Tuesday, August 9, 2011
A Word From The Wise
I lost my temper today. It was bound to happen after only getting 4 hours of sleep. The early birds woke complaining of hunger so I brought them downstairs before the sun even rose. So after several hours of eating, playing, dancing, cluttering & repeat they are still going strong, not a nap in sight. I am exhausted, cranky, and need more caffeine. I was about to walk into the kitchen to refuel with a cherry coke, which is something I should not be drinking with a history of kidney stones mind you, when something caught my eye. Lil R had a book, a book where it is not supposed to be. She was not reading this book. No. She was eating. yet. another... If you've read my previous posts you know this is an ongoing problem.
"NOT FOOD!" I boomed. I swiped the book from her hands and out of her mouth in such a way that she began to cry. "Good," I thought, "that'll teach her!"
Big brother R immediately stopped playing and went over to comfort his whimpering sister. Meanwhile I stormed from the room like a pouty teenager to go cool off. He then came directly to me to have a little talk. I was still fuming, futilely wondering, "Why? Why does she eat stuff that's not food?"
"Mom," he began, patiently waiting for me to make eye contact.
At first I wanted to yell at him too. Snap a "Get out of here! Leave me alone!" while I wallowed in my mean-mom guilt for losing my temper. But when I looked at his sincere little face, I just couldn't. My heart was tongue-tied. The smoke was now clearing.
Making sure I was really listening, he calmly continued, "Mom, you can't yell at Baby Ro."
I sat there stunned and listened intently to this child of mine. "You must use your inside voice", he wisely instructed. "Yelling is for outside."
I started to stammer like a child who's hand was caught in the cookie jar.
Then he proceeded to hit me with the exact thing I tell him during one of our time-out talks after he has a screaming tantrum. "If you get mad just scream in a pillow and then you won't yell anymore, and you won't be mad anymore, and it'll be all better!" He said it so cheerfully, so judiciously, so sensibly. He is very animated when he speaks, his head tilting and nodding, his shoulders, hands, and arms were poised in one of those "I don't know" poses. He smiled at me, eyebrows raised, waiting for my response.
I sheepishly pouted. Now what am I supposed to say to that?
Here I was, a grown woman, a mother of two, the disciplinarian, or so I thought, and this small, physically frail but strong in heart & spirit, three-year old boy, just taught me a lesson.
"Now promise me you'll never do it again," he recited again from memory with a gentle sternness.
I felt myself blush with embarrassment. This was the most awkward situation I have ever found myself in as a parent. I didn't know what to say. Perhaps I should've gone with the old standard "I make the rules and what I say goes!" followed by a rude "Just mind your own business" for smarts. Or maybe instructed him with one of the classic place-putting lines "I'm the parent and you don't speak to me that way!"
But he was right. How could I argue with my very own rules? How could I possibly deny something I've said to him? Then, foolishly perhaps, I dove straight into the sea of awkward. I opened my mouth and out came a "But..." ...insert my big stinky mom foot here...
I stammered, "B...b... but... how am I supposed to stop her from putting things in her mouth and eating things she shouldn't? She doesn't listen to me." I shamefully admit that I actually whined.
Is this really happening? Am I desperately seeking parenting advice from my own three year old? Nice. In that moment I imagined a slew of future Mother's Day cards with a big 'ol X over the word BEST or GREATEST. "To the X mom" Yep, that's me. The stuttering, push-over X parent.
"Well," he started with a long sigh, sounding wiser than his years (heck, even wiser than my years) shaking his head, "I just don't know. He then finished with a final matter-of-fact, "But don't yell at Baby Ro."
I immediately felt ashamed as hot tears stung my eyes. I became the child and he was now the parent.
I was a slobbering contrite mess scooping him up in my arms and apologizing in a whisper.
When I finally put him down and let go, he stood there with that bashful, smiling, head-cocked, tilted shoulders, hands-behind-his-back, stance that he does when he is so pleased with himself.
"Bubba, I am so very proud of you." I gushed, holding his pale little face in my hands, looking in his deep dark eyes, and planting a kiss on his fuzzy head. "I love you! Thank you for teaching me."
He made that clicking sound, a sort of tongue-click/lip-smack, as his chest swelled with pride.
"Your welcome! I love you too!" he cheerfully chimed and sprung from the room to continue playing where he had abruptly left off.
I dried my eyes and felt humbly solemn as I walked into the next room. I saw the two little angels playing and giggling. I scooped up lilRo. Big brother joined in the love fest and we all hugged and kissed each other.
I returned her to the floor and went across the room to the computer desk. I was basking in the happy Hallmark-moment watching my beautiful, intelligent children playing merrily. Lil R smiled at me, her cherub cheeks glowing, her evenly spaced baby teeth showing in a cheesy grin. She then picked up the book and began to once again feast on it's spine. Well, that lasted about as long as a commercial.
I let out a defeated sigh as I searched for the nearest pillow.
Monday, August 8, 2011
No More Small Potatoes
I feel like a teenager again; invincible and filled with nervous excitement, not knowing what the future holds. My potential seems limitless. I have the confidence that I can now accomplish anything. My future is filled with unknowns but there is a sweet excitement of what lies ahead. It is an overwhelming swell of positive energy that I can physically feel shining inside me, bursting at the seams.
I feel worlds apart from anyone who doesn't have this light, but I don't mind at all. I see their strange looks of curiosity, or their blatant stares of confusion, or their flat-out annoyance and avoidance. I see this but I am not swayed, not concerned, nothing can stop me. All that matters is how I feel right now, in this very moment, and it is magnificent!
I had set goals before. I once had dreams. I have experienced success as well failure. All small potatoes. The bar was never set high enough for a real challenge. The hurdles I had overcome in life were all placed there by me, detours I ultimately created, pressures I put on myself. Sometime I won, and sometimes I lost. In retrospect, I never really had anything to lose. Not like this.
This is was something no one would ever wish for, something no one would ever want; the hardest thing I have ever been faced with in my life. Something unplanned, unforeseen, unexpected. This was an obstacle that was not chosen, but a goal that was necessary, unavoidable, and the epitome of importance. Nothing had ever been this important. The gravity of the situation paralyzed me at first. It seemed there was nothing I could do. Helpless, hopeless, afraid. I was being hurdled at this insurmountable hurdle, kicking and screaming and terrified out of my mind.
I had no choice but to face this. There was a voice inside me. The one who always doubts, always criticizes, always seems reasonable. The one who stops me from moving ahead, from trying new things, from believing in positive possibilities. In that moment I chose to not listen to the voice. I chose to only look toward the positive, the goal that once seemed unattainable. I narrowed my focus. The odds that were stacked against a positive outcome were now in my blind spot. This goal became the center of my life. My new motto was "whatever it takes." My determination fed off of positive energy and the energy grew with my determination. The cycle was endless.
Astonishment came from people outside of the situation who only saw the negative. They did not know or understand how I could feel this good, be this happy, seem so calm and relaxed. The positive energy gave me strength. And that voice, it has been stunned into silenced. It is still present, but I imagine it's choking on this potato. I believed, truly believed, in nothing but the positive. Some people call this faith. I had faith that the goal could be achieved.
This achievement was not even mine really, yet I feel so proud of the accomplishment. This was a matter of life, a life I cherish, a life that has been renewed. The life of my child. And although it was not my life that has been saved, I feel the fire of life has been reignited within me. My life has been irreversibly altered, for the good, by this challenge. My life has been rejuvenated with hope. My life is now filled with amazing potential.
Aspirations and dreams seem attainable. Setting my sights higher seems only natural. No more small potatoes. There is endless opportunity, and the hurdles and challenges to get there are now dwarfed in comparison. I'm taking chances. Risk seems like such a silly little word. I am no longer afraid to try new things for fear of failure. It isn't really true failure. There is no real risk. There really is nothing to lose, nothing of importance anyway.
There is no such thing as failure, only different outcomes, different paths. The path I am on now is golden, lined with endless rows of giant potatoes of possibilities. And oh, how I love potatoes!
I feel worlds apart from anyone who doesn't have this light, but I don't mind at all. I see their strange looks of curiosity, or their blatant stares of confusion, or their flat-out annoyance and avoidance. I see this but I am not swayed, not concerned, nothing can stop me. All that matters is how I feel right now, in this very moment, and it is magnificent!
I had set goals before. I once had dreams. I have experienced success as well failure. All small potatoes. The bar was never set high enough for a real challenge. The hurdles I had overcome in life were all placed there by me, detours I ultimately created, pressures I put on myself. Sometime I won, and sometimes I lost. In retrospect, I never really had anything to lose. Not like this.
This is was something no one would ever wish for, something no one would ever want; the hardest thing I have ever been faced with in my life. Something unplanned, unforeseen, unexpected. This was an obstacle that was not chosen, but a goal that was necessary, unavoidable, and the epitome of importance. Nothing had ever been this important. The gravity of the situation paralyzed me at first. It seemed there was nothing I could do. Helpless, hopeless, afraid. I was being hurdled at this insurmountable hurdle, kicking and screaming and terrified out of my mind.
I had no choice but to face this. There was a voice inside me. The one who always doubts, always criticizes, always seems reasonable. The one who stops me from moving ahead, from trying new things, from believing in positive possibilities. In that moment I chose to not listen to the voice. I chose to only look toward the positive, the goal that once seemed unattainable. I narrowed my focus. The odds that were stacked against a positive outcome were now in my blind spot. This goal became the center of my life. My new motto was "whatever it takes." My determination fed off of positive energy and the energy grew with my determination. The cycle was endless.
Astonishment came from people outside of the situation who only saw the negative. They did not know or understand how I could feel this good, be this happy, seem so calm and relaxed. The positive energy gave me strength. And that voice, it has been stunned into silenced. It is still present, but I imagine it's choking on this potato. I believed, truly believed, in nothing but the positive. Some people call this faith. I had faith that the goal could be achieved.
This achievement was not even mine really, yet I feel so proud of the accomplishment. This was a matter of life, a life I cherish, a life that has been renewed. The life of my child. And although it was not my life that has been saved, I feel the fire of life has been reignited within me. My life has been irreversibly altered, for the good, by this challenge. My life has been rejuvenated with hope. My life is now filled with amazing potential.
Aspirations and dreams seem attainable. Setting my sights higher seems only natural. No more small potatoes. There is endless opportunity, and the hurdles and challenges to get there are now dwarfed in comparison. I'm taking chances. Risk seems like such a silly little word. I am no longer afraid to try new things for fear of failure. It isn't really true failure. There is no real risk. There really is nothing to lose, nothing of importance anyway.
There is no such thing as failure, only different outcomes, different paths. The path I am on now is golden, lined with endless rows of giant potatoes of possibilities. And oh, how I love potatoes!
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Passion
I love to cook. Not just cook, but create. Combining ingredients in such a way that perhaps no one else has thought of or could duplicate, at least not exactly. It's art. Tasty art. Just being in the kitchen. My mind focuses only on the task at hand. I become fixated on the food. I am transported into a calm place in my mind. My sense are heightened... smelling the vegetables and herbs as they release their scent when being chopped and diced... hearing the sizzle and pop from the pans... feeling the heat rise up engulfing my arms, then face and whole being, filling me with the energy of creating something beautiful, a feast for the eyes as much as for the mouth... nourishment for the soul as much as for the body... It is a transcendental food-utopia.
Escaping to this paradise is not something I have the luxury of doing most nights. For about the past year I have been on high alert. Not knowing whether we needed to run to the hospital for an emergency, the constant stress & depression of the whole disease, and the "terrorist toddlers" who spring into action right around the time I need to make dinner, is not conducive to cooking to say the least. It has boiled down our dinners to either fast food, take-out, pizza, throw-it-in-the-oven or microwave, instant, prepackaged, I shouldn't be eating this, thrown on a plate, or something slapped together, meal in minutes.
It wasn't until very recently I began to use my stove again, much to the delight of Big Daddy R's tummy. Back in the day (i.e. before kids), I used to spend hours in the kitchen whipping up gourmet meals from cook books and studying DVR'd episodes of Food Network shows so I could duplicate the techniques. I never really duplicated a meal. I always changed something, made it my own, a little bit different, made it better. I experimented, never measured, and tried all sorts of new foods. Foods I once hated, never tried, or that once harbored fear (mushrooms, onions, greens, beans), I found to be delectable and have now become staples in my fridge and cupboards. I discovered a love of guacamole, fresh avocados, making my own salsa and huge pots of chili. I would dream about food and cooking. I would not by any means call myself a chef, or foodie (I cringe at the word), but I have a passion for it, for sure.
Tonight I made a delicious meal, if I do say so myself. But it's not just me that enjoyed it, the little Rs ate it and Big Daddy R too. I know I have a separate tab for "recipes of the week" and such, but I thought tonight's meal was special. Not that any of the ingredients are particularly special or gourmet. It's just that I was able to spend the entire time in the kitchen, uninterrupted, cooking a complete meal, and then serving it to my family who happily ate it, together as a family. This is rare. Maybe not the eating part, but the cooking part indeed. And if you have toddlers who love to graze, you know how difficult it can be to eat together. I was even able to photo-documented the whole thing. So here goes!
THE MEAL
It sounds fancy, but it's not. It's really quite simple too. As a side note, I usually add a can of cannellini beans to the chard & tomato mixture (just before the tomatoes), but my can opener broke last week and I have yet to replace it. Still tasty, just less protein.
The pictures are pretty self explanatory...
Escaping to this paradise is not something I have the luxury of doing most nights. For about the past year I have been on high alert. Not knowing whether we needed to run to the hospital for an emergency, the constant stress & depression of the whole disease, and the "terrorist toddlers" who spring into action right around the time I need to make dinner, is not conducive to cooking to say the least. It has boiled down our dinners to either fast food, take-out, pizza, throw-it-in-the-oven or microwave, instant, prepackaged, I shouldn't be eating this, thrown on a plate, or something slapped together, meal in minutes.
It wasn't until very recently I began to use my stove again, much to the delight of Big Daddy R's tummy. Back in the day (i.e. before kids), I used to spend hours in the kitchen whipping up gourmet meals from cook books and studying DVR'd episodes of Food Network shows so I could duplicate the techniques. I never really duplicated a meal. I always changed something, made it my own, a little bit different, made it better. I experimented, never measured, and tried all sorts of new foods. Foods I once hated, never tried, or that once harbored fear (mushrooms, onions, greens, beans), I found to be delectable and have now become staples in my fridge and cupboards. I discovered a love of guacamole, fresh avocados, making my own salsa and huge pots of chili. I would dream about food and cooking. I would not by any means call myself a chef, or foodie (I cringe at the word), but I have a passion for it, for sure.
Tonight I made a delicious meal, if I do say so myself. But it's not just me that enjoyed it, the little Rs ate it and Big Daddy R too. I know I have a separate tab for "recipes of the week" and such, but I thought tonight's meal was special. Not that any of the ingredients are particularly special or gourmet. It's just that I was able to spend the entire time in the kitchen, uninterrupted, cooking a complete meal, and then serving it to my family who happily ate it, together as a family. This is rare. Maybe not the eating part, but the cooking part indeed. And if you have toddlers who love to graze, you know how difficult it can be to eat together. I was even able to photo-documented the whole thing. So here goes!
THE MEAL
Pan Seared Kielbasa
Sauteed Pierogi & Onions
Swiss Chard, Tomatoes, Garlic, & Onions in a Balsamic Vinegar Reduction
It sounds fancy, but it's not. It's really quite simple too. As a side note, I usually add a can of cannellini beans to the chard & tomato mixture (just before the tomatoes), but my can opener broke last week and I have yet to replace it. Still tasty, just less protein.
The pictures are pretty self explanatory...
 |
| Wash & Dry the Swiss Chard, Rough Chop |
 |
| Dice Garlic & Slice Onion |
 |
| Add Olive Oil to Pan and Heat |
 | |||
| Saute Onions & Garlic & Season w/ s&p. |
Move Some of the Onions & Garlic with Some Oil to Another Pan
 |
| Wash & De-stem Tomatoes, Leave Whole |
 |
| Add Tomatoes & Continue Cooking |
 |
| Add Swiss Chard to Pan When Tomatoes Start to Burst |
 | |
| Add Pre-Boiled Pierogi to the Other Pan w/ Onions, Garlic, & Oil |
 | ||
| Cook until Golden Brown on Each Side, Remove Pierogi, Return Pan to Heat |
 |
| Add Balsamic Vinegar & Reduce to a Thick Glaze |
 |
| Add Kielbasa to Pan & Sear on All Sides |
 |
| Large Portion for the Super Hungry |
 |
| Plate & Enjoy |
 |
| YUMMY! |
Friday, July 29, 2011
Out of the Mouth of Babes
I gave birth to a goat.
There's just no other explanation. Everything goes straight to her mouth. No hesitation. No observation. And with such nonchalance on whether or not it is edible.
This kid can eat! She eats as much as her brother, if not more. She loves all the normal, healthy, natural fare like fruits, vegetables, meats, breads, pastas, legumes, etc. There's not a food we've found that she turns down. But it seems she has developed a rather bad habit of snacking on the inedible as well.
The top of the crib looks like it's been attacked by a pack of rabid beavers. Teething, you ask? Well yes... maybe... but it's not just that...
Puzzle pieces, crayons, books, toys, blankets, crumbs... that "normal"stuff is inherently doomed to be chewed in any toddler's household, and our house is filled with these casualties. But what I'm talking about here is the a-typical chew-toys... like paper, plastic, cardboard, wood, fuzz, rocks, grass, flowers, straws, money, batteries, cell-phones, cat food, cat toys, and garbage. Basically anything that she can get her hands on and fit into her mouth or between her teeth, she will attempt to eat.
This is not just a little biting or a nibble. No, this is full on, chomping down, taking a bite, chewing and swallowing. The swallowing happens if I am too late in catching her. And "catch" is the operative word here because she takes off the second she hears, "Get that out of your mouth!" or "What on earth are you eating?" or my most often chanted phrase of "That's not food!".
Rarely, while fleeing, she will attempt to rid the evidence by pulling it out and throwing it aside, like a criminal. Most times I dare to stick my fingers in her mouth, which is akin to sticking your head in the mouth of a lion, and I pull out the "Oh Good God what is that?" chunk of something she found somewhere. And then there are the times that I am too late. Who knows how many items she's managed to get down.
And as comical as this all seems, I really do fear for her safety. Sometimes I fear that all of the gastric disturbances and diaper explosions are not really due to a milk allergy after all but from a bowel reaction from inedible objects.
I swear, I baby-proofed my house. And I will swear upon my First Edition Harry Potters that I do pay attention to and watch my kids, sometimes like a hawk. But she somehow finds these things. Like my house is a treasure trove of unknown hiding places for forbidden objects. I thought I knew every nook and cranny in this house until I found her gnashing a piece of plaster that she found behind a loose piece of moulding, which she also chewed.
When not filling her mouth with sustenance or swill, she is gnawing on her fingers. Biting her nails, chewing a knuckle, or molar-munching a fist full of fingers; she is forever orally fixated. And if one were to psychoanalyze according to Freud, they'd say she either suffered a period of neglect or was weaned too soon. Alas, I'm afraid I am guilty as charged. I may have weaned her before she was ready but at least I made it to 13 months and that's long enough for me. And there was a time when I could not be the attentive mother she deserved due to her brother's hospitalization. Hopefully she won't grow to be a chain smoker or an obnoxious gum chewer because of my failures. But I try to look past the guilt and just find a solution. Sorry Siggy.
I suppose the bigger picture here is effectively disciplining a headstrong and rebellious 17 month old. My wild child. I was once so proud of the near perfect, gently used collection of books and puzzles we had acquired with our first born. I only had to tell him once, maybe twice, to not put something in his mouth and he listened, understood, and obeyed. But this enigma of mastication is clever, coy, and very much a rebel. Sadly, I now find myself sighing while taping, patching, and most times tossing away those half-eaten books. I try to teach my children to respect their belongings, treat them with kindness, don't throw, destroy or heaven forbid eat them! She looks at me intently for a moment, I know she understands what I am trying to communicate, then she goes right back to eating the spine of yet another book.
I've tried all the usual techniques, that worked charmingly well on her older brother, but alas... yelling = deaf ears, the look = runs away giggling, time outs = no comprehension, hand slap = ignored, asking nicely = works for a moment then she smiles sweetly and returns to her preoccupation.
What are my other options here? Have I exhausted all sensible possibilities? Am I now left to resort to drastic measures? Do I coat everything in hot sauce? Do I move EVERYTHING in my house onto four-foot high platforms? Do I rid the house of any item smaller than a breadbox and not made out of tempered glass? Do I just ignore the behavior completely and be on endless poop-patrol when it all comes out in the end?
It seems that if she weren't so fixated on filling her mouth with miscellaneous materials, she might actually use it for speaking. She mutters a mere handful of words. Her brother does most of the communicating for her, translating a simple grunt or hand movement into an elaborate and eloquent pronouncement of her desires. She is quite satisfied with his interpreting skills. When prompted to repeat a word, she either grunts an "Nuh-uh", ignores us completely, or looks to her brother for rescue.
There's just no other explanation. Everything goes straight to her mouth. No hesitation. No observation. And with such nonchalance on whether or not it is edible.
This kid can eat! She eats as much as her brother, if not more. She loves all the normal, healthy, natural fare like fruits, vegetables, meats, breads, pastas, legumes, etc. There's not a food we've found that she turns down. But it seems she has developed a rather bad habit of snacking on the inedible as well.
The top of the crib looks like it's been attacked by a pack of rabid beavers. Teething, you ask? Well yes... maybe... but it's not just that...
Puzzle pieces, crayons, books, toys, blankets, crumbs... that "normal"stuff is inherently doomed to be chewed in any toddler's household, and our house is filled with these casualties. But what I'm talking about here is the a-typical chew-toys... like paper, plastic, cardboard, wood, fuzz, rocks, grass, flowers, straws, money, batteries, cell-phones, cat food, cat toys, and garbage. Basically anything that she can get her hands on and fit into her mouth or between her teeth, she will attempt to eat.
This is not just a little biting or a nibble. No, this is full on, chomping down, taking a bite, chewing and swallowing. The swallowing happens if I am too late in catching her. And "catch" is the operative word here because she takes off the second she hears, "Get that out of your mouth!" or "What on earth are you eating?" or my most often chanted phrase of "That's not food!".
Rarely, while fleeing, she will attempt to rid the evidence by pulling it out and throwing it aside, like a criminal. Most times I dare to stick my fingers in her mouth, which is akin to sticking your head in the mouth of a lion, and I pull out the "Oh Good God what is that?" chunk of something she found somewhere. And then there are the times that I am too late. Who knows how many items she's managed to get down.
And as comical as this all seems, I really do fear for her safety. Sometimes I fear that all of the gastric disturbances and diaper explosions are not really due to a milk allergy after all but from a bowel reaction from inedible objects.
I swear, I baby-proofed my house. And I will swear upon my First Edition Harry Potters that I do pay attention to and watch my kids, sometimes like a hawk. But she somehow finds these things. Like my house is a treasure trove of unknown hiding places for forbidden objects. I thought I knew every nook and cranny in this house until I found her gnashing a piece of plaster that she found behind a loose piece of moulding, which she also chewed.
When not filling her mouth with sustenance or swill, she is gnawing on her fingers. Biting her nails, chewing a knuckle, or molar-munching a fist full of fingers; she is forever orally fixated. And if one were to psychoanalyze according to Freud, they'd say she either suffered a period of neglect or was weaned too soon. Alas, I'm afraid I am guilty as charged. I may have weaned her before she was ready but at least I made it to 13 months and that's long enough for me. And there was a time when I could not be the attentive mother she deserved due to her brother's hospitalization. Hopefully she won't grow to be a chain smoker or an obnoxious gum chewer because of my failures. But I try to look past the guilt and just find a solution. Sorry Siggy.
I suppose the bigger picture here is effectively disciplining a headstrong and rebellious 17 month old. My wild child. I was once so proud of the near perfect, gently used collection of books and puzzles we had acquired with our first born. I only had to tell him once, maybe twice, to not put something in his mouth and he listened, understood, and obeyed. But this enigma of mastication is clever, coy, and very much a rebel. Sadly, I now find myself sighing while taping, patching, and most times tossing away those half-eaten books. I try to teach my children to respect their belongings, treat them with kindness, don't throw, destroy or heaven forbid eat them! She looks at me intently for a moment, I know she understands what I am trying to communicate, then she goes right back to eating the spine of yet another book.
I've tried all the usual techniques, that worked charmingly well on her older brother, but alas... yelling = deaf ears, the look = runs away giggling, time outs = no comprehension, hand slap = ignored, asking nicely = works for a moment then she smiles sweetly and returns to her preoccupation.
What are my other options here? Have I exhausted all sensible possibilities? Am I now left to resort to drastic measures? Do I coat everything in hot sauce? Do I move EVERYTHING in my house onto four-foot high platforms? Do I rid the house of any item smaller than a breadbox and not made out of tempered glass? Do I just ignore the behavior completely and be on endless poop-patrol when it all comes out in the end?
It seems that if she weren't so fixated on filling her mouth with miscellaneous materials, she might actually use it for speaking. She mutters a mere handful of words. Her brother does most of the communicating for her, translating a simple grunt or hand movement into an elaborate and eloquent pronouncement of her desires. She is quite satisfied with his interpreting skills. When prompted to repeat a word, she either grunts an "Nuh-uh", ignores us completely, or looks to her brother for rescue.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Make Room For Mommy
Sleep is one of my favorite things in the world.
Some people like money, I like sleep. Some people want money, I want sleep. Some people desperately yearn for money, I... think you get my point.
I have memories from childhood of favorite places I liked to sleep. The top bunk where I'd stare at the ceiling until I dozed, camping in a canvas tent on a cot snuggled inside a sleeping bag, and in the backyard in the grass, listening to the chirping of birds and buzzing of insects.
As a teen and young adult, sleeping became an art I perfected. I was good at it. Long stretches, 12-18 hrs at a time, and at any & all hours of the day & night you could find me practicing. I could sleep in any position, anywhere, anytime, any place and through any noise. I would joke that there could be a jackhammer outside my open window and I could sleep right through it. I did some modeling for an art class in college once where I used to fall asleep standing up while holding a pose for the students to paint. The professor would have to wake me when class was over.
Ahhh, those were the days. Sleep rained down on me like pennies from heaven. No, more like bars of gold. Now, I would settle for pennies.
It wasn't until I became pregnant with Ryan that I started having sleep trouble. It was not as bad as what most women experience during pregnancy, or so I've read and been told. I did my research and was prepared to lose a few Zs. For the most part, my pregnancy with Ryan was spectacular. I was full of energy, eating super healthy, looked and felt beautiful, and I only gained 18lbs. (I was overweight to begin with so I'm sure it was more like I gained 48 but lost 30 due to the lifestyle change.) I even worked 40+ hours a week right up until I was admitted to be induced because I was two weeks late. Being pregnant with Ryan was the best I had ever felt in my life. But there were a few, maybe a dozen, nights that I just could not get comfortable. I slept, just not as deeply or as happily as I did before.
I never had a label as far as "side sleeper" or "back sleeper", etc. Until then I believe I slept differently every night, whichever position suited me at the time. But now that I was pregnant all I really wanted to do was lie on my belly, but obviously that plan was thwarted. I researched sleep positioners and read articles on the proper pregnancy sleep positions. I even bought some expensive piece of foam that guaranteed me a restful night. I had propped myself up with so many pillows that poor future Big Daddy R had only a tiny edge of our queen size mattress to lay on. For that and other reasons, he eventually moved to the couch (temporarily) to get a good night's sleep.
The term "bun in the oven" is not far from the truth because I truly felt like an oven baking a constantly rolling ball of dough. My stomach felt 100 degrees hotter than the rest of my body. I slept with my belly uncovered, with sheets and blankets and comforters covering the rest of my body, even early on in my pregnancy which was in the winter. In the summer, a fan positioned about a foot from my bulge was set to high, in addition to a window air conditioner which was not far from the bed either. Many nights I ran into that fan or tripped over it while running to the potty. I later ended up climbing over Big Daddy R to avoid the hassle, much to his displeasure, which is another reason why he moved to the couch.
One night when I did sleep deeply, we awoke in a puddle and panicked. "Is it time?" Nope. Calm down. It's just pee. Apparently I was so deep in la-la land that my bladder let loose with the kick of the baby's foot before I could even open my eyes. Yet another reason for the couch.
Everyone was telling me about how I would never sleep well again once I had kids and I really, truly, thought they were exaggerating. "Come on now", I thought, "It can't be all that bad!"
Enter baby: crying, screaming, teething, gassy, playful-at-all-hours-of-the-night baby. And fate laughs.
While my pregnancy with Ryan was wonderful, my labor was agonizingly long much in part to being induced. I can still remember the how the nurses kept trying to push sleeping pills on me in the beginning telling me that I needed to rest up and that I needed to save my energy for when things started going. I refused again and again until Robert finally yelled at them to leave me alone and stop trying to push their drugs on me. I hated being induced. I was one of those naive moms-to-be that wrote a birthing plan and proudly handed out copies to every doctor and nurse that entered the room. It detailed how I wanted no intervention what-so-ever, unless in emergency, or if I changed my mind which is the right of every woman. I didn't want to be induced but the doctors insisted since I was two weeks late. Oh how fate likes to mock me!
Nothing went according to MY plan. I ended up with an epidural, and suction to pull him out, just stopping short of a C-section. And through 36 hours of hard labor, I somehow managed to stay awake through it all. According to Big Daddy though, I did pass out in between strong contractions, and woke right back up a minute later to push again and again. And after it was all over, I was too excited to sleep. Oh I dosed here and there, an hour or two at a time, but I was filled with amazing hormones that gave me energy and the delusion that I was indeed Wonder Woman.
The first few months I was a zombie. But a carefree super-hero zombie. Any tiny peep and I was right there, wide awake and ready to solve the problem. I know they say you shouldn't play with them in the middle of the night, but I just couldn't resist. I was so in love and amazed at this tiny creation that I didn't really mind the lack of sleep. I saw it as a badge of honor.
We eventually experimented with all kinds of baby-sleep aids: sleep positioners, swaddling, vibration, rocking, music and sound machines. As it turned out, he loved the sound of chirping birds and preferred to be uncovered, able to stretch out. He also had an insatiable appetite and wanted to eat about every hour or two. So into our bed he came much to the dismay of our doctor and contrary to the words of all the baby experts I had read.
Big Daddy R suggested a new bed to accommodate our growing family, and so he could get off the couch and join us. A ginormous king size bed was agreed upon, or more likely, the salesman saw an easy commission. We have a tiny house with even smaller rooms. This bed takes up almost the entire room. We have a hip-wide path on either side and between the dressers at the foot of the bed. It's a tight squeeze. I remember thinking it was unnecessary and ridiculous to have such a huge bed. But the salesman assured us we would need it. He must have had kids. And the fates chuckle once again.
Although the new bed was heavenly comfort, its purpose was wasted on me. I returned to work full time when he was 3 months old. After an entire night of feeding, I woke early to go work out at the gym. I lost another 45 lbs. These hormones were amazing I tell ya!
He was a snuggler and being a mommy in love, so was I. His favorite position was to wedge his big melon under my chin and smash his face on my neck, which turns out to be rather uncomfortable for me. He also loves to stretch out his body in every direction, pushing me to the edge of the bed. I would wake up with a sore back because I would tense all my muscles to prevent myself from falling off the edge of the bed during the night.
Meanwhile, Big Daddy slept like a hibernating bear, growling away, enjoying a generous half of the luxurious cushion of slumber. And the sweet little snoozing baby was stretched out like a Chinese star. And here I was, sleeping on less than 12".
The worst part though was the heat. I lovingly referred to him as "my little hot-box" and more accurately, "my little sweat-head". It seemed he had been the source of all of the volcanic activity in my belly during pregnancy. And like then, I discovered a fan, blowing right on him, to be a soothing solution.
He was finally sleeping all night through by six months. We did the whole cry it out thing with him in his own crib and in his own room. And yes, it was agonizing for us. We sat up in our big bed listening to him scream, taking turns checking on him every five, then ten, then fifteen minutes, being sure not to say a word or crack a smile or make eye contact... for two whole hours straight... for less than a week. At the time, I had no idea how lucky we were. It seemed he enjoyed sleep as much as I did. The birds, the fan, and being able to stretch out in his own space was all he needed. Now there were a few rough nights later on when he was two and started having night terrors, just after we changed the crib into the toddler bed. But by then I could handle a few nights of briefly interrupted sleep. So for a while I had a nice big bed all to myself, and the snoring grizzly bear, and finally got some rest. That is, until I got pregnant again.
It wasn't until I was pregnant with Rowan that I understood what other moms were going through. She is the complete opposite of Ryan in every way. Hindsight has shown me that I had it made with my first. He was my easy baby, and Rowan is my challenge. I had trouble right from the start with my pregnancy, from simple aches & pains, swelling, & morning-noon-&-night sickness, to the more serious hospitalizations for dehydration, kidney stones, & C-diff, not to mention all of the sleep deprivation. And unlike Ryan, she shot out of the cannon after a brief six hours of easy, all natural (lest the requested epidural) labor.
At first, she was a wonderful baby. As long as her belly was full and her mouth was plugged with boob, she slept through most nights. Now I nursed my first until he was 14 months and he liked to eat about every hour or two for the first six months, so I figured I was a pro at nursing. But no, this baby showed me I knew nothing. My nipples cracked and bled and I cried out in pain all the time. I needed a break, but she insisted, and I gave in, trading my comfort and sanity for a little sleep. But with each new tooth came weeks worth of sleepless nights. In addition, it seemed she caught every virus (respiratory, stomach, or otherwise) that came along and then gave it to all of us just as she was recovering: so more months worth of interrupted night time peace. Sick and tired doesn't even begin to cover what I was feeling. I thought it couldn't get any worse.
Then Ryan was diagnosed with cancer. That's when I really learned about sleepless nights. I spent two months at his bedside in the PICU, too worried to sleep. When I did nod off, out of sheer exhaustion, I either had terrifying nightmares or dreamless voids of blackness, which never seemed to rejuvenate me. When I had the time and opportunity to sleep (thanks to Ronald McDonald House right next door to the hospital), I found I simply could not sleep for more than a few hours because the worry ate me up inside. I would leave the hospital, begrudgingly, around 11pm. I would shower, read, and nurse the baby for hours straight, and eventually I would fall asleep. But I ended up leaving the room at 5AM to head back to him. I hated being away from him for even a second.
Once we were home, there was a period of adjustment for all of us. Separation anxiety caused Rowan to nurse all day and night long. Every three weeks we returned to the hospital for treatment, which meant a couple of sleepless nights on an uncomfortable couch for me. I eventually learned to sleep again, once I learned to not worry so much. It's a work in progress. And then there were more problems looming just around the bend.
More teething, weaning, and milk allergies led to more months of lost Zs. Granted, poor little Rowan suffered the most from all of this, including all the confusion and separation anxiety from everything that was happening around her. So after weeks of trying to get her to sleep in her own bed unsuccessfully, we allowed her to continue to sleep with us. Once we solved the milk-allergy problem, we found that she sleeps quite well in her own crib. But each new tooth sends her back to our bed. But now that she was no longer nursing at 13 months (my choice - not hers), she devised a way to be as close as possible to me. It involved practically climbing on top of me, particularly my head, and hitting me with her hard-as-a-boulder-noggin. She is restless, constantly moving during the night, and babbles in her sleep. For someone so petite, she sure knows how to throw around her weight. I start her in the center of the bed and she mysteriously works her way to the center of my pillow. Again, I am left with a few inches of bed.
After everything Ryan's been through we allow him to sleep in our bed on occasion. At first it was so we could cuddle and hold him and cry ourselves to sleep: happy tears that he is still with us. But there are times when he is in pain, or feeling ill from the chemo and just needs the comfort of his mommy & daddy to get some sleep. We oblige. He still is a sweat head. And still manages to push me over to the edge.
Usually it's either one or the other, but there are too many nights when they are both in our bed. So there is just no room for mommy. There are times I wake up catching myself rolling off the edge. The times I have resorted the chair or couch have resulted in increased back pain and even more grumpiness. So I just reposition the sleeping babies and make the most of my few inches of bed.
Now a-days, bedtime isn't so bad. We have a night time ritual of toy clean up, teeth brushing, pjs, stories, sippies of water, and tuck in, along with their favorite "sleepy music" CD playing in the background. Most nights the crying lasts a few minutes, or not at all. Some nights I actually get cuddle time with Big Daddy R. And on occasion, I actually do get some sleep, even when they are hogging the bed. One of my favorite Beatles songs describes it best...
Being greeted by smiles and smothered in kisses in the morning makes it all worth it. And whether or not I manage to get some shut-eye, life is golden. Eventually, maybe in a few years, I will finally be able to sleep like I used to. And those golden bricks of sleep will rain down from heaven and knock me out! (Is that fate laughing?) The kids had better be out of our bed by then, but I still expect the smiles and kisses!
Some people like money, I like sleep. Some people want money, I want sleep. Some people desperately yearn for money, I... think you get my point.
I have memories from childhood of favorite places I liked to sleep. The top bunk where I'd stare at the ceiling until I dozed, camping in a canvas tent on a cot snuggled inside a sleeping bag, and in the backyard in the grass, listening to the chirping of birds and buzzing of insects.
As a teen and young adult, sleeping became an art I perfected. I was good at it. Long stretches, 12-18 hrs at a time, and at any & all hours of the day & night you could find me practicing. I could sleep in any position, anywhere, anytime, any place and through any noise. I would joke that there could be a jackhammer outside my open window and I could sleep right through it. I did some modeling for an art class in college once where I used to fall asleep standing up while holding a pose for the students to paint. The professor would have to wake me when class was over.
Ahhh, those were the days. Sleep rained down on me like pennies from heaven. No, more like bars of gold. Now, I would settle for pennies.
It wasn't until I became pregnant with Ryan that I started having sleep trouble. It was not as bad as what most women experience during pregnancy, or so I've read and been told. I did my research and was prepared to lose a few Zs. For the most part, my pregnancy with Ryan was spectacular. I was full of energy, eating super healthy, looked and felt beautiful, and I only gained 18lbs. (I was overweight to begin with so I'm sure it was more like I gained 48 but lost 30 due to the lifestyle change.) I even worked 40+ hours a week right up until I was admitted to be induced because I was two weeks late. Being pregnant with Ryan was the best I had ever felt in my life. But there were a few, maybe a dozen, nights that I just could not get comfortable. I slept, just not as deeply or as happily as I did before.
I never had a label as far as "side sleeper" or "back sleeper", etc. Until then I believe I slept differently every night, whichever position suited me at the time. But now that I was pregnant all I really wanted to do was lie on my belly, but obviously that plan was thwarted. I researched sleep positioners and read articles on the proper pregnancy sleep positions. I even bought some expensive piece of foam that guaranteed me a restful night. I had propped myself up with so many pillows that poor future Big Daddy R had only a tiny edge of our queen size mattress to lay on. For that and other reasons, he eventually moved to the couch (temporarily) to get a good night's sleep.
The term "bun in the oven" is not far from the truth because I truly felt like an oven baking a constantly rolling ball of dough. My stomach felt 100 degrees hotter than the rest of my body. I slept with my belly uncovered, with sheets and blankets and comforters covering the rest of my body, even early on in my pregnancy which was in the winter. In the summer, a fan positioned about a foot from my bulge was set to high, in addition to a window air conditioner which was not far from the bed either. Many nights I ran into that fan or tripped over it while running to the potty. I later ended up climbing over Big Daddy R to avoid the hassle, much to his displeasure, which is another reason why he moved to the couch.
One night when I did sleep deeply, we awoke in a puddle and panicked. "Is it time?" Nope. Calm down. It's just pee. Apparently I was so deep in la-la land that my bladder let loose with the kick of the baby's foot before I could even open my eyes. Yet another reason for the couch.
Everyone was telling me about how I would never sleep well again once I had kids and I really, truly, thought they were exaggerating. "Come on now", I thought, "It can't be all that bad!"
Enter baby: crying, screaming, teething, gassy, playful-at-all-hours-of-the-night baby. And fate laughs.
While my pregnancy with Ryan was wonderful, my labor was agonizingly long much in part to being induced. I can still remember the how the nurses kept trying to push sleeping pills on me in the beginning telling me that I needed to rest up and that I needed to save my energy for when things started going. I refused again and again until Robert finally yelled at them to leave me alone and stop trying to push their drugs on me. I hated being induced. I was one of those naive moms-to-be that wrote a birthing plan and proudly handed out copies to every doctor and nurse that entered the room. It detailed how I wanted no intervention what-so-ever, unless in emergency, or if I changed my mind which is the right of every woman. I didn't want to be induced but the doctors insisted since I was two weeks late. Oh how fate likes to mock me!
Nothing went according to MY plan. I ended up with an epidural, and suction to pull him out, just stopping short of a C-section. And through 36 hours of hard labor, I somehow managed to stay awake through it all. According to Big Daddy though, I did pass out in between strong contractions, and woke right back up a minute later to push again and again. And after it was all over, I was too excited to sleep. Oh I dosed here and there, an hour or two at a time, but I was filled with amazing hormones that gave me energy and the delusion that I was indeed Wonder Woman.
The first few months I was a zombie. But a carefree super-hero zombie. Any tiny peep and I was right there, wide awake and ready to solve the problem. I know they say you shouldn't play with them in the middle of the night, but I just couldn't resist. I was so in love and amazed at this tiny creation that I didn't really mind the lack of sleep. I saw it as a badge of honor.
We eventually experimented with all kinds of baby-sleep aids: sleep positioners, swaddling, vibration, rocking, music and sound machines. As it turned out, he loved the sound of chirping birds and preferred to be uncovered, able to stretch out. He also had an insatiable appetite and wanted to eat about every hour or two. So into our bed he came much to the dismay of our doctor and contrary to the words of all the baby experts I had read.
Big Daddy R suggested a new bed to accommodate our growing family, and so he could get off the couch and join us. A ginormous king size bed was agreed upon, or more likely, the salesman saw an easy commission. We have a tiny house with even smaller rooms. This bed takes up almost the entire room. We have a hip-wide path on either side and between the dressers at the foot of the bed. It's a tight squeeze. I remember thinking it was unnecessary and ridiculous to have such a huge bed. But the salesman assured us we would need it. He must have had kids. And the fates chuckle once again.
Although the new bed was heavenly comfort, its purpose was wasted on me. I returned to work full time when he was 3 months old. After an entire night of feeding, I woke early to go work out at the gym. I lost another 45 lbs. These hormones were amazing I tell ya!
He was a snuggler and being a mommy in love, so was I. His favorite position was to wedge his big melon under my chin and smash his face on my neck, which turns out to be rather uncomfortable for me. He also loves to stretch out his body in every direction, pushing me to the edge of the bed. I would wake up with a sore back because I would tense all my muscles to prevent myself from falling off the edge of the bed during the night.
Meanwhile, Big Daddy slept like a hibernating bear, growling away, enjoying a generous half of the luxurious cushion of slumber. And the sweet little snoozing baby was stretched out like a Chinese star. And here I was, sleeping on less than 12".
The worst part though was the heat. I lovingly referred to him as "my little hot-box" and more accurately, "my little sweat-head". It seemed he had been the source of all of the volcanic activity in my belly during pregnancy. And like then, I discovered a fan, blowing right on him, to be a soothing solution.
He was finally sleeping all night through by six months. We did the whole cry it out thing with him in his own crib and in his own room. And yes, it was agonizing for us. We sat up in our big bed listening to him scream, taking turns checking on him every five, then ten, then fifteen minutes, being sure not to say a word or crack a smile or make eye contact... for two whole hours straight... for less than a week. At the time, I had no idea how lucky we were. It seemed he enjoyed sleep as much as I did. The birds, the fan, and being able to stretch out in his own space was all he needed. Now there were a few rough nights later on when he was two and started having night terrors, just after we changed the crib into the toddler bed. But by then I could handle a few nights of briefly interrupted sleep. So for a while I had a nice big bed all to myself, and the snoring grizzly bear, and finally got some rest. That is, until I got pregnant again.
It wasn't until I was pregnant with Rowan that I understood what other moms were going through. She is the complete opposite of Ryan in every way. Hindsight has shown me that I had it made with my first. He was my easy baby, and Rowan is my challenge. I had trouble right from the start with my pregnancy, from simple aches & pains, swelling, & morning-noon-&-night sickness, to the more serious hospitalizations for dehydration, kidney stones, & C-diff, not to mention all of the sleep deprivation. And unlike Ryan, she shot out of the cannon after a brief six hours of easy, all natural (lest the requested epidural) labor.
At first, she was a wonderful baby. As long as her belly was full and her mouth was plugged with boob, she slept through most nights. Now I nursed my first until he was 14 months and he liked to eat about every hour or two for the first six months, so I figured I was a pro at nursing. But no, this baby showed me I knew nothing. My nipples cracked and bled and I cried out in pain all the time. I needed a break, but she insisted, and I gave in, trading my comfort and sanity for a little sleep. But with each new tooth came weeks worth of sleepless nights. In addition, it seemed she caught every virus (respiratory, stomach, or otherwise) that came along and then gave it to all of us just as she was recovering: so more months worth of interrupted night time peace. Sick and tired doesn't even begin to cover what I was feeling. I thought it couldn't get any worse.
Then Ryan was diagnosed with cancer. That's when I really learned about sleepless nights. I spent two months at his bedside in the PICU, too worried to sleep. When I did nod off, out of sheer exhaustion, I either had terrifying nightmares or dreamless voids of blackness, which never seemed to rejuvenate me. When I had the time and opportunity to sleep (thanks to Ronald McDonald House right next door to the hospital), I found I simply could not sleep for more than a few hours because the worry ate me up inside. I would leave the hospital, begrudgingly, around 11pm. I would shower, read, and nurse the baby for hours straight, and eventually I would fall asleep. But I ended up leaving the room at 5AM to head back to him. I hated being away from him for even a second.
Once we were home, there was a period of adjustment for all of us. Separation anxiety caused Rowan to nurse all day and night long. Every three weeks we returned to the hospital for treatment, which meant a couple of sleepless nights on an uncomfortable couch for me. I eventually learned to sleep again, once I learned to not worry so much. It's a work in progress. And then there were more problems looming just around the bend.
More teething, weaning, and milk allergies led to more months of lost Zs. Granted, poor little Rowan suffered the most from all of this, including all the confusion and separation anxiety from everything that was happening around her. So after weeks of trying to get her to sleep in her own bed unsuccessfully, we allowed her to continue to sleep with us. Once we solved the milk-allergy problem, we found that she sleeps quite well in her own crib. But each new tooth sends her back to our bed. But now that she was no longer nursing at 13 months (my choice - not hers), she devised a way to be as close as possible to me. It involved practically climbing on top of me, particularly my head, and hitting me with her hard-as-a-boulder-noggin. She is restless, constantly moving during the night, and babbles in her sleep. For someone so petite, she sure knows how to throw around her weight. I start her in the center of the bed and she mysteriously works her way to the center of my pillow. Again, I am left with a few inches of bed.
After everything Ryan's been through we allow him to sleep in our bed on occasion. At first it was so we could cuddle and hold him and cry ourselves to sleep: happy tears that he is still with us. But there are times when he is in pain, or feeling ill from the chemo and just needs the comfort of his mommy & daddy to get some sleep. We oblige. He still is a sweat head. And still manages to push me over to the edge.
Usually it's either one or the other, but there are too many nights when they are both in our bed. So there is just no room for mommy. There are times I wake up catching myself rolling off the edge. The times I have resorted the chair or couch have resulted in increased back pain and even more grumpiness. So I just reposition the sleeping babies and make the most of my few inches of bed.
Now a-days, bedtime isn't so bad. We have a night time ritual of toy clean up, teeth brushing, pjs, stories, sippies of water, and tuck in, along with their favorite "sleepy music" CD playing in the background. Most nights the crying lasts a few minutes, or not at all. Some nights I actually get cuddle time with Big Daddy R. And on occasion, I actually do get some sleep, even when they are hogging the bed. One of my favorite Beatles songs describes it best...
Once there was a way to get back homeward
Once there was a way to get back home
Sleep pretty darling do not cry
And I will sing a lullaby
Golden slumbers fill your eyes
Smiles awake you when you rise
Sleep pretty darling do not cry
And I will sing a lullaby
Being greeted by smiles and smothered in kisses in the morning makes it all worth it. And whether or not I manage to get some shut-eye, life is golden. Eventually, maybe in a few years, I will finally be able to sleep like I used to. And those golden bricks of sleep will rain down from heaven and knock me out! (Is that fate laughing?) The kids had better be out of our bed by then, but I still expect the smiles and kisses!
Monday, July 25, 2011
Open Sesame
Some days are magical.
It starts with rousing from sleep while being covered in little angel kisses, my ears being greeted with the sound of little voices giggling and chanting my favorite name, "mama", my eyes fluttering open to see chubby smiles. And then I glance at the alarm clock to see it's nearly 10AM.
Is it possible for such a rarity to occur?
Definitely magic.
I wash and dress and inspect my appearance in the mirror. There's a smile there. Every hair is in place and all the fabric fits perfectly. Big brother R dresses himself and little R sits quietly allowing me to fix her hair.
They eat all their food, nothing left to throw away: fresh fruits & veggies, cheese & yogurt, and whole wheat bread and crackers.
Some days the magic dissipates with the first tantrum. And other days, like today, it lingers, filling the voids with incredible happenings.
Big brother R reads his first word. Little sister R says a new word. And I find time to bake some cookies and organize all of my coupons.
The kids hug and kiss each other, share their toys, help each other, read to each other. Their kindness flows over to me as well: hugs and kisses, "may I"s, "please"s and "thank you"s, cuddles galore, and lots of "I love you"s.
All of nature calls to me: the weather beautiful, a strong sweet breeze, the flowers bright and full, the cheerful chirping and busy buzzing. I breathe it all in.
The positive energy is palpable, even the once lazy cats perk up playful as kittens. We are all energized in play. We dance, chase, and discover new acrobatic feats. We blow bubbles, decorate the drive with chalk masterpieces, and make wishes on dandelions that have gone to seed.
Nap time and bed time rituals come and go without fights or tears. A restful sleep brings pleasant dreams.
The next day I decide to keep the magic alive. I closed my eyes to the messes, pushed the clouds of frustration aside, and ignored the laundry and dishes. And I was rewarded once again.
Perhaps the magic is always there and I just opened my heart long enough to see it.
It starts with rousing from sleep while being covered in little angel kisses, my ears being greeted with the sound of little voices giggling and chanting my favorite name, "mama", my eyes fluttering open to see chubby smiles. And then I glance at the alarm clock to see it's nearly 10AM.
Is it possible for such a rarity to occur?
Definitely magic.
I wash and dress and inspect my appearance in the mirror. There's a smile there. Every hair is in place and all the fabric fits perfectly. Big brother R dresses himself and little R sits quietly allowing me to fix her hair.
They eat all their food, nothing left to throw away: fresh fruits & veggies, cheese & yogurt, and whole wheat bread and crackers.
Some days the magic dissipates with the first tantrum. And other days, like today, it lingers, filling the voids with incredible happenings.
Big brother R reads his first word. Little sister R says a new word. And I find time to bake some cookies and organize all of my coupons.
The kids hug and kiss each other, share their toys, help each other, read to each other. Their kindness flows over to me as well: hugs and kisses, "may I"s, "please"s and "thank you"s, cuddles galore, and lots of "I love you"s.
All of nature calls to me: the weather beautiful, a strong sweet breeze, the flowers bright and full, the cheerful chirping and busy buzzing. I breathe it all in.
The positive energy is palpable, even the once lazy cats perk up playful as kittens. We are all energized in play. We dance, chase, and discover new acrobatic feats. We blow bubbles, decorate the drive with chalk masterpieces, and make wishes on dandelions that have gone to seed.
Nap time and bed time rituals come and go without fights or tears. A restful sleep brings pleasant dreams.
The next day I decide to keep the magic alive. I closed my eyes to the messes, pushed the clouds of frustration aside, and ignored the laundry and dishes. And I was rewarded once again.
Perhaps the magic is always there and I just opened my heart long enough to see it.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
No Rest For The Winey
AMAZING!
The kids are in bed by 9.
NINE! Both kids! And not just in bed, sleeping too!
I decide to celebrate with a glass of wine. Luckily, I have a bottle. This too, is also amazing. Bottles are not something I have the luxury of adding to my shopping cart on a regular basis. The stars align when there is a sale, I have a coupon and/or there is a nice rebate, or I am a half crazed midnight shopping lunatic after a stressful little-monster-rearing day. I believe this particular purchase was the result of all 3.
And this isn't just a bottle. This is a put-you-into-a-coma-if-you-attempt-to-drink-it-all-by-yourself vessel. I bought it in the hopes of having someone to share it with, a friend perhaps. Big Daddy R doesn't drink so I am usually solo on the stumbling. And there is not much time for socializing when you have a germ-avoiding paranoia, for good reason, as well as an incessant need to be on my toes for any emergencies that may arise. The very thought of being intoxicated or away from the house if/when something awful were to happen causes a panic in me you probably can't imagine.
But tonight all is well, I am safe at home with a perfectly capable Big Daddy R, and they are fast asleep. What could possibly go wrong?
Most times when I feel the need to have a glass of wine I grab my favorite Food Network Food Show wine glass head across the street to the neighbors. The Porch Dwellers, as most in my neighborhood affectionately call them, have a seemingly endless supply of bottles and are always eager to pour. They love the company and the stories of mayhem I share. I must be like a live-action version of bad reality TV series for them. No wonder they keep pouring.
It usually takes place shortly after dinner, when the little Rs are still up causing trouble and messes still litter the floor. I get that glossy look in my eye, slip on my shoes, and with glass in hand, and halfway out the door, I holler to Big Daddy R that I'm gonna go chat with the neighbors a bit, tipping my glass in his direction. He nods and reluctantly concedes. He knows what that means. He is on his own for the bed-time routine. I practically run across the street and pretend not to hear the crash of the next disaster that is taking place inside while Big Daddy R desperately tries to round up the wild stallions.
It is my one escape and thankfully he lets me have it. He who occasionally goes in to work at 6AM when the regular start time is 9AM, who also occasionally comes home well after 6PM no matter when he starts, who is the sole supporter of our family unit, who still somehow has energy enough to play with the kids after all that hard work and agrees to watch them for me, all alone, while I indulge in a forbidden luxury... time to myself... a lil R & R.
But tonight is different. Tonight I have air conditioning, my laptop, comfy Pj's, a cork screw, and a large glistening glass. I'm all set.
I eagerly twist the screw into the imitation cork and begin to pull. It's not budging. I twist a little more, push down the wings of the cork screw and try again. Maybe a centimeter. Ugh! I repeat the process until I am sure the screw is undoubtedly adequately wedged in the cork and attempt to pull once more. I am careful not to knock over any dirty dishes that still sit on the counter, that I pretend not to see. I am tempted to grab the screw between my molars and tug but quickly decide that would be a BAD idea.
Big Daddy R hears me grunting from the next room. "What on Earth are you doing in there?" he asks. At first I am frozen like a guilty teen who has just been caught eyeing a beer in the fridge. But I am an adult. At least most times I am. And I am allowed to have a glass of wine if I want to. "Hello? Is everything alright in there?" he asks again.
"Fine." I grunt, "Just trying to open this bottle of wine." He offers to help but I have the determination of a child who doesn't understand or believe in impossibilities. I give one last tug and slowly wriggle the plug free.
Success! I pour my glass more than half full and proceed to my throne in the living room. Once settled in, I take one sip, then one long gulp. Ahhh!
I set the glass down and start to work on my laptop. As I drift off into digital space I am hurled into reality by a soft subtle whimper coming from above.
Oh No! Immediately my shoulders slump. I look to Big Daddy who looks at me with raised eyebrows as if to say, "it's you they want." I quickly grab my glass and take several large gulps as the volume increases into a duet of their favorite nighttime serenade, To Mommy with Love. I squeeze my eyes shut trying to ignore it. It's no use. I hammer out a few words on my blog, hit save and close it up. Taking one more gulp I scramble out of my chair and up the stairs.
After consoling and diaper changes, they drift back off to sleep and I quietly tiptoe back down stairs to greet my glass. I return to my typing and for about an hour I get some uninterrupted peaceful R & R.
More cries. I scoot upstairs and manage to get them back to sleep then return to my wine and writing. After finishing my glass and my post, I head upstairs to get some sleep. It's about midnight.
I am awoken by more cries at 1. More consoling, then back to bed. The dreamless sleep that followed was a well-needed but short-lived escape.
I am groggily awakened by a repeated thud. The sound is coming from inside my head. And for some reason the outside of my head hurts too. This could not possibly be a hangover. No, I only had one glass! I push away the thought and try to go back to sleep but the banging is persistent.
Slowly, I start to realize that I am being hit on the head by a hard object. I reach up to touch a fleshy and hair covered globe. Confused, I force my eyes open and see little R. I stop her from hitting me one last time with her head and reposition her on the pillow next to me. She is still asleep. She likes to be right on top of me when she sleeps in our bed. I am too tired to even question the strange behavior.
I start to drift back to sleep but am awakened again by the sobering realization of "Why is she in our bed? How did she get here?" She recently learned how to scale her sleep-prison (crib) but I dropped it down to the last notch and thought she couldn't possibly climb out of that let alone mount our king size bed by herself, without a peep, and without waking the entire household.
I look over and see Big Daddy R is in bed too and conclude that he must have brought her into our bed after another rousing chorus that I obviously slept through. It is too late to spend another second thinking about, so I sigh and return to my pillow. I glance at the clock, 4:30. I got three and half hours straight, now that's amazing!
I close my eyes only to find them flying open again minutes later, just as I was drifting off. I had that creepy feeling that someone was watching me. I roll over quickly and come face to face with the older R standing beside my bed with an arm load of stuffed animals.
"Can you help me Mom" he asks. What?" I can't even comprehend. He asks again and I suddenly realize what he wants. I oblige, taking the fluffy creatures from his overloaded arms one by one and tossing them behind me to the center of the bed, just careful enough not to hit the sleeping giant and mini me. A caterpillar, a puppy, a giraffe, a bear, a glo worm, a kitty, another puppy, and a bunch of not-so-fluffy toys including a mini computer, a glow board, a few die cast cars and the dreaded leaky sippy join us on the bed. He climbs up and I bury my face in the pillow determined to doze.
Whining and nudging ensue.
"What are you trying to do?" I beg. I roll over to see him on his hands and knees next to my legs trying to wedge himself between me and little R.
"But I wanna sleep by you." he whines. "Move baby Ro over! Put her in her own bed!" he demands.
"No," I firmly press, "She's asleep. I can't move her. If you want to sleep in here then climb next to Daddy. There's room over there. There's plenty of room in this bed for all of us." Obviously not room enough for me as I later discover in a forthcoming post.
He reluctantly crawls over and snuggles next to Daddy and at last I dose off to sleep just around 5:30.
A cold wet puddle creeping quickly down my side wakes me with a start. I jump out of bed so fast that I fell into the wall. I want to curse but grit my teeth. I look at the bed to see the leaky sippy turned upside down draining into the valley where my body once lay sleeping soundly... but briefly, as it is now only 7:30.
I grab the sippy and put it on the night stand while noticing that everyone else is asleep, even the cat at the foot of the bed. I definitely do NOT want to wake them now with a sheet change. Tiptoeing to the bathroom, I peel off my Pj's, clean my sticky side with a baby wipe, and grab a towel. I pull the first t-shirt my hand finds out of the dresser and pull it on, pretty sure it's backwards and inside out. Placing the towel over the puddle, I crawl back into bed.
Morning comes at 8:30 with little R's kisses planted all over my face. Just as I was starting to sleepily smile and try to open my eyes, she slaps me in the face and then promptly kisses it again. I don't even have time to react. I hear more kisses but they are not for me. This time they are for brother R who giggles with delight at the affection. He crawls over to me and covers me with kisses as well. What a way to wake!
Big Daddy R is still snoring.
The morning birds start bouncing all over me in the bed until I agree to get up and get them some breakfast and sippies of milk. I manage to stand and realize the puddle soaked through the towel and onto my t-shirt which is indeed inside out and backwards. I don't mind.
The positive energy in the room is contagious. Although I barely got any R & R, I am in a good mood. How could you not be when covered with kisses?
The kids are in bed by 9.
NINE! Both kids! And not just in bed, sleeping too!
I decide to celebrate with a glass of wine. Luckily, I have a bottle. This too, is also amazing. Bottles are not something I have the luxury of adding to my shopping cart on a regular basis. The stars align when there is a sale, I have a coupon and/or there is a nice rebate, or I am a half crazed midnight shopping lunatic after a stressful little-monster-rearing day. I believe this particular purchase was the result of all 3.
And this isn't just a bottle. This is a put-you-into-a-coma-if-you-attempt-to-drink-it-all-by-yourself vessel. I bought it in the hopes of having someone to share it with, a friend perhaps. Big Daddy R doesn't drink so I am usually solo on the stumbling. And there is not much time for socializing when you have a germ-avoiding paranoia, for good reason, as well as an incessant need to be on my toes for any emergencies that may arise. The very thought of being intoxicated or away from the house if/when something awful were to happen causes a panic in me you probably can't imagine.
But tonight all is well, I am safe at home with a perfectly capable Big Daddy R, and they are fast asleep. What could possibly go wrong?
Most times when I feel the need to have a glass of wine I grab my favorite Food Network Food Show wine glass head across the street to the neighbors. The Porch Dwellers, as most in my neighborhood affectionately call them, have a seemingly endless supply of bottles and are always eager to pour. They love the company and the stories of mayhem I share. I must be like a live-action version of bad reality TV series for them. No wonder they keep pouring.
It usually takes place shortly after dinner, when the little Rs are still up causing trouble and messes still litter the floor. I get that glossy look in my eye, slip on my shoes, and with glass in hand, and halfway out the door, I holler to Big Daddy R that I'm gonna go chat with the neighbors a bit, tipping my glass in his direction. He nods and reluctantly concedes. He knows what that means. He is on his own for the bed-time routine. I practically run across the street and pretend not to hear the crash of the next disaster that is taking place inside while Big Daddy R desperately tries to round up the wild stallions.
It is my one escape and thankfully he lets me have it. He who occasionally goes in to work at 6AM when the regular start time is 9AM, who also occasionally comes home well after 6PM no matter when he starts, who is the sole supporter of our family unit, who still somehow has energy enough to play with the kids after all that hard work and agrees to watch them for me, all alone, while I indulge in a forbidden luxury... time to myself... a lil R & R.
But tonight is different. Tonight I have air conditioning, my laptop, comfy Pj's, a cork screw, and a large glistening glass. I'm all set.
I eagerly twist the screw into the imitation cork and begin to pull. It's not budging. I twist a little more, push down the wings of the cork screw and try again. Maybe a centimeter. Ugh! I repeat the process until I am sure the screw is undoubtedly adequately wedged in the cork and attempt to pull once more. I am careful not to knock over any dirty dishes that still sit on the counter, that I pretend not to see. I am tempted to grab the screw between my molars and tug but quickly decide that would be a BAD idea.
Big Daddy R hears me grunting from the next room. "What on Earth are you doing in there?" he asks. At first I am frozen like a guilty teen who has just been caught eyeing a beer in the fridge. But I am an adult. At least most times I am. And I am allowed to have a glass of wine if I want to. "Hello? Is everything alright in there?" he asks again.
"Fine." I grunt, "Just trying to open this bottle of wine." He offers to help but I have the determination of a child who doesn't understand or believe in impossibilities. I give one last tug and slowly wriggle the plug free.
Success! I pour my glass more than half full and proceed to my throne in the living room. Once settled in, I take one sip, then one long gulp. Ahhh!
I set the glass down and start to work on my laptop. As I drift off into digital space I am hurled into reality by a soft subtle whimper coming from above.
Oh No! Immediately my shoulders slump. I look to Big Daddy who looks at me with raised eyebrows as if to say, "it's you they want." I quickly grab my glass and take several large gulps as the volume increases into a duet of their favorite nighttime serenade, To Mommy with Love. I squeeze my eyes shut trying to ignore it. It's no use. I hammer out a few words on my blog, hit save and close it up. Taking one more gulp I scramble out of my chair and up the stairs.
After consoling and diaper changes, they drift back off to sleep and I quietly tiptoe back down stairs to greet my glass. I return to my typing and for about an hour I get some uninterrupted peaceful R & R.
More cries. I scoot upstairs and manage to get them back to sleep then return to my wine and writing. After finishing my glass and my post, I head upstairs to get some sleep. It's about midnight.
I am awoken by more cries at 1. More consoling, then back to bed. The dreamless sleep that followed was a well-needed but short-lived escape.
I am groggily awakened by a repeated thud. The sound is coming from inside my head. And for some reason the outside of my head hurts too. This could not possibly be a hangover. No, I only had one glass! I push away the thought and try to go back to sleep but the banging is persistent.
Slowly, I start to realize that I am being hit on the head by a hard object. I reach up to touch a fleshy and hair covered globe. Confused, I force my eyes open and see little R. I stop her from hitting me one last time with her head and reposition her on the pillow next to me. She is still asleep. She likes to be right on top of me when she sleeps in our bed. I am too tired to even question the strange behavior.
I start to drift back to sleep but am awakened again by the sobering realization of "Why is she in our bed? How did she get here?" She recently learned how to scale her sleep-prison (crib) but I dropped it down to the last notch and thought she couldn't possibly climb out of that let alone mount our king size bed by herself, without a peep, and without waking the entire household.
I look over and see Big Daddy R is in bed too and conclude that he must have brought her into our bed after another rousing chorus that I obviously slept through. It is too late to spend another second thinking about, so I sigh and return to my pillow. I glance at the clock, 4:30. I got three and half hours straight, now that's amazing!
I close my eyes only to find them flying open again minutes later, just as I was drifting off. I had that creepy feeling that someone was watching me. I roll over quickly and come face to face with the older R standing beside my bed with an arm load of stuffed animals.
"Can you help me Mom" he asks. What?" I can't even comprehend. He asks again and I suddenly realize what he wants. I oblige, taking the fluffy creatures from his overloaded arms one by one and tossing them behind me to the center of the bed, just careful enough not to hit the sleeping giant and mini me. A caterpillar, a puppy, a giraffe, a bear, a glo worm, a kitty, another puppy, and a bunch of not-so-fluffy toys including a mini computer, a glow board, a few die cast cars and the dreaded leaky sippy join us on the bed. He climbs up and I bury my face in the pillow determined to doze.
Whining and nudging ensue.
"What are you trying to do?" I beg. I roll over to see him on his hands and knees next to my legs trying to wedge himself between me and little R.
"But I wanna sleep by you." he whines. "Move baby Ro over! Put her in her own bed!" he demands.
"No," I firmly press, "She's asleep. I can't move her. If you want to sleep in here then climb next to Daddy. There's room over there. There's plenty of room in this bed for all of us." Obviously not room enough for me as I later discover in a forthcoming post.
He reluctantly crawls over and snuggles next to Daddy and at last I dose off to sleep just around 5:30.
A cold wet puddle creeping quickly down my side wakes me with a start. I jump out of bed so fast that I fell into the wall. I want to curse but grit my teeth. I look at the bed to see the leaky sippy turned upside down draining into the valley where my body once lay sleeping soundly... but briefly, as it is now only 7:30.
I grab the sippy and put it on the night stand while noticing that everyone else is asleep, even the cat at the foot of the bed. I definitely do NOT want to wake them now with a sheet change. Tiptoeing to the bathroom, I peel off my Pj's, clean my sticky side with a baby wipe, and grab a towel. I pull the first t-shirt my hand finds out of the dresser and pull it on, pretty sure it's backwards and inside out. Placing the towel over the puddle, I crawl back into bed.
Morning comes at 8:30 with little R's kisses planted all over my face. Just as I was starting to sleepily smile and try to open my eyes, she slaps me in the face and then promptly kisses it again. I don't even have time to react. I hear more kisses but they are not for me. This time they are for brother R who giggles with delight at the affection. He crawls over to me and covers me with kisses as well. What a way to wake!
Big Daddy R is still snoring.
The morning birds start bouncing all over me in the bed until I agree to get up and get them some breakfast and sippies of milk. I manage to stand and realize the puddle soaked through the towel and onto my t-shirt which is indeed inside out and backwards. I don't mind.
The positive energy in the room is contagious. Although I barely got any R & R, I am in a good mood. How could you not be when covered with kisses?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)