean is that when we have one child out of diapers who is sleeping through the night and says "I love you" at the right times, I believe many a dad would say "FINALLY!" and pass out on the nearest couch. Moms, though, say "let's have another!" And when you maybe are pregnant and have one whiny 2-and-1/2-year old, maybe a Mom would say "we need a dog" and go get one. (Or, maybe just this mom....)

A Mom would say "let's get rid of the Nuk before it_____." (Begins to ruin her teeth/becomes a crutch, etc.) A dad would say "Hey, if it ain't broke...!" Or at least, as I mentioned before, that might be what happens around here.

So we continue or nukkie obsession. It's soothing, it's fun, it's around in good times and in bad. Why would I take that away from her? I know, she'll do it when she's ready. Nuk: The Ultimate Soother.

Geez, I'm beginning to wonder if I need one.