Yesterday, Sam spent some time playing outside. It's been very warm, even for AZ, so she was sitting in the shade of the porch drawing with sidewalk chalk when she reappeared by my side. I'd like to say that I was very patient and loving, but yesterday, I was trying to sew a baby shower gift with a busted down sewing machine, so things weren't going well at all. In other words, I was neither surprised nor upset that Sam sought refuge out of doors.
But suddenly, she was back, and she had a question: "Mom, how to you spell 'No Bees?'"
Me: "You want to spell 'no bees?' What for?"
Sam: "There is a bee outside, and it's bothering me. I want to write 'no bees' on the sidewalk so he knows to stay out of my side of the yard."
Me: "Oh. Well, that's a very good goal, but Sam, bees can't read."
Sam rolled her eyes and looked kind of disgusted with me. "I KNOW bees can't read, mom. But they can UNDERSTAND things, so he'll fly over, see the words, and know that I don't want him around. Then he'll go away."
Me: "Well, here's the thing, Sam. The only way a bee will understand what the words say is if he reads them, and bees can't read, so..."
Sam cut me off: "I know bees can't read! But they can UNDERSTAND things!"
Me: "Actually, Sam, they really can't..."
Sam was very frustrated "I KNOW BEES CAN'T READ!"
I was frustrated myself at this point so instead of continuing the argument I just barked out "N! O!..."
and she ran outside to write her message for the bee. While Sam has gotten really quite good at writing individual letters, she tends to be more free form with her approach to order and spacing. She figures as long as all the letters are on the page/space, it's all good. She's been known to run out of room writing her name on a line so the remaining letters go where ever she feels needs some color. It's very cute, and funny, and yes, we're working on it before kindergarten.
A minute or so later, next to her pictures, there were large capital letters spelling out "SEEB ON!" I was just happy they were on the same line, even though there was no way even if a literate bee existed, it could "understand" it.
But I'd been put in my place, so she could deal with it.
Sure enough, about five minutes later, I hear Sam's breathlessly screaming "Help! The bee didn't get the message! HE'S CHASING ME!!!!" Then she ran in, closed the back door and stood there, catching her breath, and holding sidewalk chalk in her fist she'd been in too big a hurry to drop. "I think I'll stay inside for a while. He didn't get the message." She sheepishly set the chalk down and walked away.
So, I got a pretty good laugh out of that one. The bee, who probably wasn't even actually chasing her either, might have gotten a laugh too, had he been capable of understanding the situation.
Thursday, January 24, 2013
Monday, January 21, 2013
Figures
Peyton spent most of last week sick as a dog. He was uncharacteristically cranky, he had a fever, and he just wanted to cuddle, when he wasn't trying to claw my eyes out. There was no telling when the loving cuddles would turn into eye clawing, so even though I love cuddles, I was more than a little flinchy when he would come over for some love. Seriously, he managed to draw blood from himself and his dad with his tantrums, clawing, and scratching. I'm lucky to be alive, people!
By some miracle, Sam did not catch it (and so far no one else has either, knock on wood), but because she was cooped up inside except for those blessed few preschool hours, and Peyton was in a shockingly bad mood, they basically spent five days at each others throats. Sam would get in his face, I would tell her to back off so she didn't make him mad or get sick herself, he would freak out and start screaming, and round and round we go. We pretty much didn't leave the house (or car for preschool dropoff/pickup) until Friday night. Wait, that's not actually true, on Thursday night, we tried to go to the store together for groceries, and that was simply a horrible experience that none of us want to remember or repeat. Although his symptoms were better, Peyton's mental state clearly was not. It was a ghastly couple of hours, and I was slightly traumatized, which is probably why I totally blocked it out.
To make matters worse, this just happened to be the rare Saturday Daniel was assigned to work a full shift, so by the time Peyton was feeling better on the weekend, I was so battle-weary and exhausted (see above ill-fated shopping trip) that I couldn't work up the energy or courage to take them anywhere that day either. Sunday was fine with church and stuff, but I had some extra meetings so we didn't go to grandmas like usual so it was pretty much another cooped-up day.
That brings us to today, which is technically a holiday, so no preschool for Sam, but too small a holiday for us to pass up a full day of overtime pay for Daniel, so once again, both kids, all day, no school, no reinforcements. One of Sam's friends called and asked her to come over and play. I almost kissed the mom, but I didn't want to do anything that would jeopardize the playdate, so I refrained.
I dropped Sam off for a couple of hours and hopped back in the car, glad she could get some time for fun out of the house, and I could get some alone time with just Peyton, now that he's back to human behavior. I got back in the car and I hear a little voice behind me say "Where Sama go?"
"Sam went to play with a friend for a while." I said happily.
Peyton started to get sniffly and said "Sama friend? Sama back?"
I said "She'll be back soon. After lunch!"
Peyton geared up the pathetic voice and said "Want Sama back! Sama back!" He whined the whole way home about wanting his Sama back.
Figures. He'd rather fight with her than get along with anyone else. It's a sibling thing.
By some miracle, Sam did not catch it (and so far no one else has either, knock on wood), but because she was cooped up inside except for those blessed few preschool hours, and Peyton was in a shockingly bad mood, they basically spent five days at each others throats. Sam would get in his face, I would tell her to back off so she didn't make him mad or get sick herself, he would freak out and start screaming, and round and round we go. We pretty much didn't leave the house (or car for preschool dropoff/pickup) until Friday night. Wait, that's not actually true, on Thursday night, we tried to go to the store together for groceries, and that was simply a horrible experience that none of us want to remember or repeat. Although his symptoms were better, Peyton's mental state clearly was not. It was a ghastly couple of hours, and I was slightly traumatized, which is probably why I totally blocked it out.
To make matters worse, this just happened to be the rare Saturday Daniel was assigned to work a full shift, so by the time Peyton was feeling better on the weekend, I was so battle-weary and exhausted (see above ill-fated shopping trip) that I couldn't work up the energy or courage to take them anywhere that day either. Sunday was fine with church and stuff, but I had some extra meetings so we didn't go to grandmas like usual so it was pretty much another cooped-up day.
That brings us to today, which is technically a holiday, so no preschool for Sam, but too small a holiday for us to pass up a full day of overtime pay for Daniel, so once again, both kids, all day, no school, no reinforcements. One of Sam's friends called and asked her to come over and play. I almost kissed the mom, but I didn't want to do anything that would jeopardize the playdate, so I refrained.
I dropped Sam off for a couple of hours and hopped back in the car, glad she could get some time for fun out of the house, and I could get some alone time with just Peyton, now that he's back to human behavior. I got back in the car and I hear a little voice behind me say "Where Sama go?"
"Sam went to play with a friend for a while." I said happily.
Peyton started to get sniffly and said "Sama friend? Sama back?"
I said "She'll be back soon. After lunch!"
Peyton geared up the pathetic voice and said "Want Sama back! Sama back!" He whined the whole way home about wanting his Sama back.
Figures. He'd rather fight with her than get along with anyone else. It's a sibling thing.
Thursday, January 3, 2013
Third Time's the Charm
I've been thinking a lot lately about the differences between a first pregnancy and a third. It started when my official "Baby app" popped up a checklist and the item for week 14 said to "take a break from all the baby prep chores" and focus on being a couple with your partner. During my first pregnancy, I would have taken that advice very seriously, and forced myself to put aside what I was doing to get ready for baby (and I probably had a big list) and dutifully asked for an official date night, even though Daniel and I already spent every evening together. With this pregnancy, however, I instead wracked my brain trying to figure out what baby related chores I was supposed to have been doing? I couldn't come up with squat I had done or would have wanted to do this early in the game. Unless you count trying not to puke as a "chore" I had nothing, and didn't see how I could "take a break" from that anyway (if I could have, I would have done so and made it permanent). I found the whole thing quite funny, actually.
First and second pregnancies are different in a multitude of ways, but for me, they could be summed up in one word--GUILT. Guilt that I wasn't going to be spending as much time with kid #1 after kid #2 showed up, guilt that I wasn't going to be giving all the same newborn attention to #2. Guilt about time spent on the sofa feeling lousy, guilt about chasing around a toddler on days I was supposed to be "taking it easy" for baby #2. Guilt that buying stuff for baby #2 had a way tighter budget than baby #1. You get the idea. Lots of guilt. Boatloads of mommy guilt. You name it, I felt bad about it, and worried about it. Nothing all that humorous there.
Baby #2 came, and life (predictably to the non-hormone riddled) managed not only to go on but was enriched, and all that guilt and worry turned out to be a massive waste of time. Having a sibling has been a great thing for both my kids that will (hopefully) benefit them throughout their lives. Of course, being a mom, I didn't want to jettison all my mommy guilt, and potentially lose my modern mommy card, but I channeled it into different areas that I will someday realize are equally unproductive (but that day is not today, darn it, and you can have my guilt when you pry it from my cold dead hands!). Now that baby #3 is well on the way, I've mellowed even more as a mom. I have more experience with the process, I have more perspective on what's really important, but perhaps most helpful of all, I have more exhaustion that breeds just a healthy enough amount of apathy. I am not the overly-vigilant, baby book devouring, early baby-proofing, hypochondriac stress ball I was the first time around, and I think that's a good thing. So here are the differences I've discovered between number 1 and number 3. Maybe some of you can relate, others can judge me and feel superior, and some can maybe mitigate some of that guilt they might have about the future. I live to serve.
"How far along are you?"
Baby #1: "I'm 22 weeks 2 days, and my baby is the size of a spaghetti squash, crown to rump! She can hear my voice!"
Baby #3: "uhhhhh, I'm 18, no, wait, 20...hold on, I have an app on my phone for that. I'm 22 weeks! Wow, seriously? When did that happen? Going by so fast...oh crap, that means the glucose test is coming up."
"When are you due?"
Baby #1: "I'm due May 3rd, and this kid better not come late because my mother is flying in on May 2nd to help me at the birth!"
Baby #3: "Sometime in late April/Early May. My kids don't really believe in due dates."
***My personal favorite example of this is when I had to rush from a table at a restaurant due to morning sickness. While I was debating if my nausea was a bluff or not in the bathroom, the waitress asked if everything was okay with the food. Daniel told her everything was fine, but I was just expecting so I wasn't eating much at that time. She said "Congrats, when is she due?" and Daniel drew a total blank. He eventually came up with "Uh, Spring." Then to explain his vagueness, added, "It's still pretty early." He said he just panicked. I laughed. It was like 12-13 weeks in. Another 3rd time dad told me his wife's due date but when I talked to her about it, he was totally wrong by nearly a month. Apparently mommy brain is not a mommy only affliction.
Feeling Sick
Baby #1: Run-walk to the bathroom at work, taking different routes every few times so no one realizes just how often you're going. Especially the boss.
Baby #3: "All right kids, who wants to watch a whole lot of movies and Dora's today while mommy lies on the couch wishing she were in a coma?"
Nausea and Vomiting
Baby #1: Hubby dances around nervously expressing concern and asking what he can "do" to help. He brings you crackers and tucks you into bed to rest.
Baby #3: Child #1 keeps coming into the bathroom asking if 1) she can catch barfing, and 2) are you going to die? Child #2 pokes you in the eye and wants to play in the toilet. If hubby is home, his only job is to keep other offspring as far from mommy as humanly possible.
Food choices
Baby #1: "Every bite I eat is a bite for the baby too, I have to make them as healthy as possible!" Then reality and cravings sink in and you end up where you simply start with Baby #3, which is
"Pizza night again! Yea for daddy picking it up! (whispers to hubby) Maybe after the kids go to bed, you'll go get me a butterfinger blizzard, medium size? What am I saying, 'maybe' and 'medium'? Ha!"
Gender issues
Baby #1: "All we want is a healthy baby, boy or girl."
Baby #3: "Well, I have the stuff for both by now, so whatev." The difference is subtle, but it's there. *If you don't have one of each, everyone assumes you want whatever you don't have. This is pretty much the only socially acceptable time to indicate a gender preference, so if you have one, express away!
Body Image
Baby #1: "I am so fat, I had to go up to 'fat pants' and I'm only 14 weeks! I'll be in maternity pants in no time. I'm a whale!" Insert sobbing here.
Baby #3: Cracking out the maternity pants at 5 weeks. "It may not be great for the ego, but they are so comfy!" Please, someone tell me this is not just me, my kids love to make their presence known alarmingly early and then grow into the comfy mansion they've built for themselves.
Baby #1: Weekly "bump" pictures posted on all forms of social media.
Baby #3: Honestly, most of this "bump" is actually leftover from #2, so there is no freaking way I'm going to isolate it, memorialize it, and share it with the world. Feel badly about this at very end of pregnancy and take official "bump" picture on the way to the hospital.
Fetal Development
Baby #1: Sing and talk to baby in soothing tones. Desperately try to let baby to come into a warm and loving environment and instantly recognize mommy's calm and loving tone. Force Daddy to have long one-sided conversations with stomach so baby will recognize him as well.
Baby #3: Secretly know baby will mostly recognize sound of you screaming at siblings to please find their shoes and they wouldn't have this problem if they would just use the basket we bought FOR THAT PURPOSE!!! Is worried baby's first cognitive connection is with the phrase "We are going to be late!" Realizes that even if this is the case, baby will still not be punctual as a child.
Following instructions
Baby #1: Refuses to carry anything weighing over 10 lbs, because doctor suggested keeping it under 50 lbs, and you can never be too careful.
Baby #3: Carries squirming toddler, gigantic diaper bag full to bursting, plus whatever came home from preschool that inexplicably can not be carried by person who carefully created it. Is that considered "heavy lifting?" Doesn't matter, no available alternative.
Aches and Pains
Baby #1: "I'm not sure what that twinge was, should I call the doctor just in case?" Continues with 30 minute internal debate that ultimately results in a call to the doctor.
Baby #3: "Ouch, that hurt. Man, pregnancy sucks." Goes about business as usual unless things get progressively worse.
Biggest Worries about Labor
Baby #1: "What if my water breaks in public? What if I can't get an epidural? (Or "what if I have to get an epidural/c-section?" if you're into the whole natural thing) What if something goes wrong? What if the hospital sends me home with false labor and I'm embarrassed?"
Baby #3: "What if the babysitter doesn't get here in time to watch the other kids and I have to take them to the hospital with me!?"
May your pregnancies be healthy, safe, and in a perfect world, guilt-free! Happy New Year, and if you made it through this whole monster post, congratulations, also, there is a good chance you are my mother!
First and second pregnancies are different in a multitude of ways, but for me, they could be summed up in one word--GUILT. Guilt that I wasn't going to be spending as much time with kid #1 after kid #2 showed up, guilt that I wasn't going to be giving all the same newborn attention to #2. Guilt about time spent on the sofa feeling lousy, guilt about chasing around a toddler on days I was supposed to be "taking it easy" for baby #2. Guilt that buying stuff for baby #2 had a way tighter budget than baby #1. You get the idea. Lots of guilt. Boatloads of mommy guilt. You name it, I felt bad about it, and worried about it. Nothing all that humorous there.
Baby #2 came, and life (predictably to the non-hormone riddled) managed not only to go on but was enriched, and all that guilt and worry turned out to be a massive waste of time. Having a sibling has been a great thing for both my kids that will (hopefully) benefit them throughout their lives. Of course, being a mom, I didn't want to jettison all my mommy guilt, and potentially lose my modern mommy card, but I channeled it into different areas that I will someday realize are equally unproductive (but that day is not today, darn it, and you can have my guilt when you pry it from my cold dead hands!). Now that baby #3 is well on the way, I've mellowed even more as a mom. I have more experience with the process, I have more perspective on what's really important, but perhaps most helpful of all, I have more exhaustion that breeds just a healthy enough amount of apathy. I am not the overly-vigilant, baby book devouring, early baby-proofing, hypochondriac stress ball I was the first time around, and I think that's a good thing. So here are the differences I've discovered between number 1 and number 3. Maybe some of you can relate, others can judge me and feel superior, and some can maybe mitigate some of that guilt they might have about the future. I live to serve.
"How far along are you?"
Baby #1: "I'm 22 weeks 2 days, and my baby is the size of a spaghetti squash, crown to rump! She can hear my voice!"
Baby #3: "uhhhhh, I'm 18, no, wait, 20...hold on, I have an app on my phone for that. I'm 22 weeks! Wow, seriously? When did that happen? Going by so fast...oh crap, that means the glucose test is coming up."
"When are you due?"
Baby #1: "I'm due May 3rd, and this kid better not come late because my mother is flying in on May 2nd to help me at the birth!"
Baby #3: "Sometime in late April/Early May. My kids don't really believe in due dates."
***My personal favorite example of this is when I had to rush from a table at a restaurant due to morning sickness. While I was debating if my nausea was a bluff or not in the bathroom, the waitress asked if everything was okay with the food. Daniel told her everything was fine, but I was just expecting so I wasn't eating much at that time. She said "Congrats, when is she due?" and Daniel drew a total blank. He eventually came up with "Uh, Spring." Then to explain his vagueness, added, "It's still pretty early." He said he just panicked. I laughed. It was like 12-13 weeks in. Another 3rd time dad told me his wife's due date but when I talked to her about it, he was totally wrong by nearly a month. Apparently mommy brain is not a mommy only affliction.
Feeling Sick
Baby #1: Run-walk to the bathroom at work, taking different routes every few times so no one realizes just how often you're going. Especially the boss.
Baby #3: "All right kids, who wants to watch a whole lot of movies and Dora's today while mommy lies on the couch wishing she were in a coma?"
Nausea and Vomiting
Baby #1: Hubby dances around nervously expressing concern and asking what he can "do" to help. He brings you crackers and tucks you into bed to rest.
Baby #3: Child #1 keeps coming into the bathroom asking if 1) she can catch barfing, and 2) are you going to die? Child #2 pokes you in the eye and wants to play in the toilet. If hubby is home, his only job is to keep other offspring as far from mommy as humanly possible.
Food choices
Baby #1: "Every bite I eat is a bite for the baby too, I have to make them as healthy as possible!" Then reality and cravings sink in and you end up where you simply start with Baby #3, which is
"Pizza night again! Yea for daddy picking it up! (whispers to hubby) Maybe after the kids go to bed, you'll go get me a butterfinger blizzard, medium size? What am I saying, 'maybe' and 'medium'? Ha!"
Gender issues
Baby #1: "All we want is a healthy baby, boy or girl."
Baby #3: "Well, I have the stuff for both by now, so whatev." The difference is subtle, but it's there. *If you don't have one of each, everyone assumes you want whatever you don't have. This is pretty much the only socially acceptable time to indicate a gender preference, so if you have one, express away!
Body Image
Baby #1: "I am so fat, I had to go up to 'fat pants' and I'm only 14 weeks! I'll be in maternity pants in no time. I'm a whale!" Insert sobbing here.
Baby #3: Cracking out the maternity pants at 5 weeks. "It may not be great for the ego, but they are so comfy!" Please, someone tell me this is not just me, my kids love to make their presence known alarmingly early and then grow into the comfy mansion they've built for themselves.
Baby #1: Weekly "bump" pictures posted on all forms of social media.
Baby #3: Honestly, most of this "bump" is actually leftover from #2, so there is no freaking way I'm going to isolate it, memorialize it, and share it with the world. Feel badly about this at very end of pregnancy and take official "bump" picture on the way to the hospital.
Fetal Development
Baby #1: Sing and talk to baby in soothing tones. Desperately try to let baby to come into a warm and loving environment and instantly recognize mommy's calm and loving tone. Force Daddy to have long one-sided conversations with stomach so baby will recognize him as well.
Baby #3: Secretly know baby will mostly recognize sound of you screaming at siblings to please find their shoes and they wouldn't have this problem if they would just use the basket we bought FOR THAT PURPOSE!!! Is worried baby's first cognitive connection is with the phrase "We are going to be late!" Realizes that even if this is the case, baby will still not be punctual as a child.
Following instructions
Baby #1: Refuses to carry anything weighing over 10 lbs, because doctor suggested keeping it under 50 lbs, and you can never be too careful.
Baby #3: Carries squirming toddler, gigantic diaper bag full to bursting, plus whatever came home from preschool that inexplicably can not be carried by person who carefully created it. Is that considered "heavy lifting?" Doesn't matter, no available alternative.
Aches and Pains
Baby #1: "I'm not sure what that twinge was, should I call the doctor just in case?" Continues with 30 minute internal debate that ultimately results in a call to the doctor.
Baby #3: "Ouch, that hurt. Man, pregnancy sucks." Goes about business as usual unless things get progressively worse.
Biggest Worries about Labor
Baby #1: "What if my water breaks in public? What if I can't get an epidural? (Or "what if I have to get an epidural/c-section?" if you're into the whole natural thing) What if something goes wrong? What if the hospital sends me home with false labor and I'm embarrassed?"
Baby #3: "What if the babysitter doesn't get here in time to watch the other kids and I have to take them to the hospital with me!?"
May your pregnancies be healthy, safe, and in a perfect world, guilt-free! Happy New Year, and if you made it through this whole monster post, congratulations, also, there is a good chance you are my mother!
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
The Results...After this Break
Well, we went to the doc yesterday for our ultrasound. We were in the waiting room 15 minutes when they came out and said the doc had to suddenly run to the hospital and they'd have to reschedule. We were totally crushed. It was a bummer day. Luckily, they had an opening for today, because other than that, it would have been next week, and Sam had already expressed concern about being out of links on our "baby" paper chain countdown.
Now I know how those people on reality shows feel when the hosts say they'll have the results...after the break. If the break was over 24 hours long, and they got little kicks to the bladder every few hours. (Not that the results changes the kicking, I'm just adding a little color to the picture). Daniel had taken the day off for it, we had lined up a sitter for Peyton weeks in advance, and now we had a last minute change of plans. Oh well, nothing you can do about it. Seeing as I was a baby born in the middle of the night on Christmas Eve, I don't really feel too confident throwing a tantrum about babies who arrive at inconvenient times. It's not like I planned it, but still, I managed to mess up just about everybody with my arrival. Oddly, now I'm not the kind of person who likes to "make an entrance." Maybe I just know there's no way to top the first one I ever made, so why try?
So, we went back today, and had to take Peyton with us in the middle of his nap time. Daniel had to run over on his lunch break. I was stressed to the max about how this would go, and a little trigger shy (as if the odds were high of getting rescheduled again two days in a row, when it's only happened three times in as many pregnancies, but still, I was nervous).
Everything went well though, didn't have to wait too long, Peyton was actually really good considering his age, the time of day, and the fact that he couldn't touch anything. Plus, the very first thing the doctor saw was the gender, so Sam could stop dancing around nervously after about 12 seconds.
It's a girl!
Instead of yelling with joy, or an exclamation of excitement, Sam blurted out loudly "I was RIGHT!!!!" She kept saying "I knew it was a girl. You didn't know, and Daddy didn't know, but I did." Finally, even the doctor commented on the fact that she seemed very happy to be right, maybe even more than she was happy it was a girl.
Hey, what can I say? She's totally my daughter. The ladies in this family like to be right, and now we're getting one more. We will see how she will be, but I'd be surprised to no end if she doesn't like to right too. (Who likes to be wrong? No one.)
So, Sam is very happy, and while I would have honestly been happy either way, I'm very excited for both the baby and Sam. Daniel is happy too, because he was cool with either, but it's hard not to get super excited when one of your kids is so incredibly jazzed about something. I love my boy and wouldn't trade him for the world, or mind another one, but I love frilly dresses and shopping for baby girls is just so fun! Plus, my family, and my only cousins on my dad's side too, oddly enough, were both girl, boy, girl, so it just seems familiar to me! We are over the moon for our baby girl!
Now I know how those people on reality shows feel when the hosts say they'll have the results...after the break. If the break was over 24 hours long, and they got little kicks to the bladder every few hours. (Not that the results changes the kicking, I'm just adding a little color to the picture). Daniel had taken the day off for it, we had lined up a sitter for Peyton weeks in advance, and now we had a last minute change of plans. Oh well, nothing you can do about it. Seeing as I was a baby born in the middle of the night on Christmas Eve, I don't really feel too confident throwing a tantrum about babies who arrive at inconvenient times. It's not like I planned it, but still, I managed to mess up just about everybody with my arrival. Oddly, now I'm not the kind of person who likes to "make an entrance." Maybe I just know there's no way to top the first one I ever made, so why try?
So, we went back today, and had to take Peyton with us in the middle of his nap time. Daniel had to run over on his lunch break. I was stressed to the max about how this would go, and a little trigger shy (as if the odds were high of getting rescheduled again two days in a row, when it's only happened three times in as many pregnancies, but still, I was nervous).
Everything went well though, didn't have to wait too long, Peyton was actually really good considering his age, the time of day, and the fact that he couldn't touch anything. Plus, the very first thing the doctor saw was the gender, so Sam could stop dancing around nervously after about 12 seconds.
It's a girl!
Instead of yelling with joy, or an exclamation of excitement, Sam blurted out loudly "I was RIGHT!!!!" She kept saying "I knew it was a girl. You didn't know, and Daddy didn't know, but I did." Finally, even the doctor commented on the fact that she seemed very happy to be right, maybe even more than she was happy it was a girl.
Hey, what can I say? She's totally my daughter. The ladies in this family like to be right, and now we're getting one more. We will see how she will be, but I'd be surprised to no end if she doesn't like to right too. (Who likes to be wrong? No one.)
So, Sam is very happy, and while I would have honestly been happy either way, I'm very excited for both the baby and Sam. Daniel is happy too, because he was cool with either, but it's hard not to get super excited when one of your kids is so incredibly jazzed about something. I love my boy and wouldn't trade him for the world, or mind another one, but I love frilly dresses and shopping for baby girls is just so fun! Plus, my family, and my only cousins on my dad's side too, oddly enough, were both girl, boy, girl, so it just seems familiar to me! We are over the moon for our baby girl!
Monday, December 3, 2012
Gender Identity Crisis
By now, our ultrasound to find out the gender of baby #3 is only a little ways away. Like 24 hours. Yea! I promised Sam she could go with us for the event, but I had a little inkling she might not be the politest of children if she doesn't get her "way" on the gender. She's been so very adamant about what she wants, and our attempts to tell her that either way will be fine have been met with eye rolls, and sometimes, insincere agreement so we'll let her go about her business. I was worried about her having some sort of bratty meltdown at the office. In fact, several months ago, when I told her the doctor might very well say "It's a boy," she looked at me like I was crazy and said "Well, I guess he might, but that's kind of a weird thing to say to a girl." So, yeah, she's fully entrenched in camp "pink" and has been for a while.
So, yesterday, I came up with the idea to "practice" what to do at the doctor office. We were getting ready for church, and I said "Okay Sam, what will you say if the doctor says, 'Let's see here...yep, it's a boy!"
Sam: "I'd say...Noooooooooooooooo!" Seriously, she couldn't have said it better if she was taking a bullet for someone in a movie. So dramatic.
Me: "Okay, well, that's why we're practicing. Don't say that. That would be super rude."
Sam: "Yeah, okay. But admit it mom, two little boys...would be a lot. It would just be a lot." Then she heaved a gigantic sigh.
Oh, yeah, right Sam. Two boys would be "a lot," as if raising you is some sort of cakewalk.
We'll get the verdict soon, but either way, I predict a lot of tiredness in my future. Because I've already got both genders, and both are totally crazy in their own way. I predict a third version of crazy this family has yet to see.
So, yesterday, I came up with the idea to "practice" what to do at the doctor office. We were getting ready for church, and I said "Okay Sam, what will you say if the doctor says, 'Let's see here...yep, it's a boy!"
Sam: "I'd say...Noooooooooooooooo!" Seriously, she couldn't have said it better if she was taking a bullet for someone in a movie. So dramatic.
Me: "Okay, well, that's why we're practicing. Don't say that. That would be super rude."
Sam: "Yeah, okay. But admit it mom, two little boys...would be a lot. It would just be a lot." Then she heaved a gigantic sigh.
Oh, yeah, right Sam. Two boys would be "a lot," as if raising you is some sort of cakewalk.
We'll get the verdict soon, but either way, I predict a lot of tiredness in my future. Because I've already got both genders, and both are totally crazy in their own way. I predict a third version of crazy this family has yet to see.
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
This is how it's gonna be?
My life, not unlike a caterpillar, has a clear cycle. It's a daily thing, and it goes something like this:
Put Peyton in high chair for breakfast. Peyton drinks his milk, then throws remaining unwanted solid food over the side of the tray.
I get frustrated and swear I won't bother cleaning it up this time.
Get Peyton down, wash his hands and face, and send him to play.
Sam manages to "accidentally" step on whatever dry food is on floor, I catch Peyton snacking on the intact remains.
I get utterly disgusted, give in, grab the broom and sweep (or vacuum) the floor anywhere near the table and high chair.
By now it's time for lunch! Back in the high chair!
Again, Peyton drinks his milk, eats a few bites of solid food, and drops remaining food overboard. He does this even if I let him pick his food, or it's something he really loves. I swear, this kid is living on nothing but milk. It's like a newborn all over again.
The floor is once again disgusting, but I will not sweep it again! I will not! It's a waste of time, he's just going to eat again in a few hours.
During naptime/quiet time, I end up stepping on a corn chip or froot loop. This is very gross, yes, but I will not give in yet. However, the floor continues to bug me. I can't make my own lunch with it grossing me out like that. What if someone comes over and sees I live this way? So, once more, I give in and sweep the floor. I don't know why I bother, since an hour or so later...
Afternoon snack time! Back in the high chair, and you guessed it, food on the floor. It's like he has a quota, a certain amount must be on the floor. If I give him half the food, he will just have to eat less, because the sacrifices to the tile gods must be made in full!
Since I learned my lesson during morning playtime, I just go straight for the broom to avoid watching him round up some smushed up string cheese and eat it in an hour. The kids play, the floor is clean, life is good.
Then, dinner time for Peyton while Daniel heads home and I put together dinner for the grown ups and Sam (or sit down feeling crappy and try not to lose it with the kids, depending on how the day is going). Once again, he bails food over the side for the peasant ants who depend on him for their livelihood and revere him as a cult figure who rains manna from the heavens four times a day, but also will vengefully step on them with no provocation. (This is a joke, we don't really have ants. But it's a miracle we don't) I tell him for the 1000th time, not to do that. By this point, food issues aside, I'm usually pretty much at the end of my rope with the kiddos in general. More often than not, it's been a long day. As soon as Peyton finishes "eating," Daniel walks in the door, says hello to everyone, looks at the floor under our son and says "Wow, how does this floor get so disgusting? We really should sweep it more often." We. Yes, seriously, he says "we." In his defense, he also honestly believes he means "we," because if he were home while Peyton makes the messes, and he would have every intention of sweeping, therefore, "we." I, however, realize this "we" actually means "me," and get irrationally irritated to a level only a pregnant woman really can.
Fantasy me punches him in the face.
Real me just stomps upstairs in a huff. Sometimes, on the way up, I shout "I swept THREE TIMES TODAY!" Other times, I assume he knows the drill by now and just go. He stays downstairs wondering why I'm always in such a bad mood when he gets home from work (because apparently, he doesn't actually know the drill by now, Mars and Venus, amirite?). I resurface after a few minutes alone, and we manage to have a decent dinner and evening. Someone does the dishes, but I refuse to sweep the floor on principle, waiting for that "we" to kick in and take care of it. Somehow "we" never surfaces. "We" is busy doing evening stuff, sort of like "me" is busy doing daytime stuff.
The next morning, I wake up to a nasty floor, and clip Peyton into his seat for breakfast.
In the background, I swear I hear "The Circle of Life." I can almost picture Rafiki holding up a dustpan reverently.
It may not be a cycle I'm particularly fond of, but it is what it is. I will be so happy when Peyton stops throwing his food overboard.
Put Peyton in high chair for breakfast. Peyton drinks his milk, then throws remaining unwanted solid food over the side of the tray.
I get frustrated and swear I won't bother cleaning it up this time.
Get Peyton down, wash his hands and face, and send him to play.
Sam manages to "accidentally" step on whatever dry food is on floor, I catch Peyton snacking on the intact remains.
I get utterly disgusted, give in, grab the broom and sweep (or vacuum) the floor anywhere near the table and high chair.
By now it's time for lunch! Back in the high chair!
Again, Peyton drinks his milk, eats a few bites of solid food, and drops remaining food overboard. He does this even if I let him pick his food, or it's something he really loves. I swear, this kid is living on nothing but milk. It's like a newborn all over again.
The floor is once again disgusting, but I will not sweep it again! I will not! It's a waste of time, he's just going to eat again in a few hours.
During naptime/quiet time, I end up stepping on a corn chip or froot loop. This is very gross, yes, but I will not give in yet. However, the floor continues to bug me. I can't make my own lunch with it grossing me out like that. What if someone comes over and sees I live this way? So, once more, I give in and sweep the floor. I don't know why I bother, since an hour or so later...
Afternoon snack time! Back in the high chair, and you guessed it, food on the floor. It's like he has a quota, a certain amount must be on the floor. If I give him half the food, he will just have to eat less, because the sacrifices to the tile gods must be made in full!
Since I learned my lesson during morning playtime, I just go straight for the broom to avoid watching him round up some smushed up string cheese and eat it in an hour. The kids play, the floor is clean, life is good.
Then, dinner time for Peyton while Daniel heads home and I put together dinner for the grown ups and Sam (or sit down feeling crappy and try not to lose it with the kids, depending on how the day is going). Once again, he bails food over the side for the peasant ants who depend on him for their livelihood and revere him as a cult figure who rains manna from the heavens four times a day, but also will vengefully step on them with no provocation. (This is a joke, we don't really have ants. But it's a miracle we don't) I tell him for the 1000th time, not to do that. By this point, food issues aside, I'm usually pretty much at the end of my rope with the kiddos in general. More often than not, it's been a long day. As soon as Peyton finishes "eating," Daniel walks in the door, says hello to everyone, looks at the floor under our son and says "Wow, how does this floor get so disgusting? We really should sweep it more often." We. Yes, seriously, he says "we." In his defense, he also honestly believes he means "we," because if he were home while Peyton makes the messes, and he would have every intention of sweeping, therefore, "we." I, however, realize this "we" actually means "me," and get irrationally irritated to a level only a pregnant woman really can.
Fantasy me punches him in the face.
Real me just stomps upstairs in a huff. Sometimes, on the way up, I shout "I swept THREE TIMES TODAY!" Other times, I assume he knows the drill by now and just go. He stays downstairs wondering why I'm always in such a bad mood when he gets home from work (because apparently, he doesn't actually know the drill by now, Mars and Venus, amirite?). I resurface after a few minutes alone, and we manage to have a decent dinner and evening. Someone does the dishes, but I refuse to sweep the floor on principle, waiting for that "we" to kick in and take care of it. Somehow "we" never surfaces. "We" is busy doing evening stuff, sort of like "me" is busy doing daytime stuff.
The next morning, I wake up to a nasty floor, and clip Peyton into his seat for breakfast.
In the background, I swear I hear "The Circle of Life." I can almost picture Rafiki holding up a dustpan reverently.
It may not be a cycle I'm particularly fond of, but it is what it is. I will be so happy when Peyton stops throwing his food overboard.
Friday, November 23, 2012
Pearls of Wisdom
Yesterday, in honor of Thanksgiving, Sam had a few pearls of wisdom to share with me, that I'm going to share with all of you. It's either that, or work out, or do laundry, and I'm still in a bit of Thanksgiving fog, so the longer I can put working out, the happier I'll be.
First, when she came to wake me up, Sam yanked my covers off (a technique I really dislike, by the way) and pointed out that my stomach now sometimes sticks out from under my shirt (only at night, when I'm still trying to make do with clothes I already have, it's not like I strut around like that during the day). Judging by the laughter, this was quite possibly the funniest thing she has ever witnessed. After she followed me to the the bathroom and amid a few gasps of laughter punctuated by choked out phrases, "Your belly....gasp gasp...sticks out...giggle giggle...of your shirt!!!" I finally got irritated and said, "Hey, Sam, give me a break, my belly is getting big, ok?"
Upon realizing she might have hurt my feelings, she immediately sobered up, and looked at me thoughtfully. Then she said "Hey, mom, it's true that your belly is getting bigger. Like its getting really really really a lot big. But, you've got a baby in there! Either that, or a giant hot dog. And you know what, Mom? Either way, it's totally ok. It's ok."
Awww, thanks, Sweetie. You managed to simultaneously exacerbate and help my body image issues. What can I say, she's a talented kid.
But Sam woke up feisty on Thanksgiving morning, and she wasn't yet finished sharing her theories on life. We scooped up Peyton, and headed downstairs to eat breakfast and start cooking our additions to the extended family Thanksgiving. I turned on the TV to hopefully keep them out of my hair while I wrestled with an orange roll recipe that I only have about a 20% success rate making (although it worked yesterday! Boom!). Unfortunately, the TV was showing one of those abused dog Sarah Maclachlan commercials. I hate those anyway, but when I'm pregnant, forget it. Niagra falls. To make matters worse, I realized Sam was starting intently at the commercial, and I could tell there was a question brewing. Sam has not asked a single question in over two years. Everything has at least 37 follow ups. After only about 5 seconds, not enough time for me to change the channel, here it came. "Mom, why are those animals so sad looking?"
Super, I was going to kick off my holiday trying to teach my kid about animal abuse. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! (In case you're wondering why I don't just make something up to end the conversation, lying to Sam isn't just a moral conundrum for me, it's a physical impossibility. I'm a horrible liar to start with, and she's so smart, and there's so many follow-up questions, it's just too much to keep track of a web of deception on the fly. The few times I've tried, it's unraveled on me so fast, that I realized there was just no point even trying. So, she gets an age-appropriate honest approach, and I get migraines. That's where we stand.)
So, I sucked it up and said "Those animals are sad because the people they lived with, didn't treat them nicely." Then I waited for follow up question #1.
Instead, Sam looked thoughtful for a moment, and slowly added "Nope. I don't think that's it."
"What do you mean, that's not it?"
Sam shook her head and said "That's not why they're sad. Those animals are sad because those guys (meaning the rescuers) has them stuck in those little cages. I bet if they let them out, they'd look much happier! Geez!" She was disgusted.
This was an interesting approach, I admit I'd never thought about. The more I thought about it, the more Sam seemed to be onto something there. After all, these animals had already been rescued from abuse, and now had reason to be happy, but sure enough, they were all in cages. What animal looks happy behind bars? All of a sudden, I was laughing. Here they were, trying to be all heavy handed and induce guilt and my four-year-old is sitting there thinking the rescue operation was the reason the dogs were still sad. Maybe the problem was you, Sarah? Ever think about that? Sam wasn't buying the manipulation they were selling. I was sitting there trying not to cry at the sad animals, and my logical 4-year-old daughter was getting all cynical on me. Consider my mind blown at the total role-reversal.
Sometimes, I just love that kid so much, it hurts my guts. She is just so much her own independent person. She's got the softest heart I know, but try and manipulate her, and she sees right through it, and she will not have that crap! Will not have it!
Something tells me my little Sam will be okay in this messed up world.
First, when she came to wake me up, Sam yanked my covers off (a technique I really dislike, by the way) and pointed out that my stomach now sometimes sticks out from under my shirt (only at night, when I'm still trying to make do with clothes I already have, it's not like I strut around like that during the day). Judging by the laughter, this was quite possibly the funniest thing she has ever witnessed. After she followed me to the the bathroom and amid a few gasps of laughter punctuated by choked out phrases, "Your belly....gasp gasp...sticks out...giggle giggle...of your shirt!!!" I finally got irritated and said, "Hey, Sam, give me a break, my belly is getting big, ok?"
Upon realizing she might have hurt my feelings, she immediately sobered up, and looked at me thoughtfully. Then she said "Hey, mom, it's true that your belly is getting bigger. Like its getting really really really a lot big. But, you've got a baby in there! Either that, or a giant hot dog. And you know what, Mom? Either way, it's totally ok. It's ok."
Awww, thanks, Sweetie. You managed to simultaneously exacerbate and help my body image issues. What can I say, she's a talented kid.
But Sam woke up feisty on Thanksgiving morning, and she wasn't yet finished sharing her theories on life. We scooped up Peyton, and headed downstairs to eat breakfast and start cooking our additions to the extended family Thanksgiving. I turned on the TV to hopefully keep them out of my hair while I wrestled with an orange roll recipe that I only have about a 20% success rate making (although it worked yesterday! Boom!). Unfortunately, the TV was showing one of those abused dog Sarah Maclachlan commercials. I hate those anyway, but when I'm pregnant, forget it. Niagra falls. To make matters worse, I realized Sam was starting intently at the commercial, and I could tell there was a question brewing. Sam has not asked a single question in over two years. Everything has at least 37 follow ups. After only about 5 seconds, not enough time for me to change the channel, here it came. "Mom, why are those animals so sad looking?"
Super, I was going to kick off my holiday trying to teach my kid about animal abuse. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! (In case you're wondering why I don't just make something up to end the conversation, lying to Sam isn't just a moral conundrum for me, it's a physical impossibility. I'm a horrible liar to start with, and she's so smart, and there's so many follow-up questions, it's just too much to keep track of a web of deception on the fly. The few times I've tried, it's unraveled on me so fast, that I realized there was just no point even trying. So, she gets an age-appropriate honest approach, and I get migraines. That's where we stand.)
So, I sucked it up and said "Those animals are sad because the people they lived with, didn't treat them nicely." Then I waited for follow up question #1.
Instead, Sam looked thoughtful for a moment, and slowly added "Nope. I don't think that's it."
"What do you mean, that's not it?"
Sam shook her head and said "That's not why they're sad. Those animals are sad because those guys (meaning the rescuers) has them stuck in those little cages. I bet if they let them out, they'd look much happier! Geez!" She was disgusted.
This was an interesting approach, I admit I'd never thought about. The more I thought about it, the more Sam seemed to be onto something there. After all, these animals had already been rescued from abuse, and now had reason to be happy, but sure enough, they were all in cages. What animal looks happy behind bars? All of a sudden, I was laughing. Here they were, trying to be all heavy handed and induce guilt and my four-year-old is sitting there thinking the rescue operation was the reason the dogs were still sad. Maybe the problem was you, Sarah? Ever think about that? Sam wasn't buying the manipulation they were selling. I was sitting there trying not to cry at the sad animals, and my logical 4-year-old daughter was getting all cynical on me. Consider my mind blown at the total role-reversal.
Sometimes, I just love that kid so much, it hurts my guts. She is just so much her own independent person. She's got the softest heart I know, but try and manipulate her, and she sees right through it, and she will not have that crap! Will not have it!
Something tells me my little Sam will be okay in this messed up world.
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