Happy Halloween

The Boy, getting ready to go out begging

"We go twick-tweat," The Boy said, walking from house to house. When the doors swung open, he often was too shy to get the words out. But he always managed to say thank you. My momma's heart is proud.

(And, unlike one rude little girl at our door, he never went rummaging through the candy dish on his own, without permission. What is wrong with people?)

Like the flip-flops? That's how we roll in Florida.

Something I didn't expect

I always look forward to the fall. I love the clothes, the colors, the cider and the pumpkin-spiced coffee creamer (seriously, if you've never tried it, it makes getting out of bed early totally worth it.)

And, of course, Daylight Savings Time. That glorious extra hour on a Sunday morning. In college, it was an extra hour to drink or an extra hour snuggled up in bed. After college, it was an extra hour away from work. It was fabulous. Luxurious. Mine all mine.

Then I had a baby.

They should have an entire chapter dedicated to this in "What to expect to expecting." I remember being totally gobsmacked that Peanut wouldn't honor the DST tradition of JUST SLEEPING and then feeling pretty stupid for not seeing it coming. When you are sleep-deprived, back at work a little over a month, the thought of an extra hour of sleep consumes you. The glory of it!

Peanut was just a few months old when we first experienced DST as a family. I don't remember it being a huge transition since she was still in that sleep for two hours, awake for an hour, sleep for two hours phase during the day and sleeping for three or fours at a time at night. I do remember not getting that extra hour. My hour.

This year, I'm a little worried how she will transition. We are pretty regimented in our routines of sleeping and eating so I'm pretty sure an hour will make a difference.

What have you done to help your kids through it?Is there anything to do besides suck it up and deal?

Cranky bits

The husband and I work for the same newspaper. He's an editor; I'm a reporter. We're going to an event this weekend -- a costume ball -- in the community of which he's in charge of news coverage. Twice today I've been referred to as Mr. Editor's wife. No other name given or needed.

My feminist heart bleeds.

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My in-laws arrive tonight for a long weekend. The Boy will be out of school Monday. Trick-or-treat is Saturday. And it's the time change.

I'm assuming our lives will have no schedule for the next week, at least.

---

I am a pregnant woman with a toddler. I also am a health reporter. I spent yesterday afternoon creating a PowerPoint presentation for my coworkers about H1N1 in the workplace.

I would like just one swine flu-free day.

---

The Boy has developed a sudden and intense diaper rash. (I blame a week's worth of applesauce for lunch.) In telling me about said rash, the afternoon daycare lady observed that The Boy really hates diaper changes, which, she said, is a sure sign he's going to be hard to potty train.

There is a fine line between commiserating and just being rude.

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Three people in the last week have asked me if I've had my flu shot. None of them were my mother, my husband or my doctor.

Apparently, they've never heard of medical privacy laws.

It's the little things

In an effort to keep a smile on my face and think positively, I'm making a list of things that make me happy every day:

• The text message from my husband telling me Peanut ate an entire container of yogurt with a spoon by herself. He even sent photos of her looking very proud and very covered in yogurt.
• Peanut's never-ending supply of kisses. I make that child kiss me every 5 minutes. I smack my lips together and she comes running at me, head first, smacking her lips together too before planting a big one on me. Sometimes, she even just grabs my face and kisses me.
• Tuesday lunches at the library. I work in a different office on Tuesdays, closer to home and to the library. I make a list of books I want and spend 20-30 minutes going through the stacks. I always feel like I'm walking out with new treasure.
• Evenings with my husband. After Peanut goes to bed and we have everything ready for the next day, the husband and I just relax. Sometimes we talk. Sometimes we do our own thing (me buried in the books I got at the library, him watching sports or on the laptop). It's easy, lovely and always a nice way to end our hectic days.
• Pumpkin-spiced coffee creamer. I look forward to this every fall and it usually takes me forever to find the store that carries it. Months. This year, I've already found it. I almost squealed with glee and did a happy dance right there in the dairy aisle.

What's keeping you happy?

See ya later, kid

The Boy, his classmates and their teacher met me at the half-door of the one-year-old room when I walked in for pick-up. I was a little earlier than usual. They were on their way out to the playground, as The Boy informed me.

"I go outside and play, Momma!"

"We can play outside at home, kiddo. We've got to go home."

The tears started. He cried for half our drive home. Even the blanky was no consolation. Every time the sobbing stopped, I'd hear, "I go outside. Go outside, though," and the wails would resume.

At least he's happy at school, I told myself. I repeated it again this morning.

The Boy couldn't be bothered to give me a hug or kiss or even say goodbye at drop-off. Miss AJ was reading "Mr. Brown Can Moo," and they were on the lightning page. "That's boom-boom," The Boy said, pointing to the page and completely ignoring me.

I remembered my cousin Mindy.

When I started kindergarten, Mindy, who was in high school and a frequent and well-loved babysitter, walked me everyday to my bus and kissed me goodbye. One day, after making friends and awakening to the idea of things being cool or uncool, I asked Mindy not to kiss me. OK, she said. She walked me to my bus and, without missing a beat, smacked me upside the head and said, "See ya later, kid." My 5-year-old self was shocked.

Now, I know how she felt.

Even moms need their moms

I finally breathed a sigh of relief today.

We've been obsessing over Peanut's health since mid-week last week. Analyzing her diaper and fearfully opening her bedroom door, not sure if we would be hit with the sickening smell of vomit. She went from bad to better to not so great and since I was only able to get an insurance nurse on the phone to answer my questions, we've gone undiagnosed.

Even though Peanut seemed OK Sunday, she still was subsisting on a diet of popsicles and water with a little juice and crackers if she was particularly hungry. We decided to keep her home. My mother offered to make the hour drive over early in the morning to stay with her so that we could both go to work.

It was the best thing that could have happened besides Peanut being 100 percent.

I called twice this morning to see how she was doing. Mom said Peanut slammed a PB&J, refused some grapes and was off for a nap. She told me not to worry. She was fine.

I got home and a happy, healthy Peanut rushed into my arms for a kiss. She hugged and kissed her Ma'am and blew kisses to her as she drove away.

I'm almost 30, have a husband, a house, a child and a cat and I still need my mom.

I hope I will be able to do the same for Peanut when she has her own little Peanut.

Clever, but creepy

The Boy had a bad dream the other night and came trotting into our bedroom at 2 a.m. to tell us about it.

"Scared me," he said. "I scared."

The husband rolled out of bed and gathered up the kiddo, taking him back to bed. I heard the two of them talking as the husband tucked in The Boy, but couldn't make out the words.

"What'd you tell him?" I asked when the husband returned.

The husband explained he'd put The Boy to bed with his menagerie of stuffed animals.

"And I told him, his animals would protect him. That they'd watch out for him, because they're the best watchers there are. When Momma goes to sleep, she closes her eyes. And when Daddy sleeps he closes his eyes. And when Joce (our cat) sleeps, she closes her eyes. And when he sleeps, The Boy closes his eyes.

"But his animals, they NEVER close their eyes."

I'm creeped out, but The Boy seemed to be comforted.

So this is parenthood No. 6

I called the doctor's office 7 times today. Three times, a recorded message told me they were so busy they couldn't even bother to let me stay on hold and hung up the phone (my words, not theirs). Four times, I stayed on hold for 15 minutes each and still never talked to a live person.

Peanut had no fever. Her stomach issues had stopped manifesting themselves in ways I would rather not get into. But she wasn't herself. She wasn't eating much if anything and she wouldn't play at all. She just wanted to sleep and sit on my lap.

I finally called our insurance's nurse hotline at 4:30 p.m. after a long and worry-filled day. The nurse said we were doing everything right. Peanut whimpered and whined on my hip the entire time.

As soon as I got off the phone, she wanted to play. She laughed. She ate.

She's fine. I've aged five years today.

What's in a name?

The other night Peanut and I went for a walk. We passed a neighbor once and on the second meeting, we stopped to chat. I never met this woman before so as we were exchanging vitals (she's lived in the neighborhood for 35 years and has 5 children) she asked what "our" name was.

My immediate response? I blurted out my maiden name after almost four years of marriage. I quickly backtracked and gave her my hyphenated name then just my husband's name. I'm surprised this woman didn't report me to the authorities since I probably seemed drunk.

The next day, I was so happy to find this post on Work it Mom, which led me to this at Motherlode.

I'm not the only one. I struggled with what to do with my name when we married. I felt I had established myself in my career with my maiden name. It seemed weird to change it. But I also didn't want my husband to feel like I didn't want to be a family. He didn't really mind either way so I decided to hyphenate legally, go by my maiden name professionally and my married name personally.

You can understand my confusion when this woman asked for my name.

I've been thinking about this more lately and haven't come up with an answer of what is best. I wonder if my own confusion will confuse my daughter when she gets older. She has just her father's name. I wonder if she will even care.

What did you do with your name when you got married?

Perspective

Things have been stressful lately. Work is busy. We are busy. It never seems to stop.

Peanut was sick two weeks ago. Mild but enough for me to take off a little early one day and stay home the next. Last week, our babysitter's son was sick so Lucas stayed home with Peanut. Now she has picked up some kind of bug and I've been analyzing her poo for the past 48 hours. I'll spare you the details but I'm keeping her home again tomorrow.

I kept thinking, "I need to go to work. I don't have time for this. I should be at work."

Then a friend posted this on her Facebook page. I don't know this family but their story has given me perspective. They are trying to decide what treatment to get for their son, who has cancer, or if they should give him the best few months before letting him go.

And I'm worried about missing a day of work.

So, please, take a moment to say a prayer for this family. Think healing thoughts or even just that they may find peace in this time.

Push, push, push

"So, was dinner better last night?"

My coworker is the mother of The Boy's best little buddy. The kids are nine months apart. We spend a lot of time commiserating about parenthood and work and the challenges of both. I appreciated her asking. But rehashing yet another tantrum-filled dinner wasn't pleasant.

The Boy decided in the two minutes it took corn to cook in the microwave that he wanted a cupcake, not supper. Things went downhill from there. Suffice to say, The Boy and I were equally red-faced and angry by the time the husband got home.

"But," I said, "I don't think this has anything to do with food."

The Boy is fighting us all the time these days, I told my friend. He doesn't want to go to school. "I stay here. I cooking." He doesn't want to go to bed. "I read. Read dat book." He doesn't want to take a bath. "I playing trucks. I stay here." He doesn't want to leave school. "I wanna go outside. I wanna play here."

My coworker nodded her head at me across the cubicle wall. She said her son, who isn't talking yet, gets frustrated and angry when he can't communicate. (Yep, been there, I nodded.) The Boy's problem is he can communicate and can't understand why we aren't listening, she said.

And a lightbulb went off over my head.

I'm assuming this no-duh analysis didn't occur to me because my brain was expending too much energy preventing my body from beating my wailing banshee of a child. Because seriously, it makes so much sense. When The Boy first began talking, we rewarded his words with action. He asked for milk and he got it. A habit was formed. Also, The Boy isn't talking in just one-word statements anymore. We're getting complete sentences. He knows things I couldn't tell you when he learned. (Case in point: I was absent-mindedly narrating the grocery shopping, as I've done since he was a newborn. "Oh Boy, what kind of ice cream should we get?" I didn't expect an answer, but got a definitive, "The brown kind. We get brown kind.") The Boy tells us stories -- he told me today our cat was going to play football -- and is starting to put his emotions into words. He's learning the power of speech. That he would want to test the limits of that power, to see how strong his words are, only makes sense.

Knowing The Boy is just testing us, flexing his verbal skills, helps. Listening to the screaming still sucks, no two ways about it. But I feel less guilty and more vindicated that I'm handling things the right way by ignoring the screaming and not giving into the tantrum.

It also reminds me that for every episode of mouthiness, we get a silly session of singing and a declaration of "I missed you" at daycare pick up. Might not be an equal trade-off, but it helps.

Mean mommy?

Peanut is all set for Halloween. She has her bee costume, bee headband and matching bee trick-or-treat bag.

Too bad she won't be going trick-or-treating.

I think she's too young to go out yet. She can't say trick-or-treat and can't say thank you (although she's very good at signing it). I feel like both are prerequisites for asking people for candy. Plus, she doesn't eat much candy (other than some M&Ms now and then) given her total of five teeth.

I always think it is weird when parents take their babies out trick-or-treating. I want to say to them "Who are you kidding?" It's different when there is an older sibling involved but when you throw your 3-month-old in a pea in a pod costume it just looks like you are trying to get candy for yourself. (Not that I'm judging if you did that. Just saying ...)

She's definitely more toddler than baby, but I don't think she is quite old enough. Regardless, we will still make it special and pass out candy at my sister's house with her children.

How old were your kids when you took them trick-or-treating for the first time?

Mommy's little freak

My daughter is a freak of nature.

At 15 months old, she listens to what we say about 90 percent of the time, if not more. We ask her if she's ready to eat, she goes to her high chair. We tell her it's time for a bath, she goes to the stairs and climbs right up. We tell her it's time for bed, she sticks out her bottom lip, pouts slightly in an extremely cute sort of way, goes to bed with barely a whimper AND sleeps 12 hours a night.

I'd like to credit it to superior parenting but I think we are just blessed. She doesn't cram cat food in her mouth. She signs "please" and "thank you" regularly since she can't say them yet. She listens when we tell her no and then claps for herself for listening so well.

In the past few days, I've had multiple people marvel at her listening abilities. I just shrug my shoulders because I have no idea what, if anything, we did to facilitate this.

Sure she has her meltdowns but we've even been able to cut down on those. We had some, well, let's call them episodes, before dinnertime that usually involved crying and convulsions on the floor (her, not me, although I've wanted to join her). I wanted us to all eat together so I kept making Peanut wait until her daddy got home from work, which sometimes isn't until after 6 p.m. That was not working for anyone so I began feeding her about 5:15 p.m. Life is so much easier now.

It's ridiculous really. Instead of enjoying it all, I keep thinking two things. One, we should maybe think about quitting while we are ahead since our next child is sure to be a hellion. And, two, our daughter is giving us the easy years now and will probably want to dress like a hooker when she is 13.

I know. My mind is twisted.

Dinner theater

We had our first battle over dinner tonight.

Breakfast, though supposedly the most important meal of the day, is not important to me. We all need to eat, yes, but provided I can sit with a book for at least as long as it takes me to eat and drink a cup of coffee, I don't care how the rest of the family forages. The Boy can, and sometimes does, grab food off a kitchen stool while he runs around like a wild thing. Momma just doesn't play until the coffee cup is empty.

My attitude is equally laissez-faire about lunch. During the week, of course, we're not together for that meal, but even on the weekends, I might eat standing at the sink while The Boy is at the table. Or if the kiddo wants to try sitting at the real table, even though he's not quite big enough to reach, fine.

But about dinner, I'm serious. Eating dinner as a family most nights is important to me. Every family should be together for one meal, I think; for us, I pick dinner. It doesn't always work. The husband gets delayed often and occasionally, I have to work late. But even then, the two who are home eat some sort of cooked food -- even if it's pasta and jarred sauce or butter noodles and peas -- at the table. And The Boy always has been a good eater. The husband usually will call if he's going to be late and, if I must, I can hold off The Boy's need to eat until 6:30 or so. We've missed a few nights, we've eaten dinners around colicky screams, but tonight was the first time we've suffered through a tantrum and had The Boy leave the table without eating anything.

A combination of things went wrong:

1. The husband, harried because he's doing the work of two people right now, forgot to call and say he'd be late. It was 6:25 before he left the office, and by then, The Boy's patience was wearing thin.

2. Because he sometimes does this, I assumed the husband was on his way home and just making a few last-minute calls, and so didn't go ahead and feed The Boy and myself.

3. The Boy discovered a love for cupcakes at the Pumpkin Party. Tired and hungry, he wanted a cupcake and was displeased, shall we say, when I told him no.

4. My patience, never available in large quantities, also was depleted after already weathering a minor meltdown over a block train that had collapsed and being very hungry.

I originally let The Boy flop on the floor with his blanky, nursing his grievances, but when he got up and said, "I go play," I put my foot down. He didn't have to eat, but he did need to sit at the table like a civilized person. And that, The Boy decided, was unacceptable. Cue tears and a red face and wails so strong and long they made him cough. Those led to guilt and frustration on my part, which meant I was using my nasty tone and slamming things when the husband finally arrived. And of course, that led to a hissing fight after we put The Boy to bed early -- his dinner was three-quarters of a cup of milk. And now, I sit here with heartburn that can be blamed only in part on The Lad squishing my insides.

Sigh.

One night does not a crisis make, I suppose. I'm not going to give in on family dinners. I really feel they're important, both for the ritual and tradition of eating together and to keep everyone talking to each other. But I don't want to give The Boy a complex about food. I won't force him to eat. How do you guys handle meal time problems?

Seven months: Return of the Pumpkin Belly

The Lad as Pumpkin Belly, 10-17-09

The Boy as Pumpkin Belly, October 2007

Quick explanation about the pumpkin belly: The husband is from Circleville, home of the Greatest Free Show on Earth, The Circleville Pumpkin Show. The first time in his entire life the husband missed the Pumpkin Show was the year we moved to Florida. Feeling sorry for him, I threw a pumpkin-themed party and the Treasure Coast Pumpkin Show was born. In 2007, a joke about painting my belly as a pumpkin turned into a dare I wasn't willing to turn down. And, this year, I figured if I painted one kid in utero as a pumpkin, I probably should do it to the other one. Equal opportunity embarrassment.

Anyway, I've been thinking I was carrying bigger with The Lad than with The Boy, but looking at these pictures, I'm not sure. I'm wearing the same pants, same tank top in both pictures. I've decided I'm rounder this time, though not necessarily larger. Of course, my pumpkin-topped Boy also might be making the belly appear smaller.

The kiddos will be almost exactly two years apart, so in some ways this pregnancy is like deja vu. I'm hitting all the milestones at about the same time of year as I did with The Boy. It'll be the same after The Lad is born. And yet, each pregnancy, each kid, is so distinctly itself. It's a funny feeling. The same, but not.

Silent night ... or not

I asked my husband the other night if he thought it was possible to get only noiseless toys for Christmas. He laughed at me.

Just think of it for a minute. The quiet. The peace. The ability to think.

Can't imagine it? Neither can I.

I swear some nights we have so many toys making noise at once our house sounds like a casino floor hopping with old people at the penny slots.

The toy kitchen singing about opposites. The self-propelled ball reminding us what a dog says. The puzzle that meows and moos and neighs when it gets dark. The mysterious mooing barn that makes noise even when we aren't near it. The laughing Elmo.

All happening at once.

It's enough to drive someone to drink. That is until I see how happy it makes my little Peanut and then I just turn a couple things off to keep a small part of my sanity.

I'm just happy she enjoys books so much so that we have some quiet time even it is two minutes.

What toys do your kids have that you could do without?

The dark underbelly of pregnancy

As I've mentioned, I really like being pregnant. So it's with a little sadness I've realized I'm in the final stretch of what is probably, most likely, almost definitely my last pregnancy.

I'm OK with The Lad being my last baby. There was a time, right after The Boy was born, when I declared myself a pregnancy savant and demanded babies! More babies! The husband, to his credit, didn't run away or crush my hormone-addled dreams. He didn't have to because reality set in and I realized dozens of colicky babies would be expensive, loud and overwhelming in our little house. Two kids is a good number. I'm content being a family of four.

But the thought of never again feeling a baby dig his toes into my ribs does make me a bit wistful. So, I've been trying to think of things about pregnancy that irritate me. Here's what I've got so far:

• Everyone thinks your belly is their business. The touching (without asking). The comments. The (unasked for) advice. UGH. I had a woman tell me today I was obviously having a boy because I "had no fanny." Unnecessary.
  
• The belly makes toddler wrangling difficult. Getting The Boy into his carseat this morning left us both sweaty, disheveled and pissed off.
  
• Round ligament pain. The first time, I thought I -- or the baby -- was dying. I know what it is this time, but it still hurts. (Especially when it wakes you up at 4:44 a.m. and you're unable to get back to sleep -- just sayin'.)
• No Nyquil. No whiskey-laced hot toddies. I believe in natural remedies and prevention, but when I get sick -- really sick -- I just want something to knock me the hell out at night.
  
• My bellybutton will never be the same. Sad but true.

What's on your pregnancy hate list?

When a breathing mask doesn't seem like a bad idea

I had to take Peanut in for her flu shot today. I called early this morning to see when I could in. I had two options in the next month - today or Thursday. No time like the present.

We walked in and I immediately wished I had a little mask for Peanut and one for me. You know the ones people wore when swine flu first broke out? The ones where I thought those people were a tad bit paranoid? Yeah, those.

One child was leaning on her mother with a little vomit bin in her lap. The mother in front of me kept coughing while talking to the receptionist. Her cough just added to the chorus of coughs in the packed waiting room.

The receptionist handed me an information form to fill out. I asked her if I really needed to fill it out since nothing had changed. Nothing. She solemnly nodded so I took it.

Have you ever tried to fill out paperwork while holding a squirming toddler, refusing to put her down for fear she might contract the bubonic plague from just putting her feet on the ground? Paperwork that is pointless since none of the information has changed? Yeah, that was fun.

Thankfully we had to wait only 10 minutes in the waiting room although who knows what we were exposed to in that time.

Even better we get to do this again in a month for the second round of shots. And maybe two more times after that if we get the swine flu vaccine (which the receptionist said she has NO idea when that might come in.)

I had to resist the urge to give us both a Lysol bath when we got home. I settled for a good hand washing followed by some sanitizer.

On the 10th day, angels sing

The husband works later than I do, so nine days out of 10, I'm the parent picking up The Boy from daycare. That hour between our getting home and the husband's arrival usually is the longest of the day. Dinner needs to be made. The Boy wants a snack. Lunchbags and containers need to be cleaned. The Boy wants to play. Phone messages and mail are waiting to be sorted. The Boy wants to read. I want to change my clothes and pee. The Boy throws a tantrum. The husband calls to chat on his way home. The Boy demands the phone. Dinner is burning/boiling over/not heating up fast enough.

And then, the husband pulls in the driveway. The Boy runs out to him with this huge grin on his face as if the preceding hour of tetchiness never happened, and I try to be grateful for the fact that I've got help now and not resentful that I've been alone for the nastiest hour of the day.

Not every night is horrible. Some nights are easy-peasy. Dinner's already done or The Boy is feeling angelic or I'm more patient than usual, or -- when the stars align and Mars is in the seventh house -- all three combine into a blissful evening. On those nights, the husband comes home to find us sitting in the middle of the floor doing puzzles or reading or waiting outside for him playing ball. But I think every parent, whether they stay-at-home or work-outside-home, knows the dangers of the pre-dinner witching hour. If ever there is a time to do whatever works now, whatever keeps the most people alive and sane, that's it.

Which is why I appreciate so much the tenth day, the day when I have to work late and the husband gets to pick up The Boy. Yesterday was the tenth day.

The husband and The Boy were waiting at the end of the driveway when I pulled up. I beeped the horn and The Boy stretched his dirty face into a wide grin. When I opened the car door, The Boy ran over to greet me.

"Hi Momma! Eat pop-sic. Help."

I pushed up the popsicle in its plastic tube for him to take a bite.

"Tank you."

Thank you, indeed.

Someone save me from the dolls

People, a whole new world has been opened up for us.

One with little clothes, little accessories and matching outfits all with a very, very big sticker price.

Read about my shock over American Girl Dolls at 937moms.com.

I am horrified.

A perfect date night

The husband and I had another date night (woohoo!). We headed to my parents' house so they could watch Peanut while we caught a movie. Here's some of the highlights:

• Sneaking out the house so Peanut didn't see us leave. Failing. Listening to her cry as we left. Finding out when we came home that she cried for less than 30 seconds.
• Listening to Elmo laugh at us from the back seat as we headed to the movie, reminding me yet again how much toys that make sound freak me out.
• Seeing girls dressed for homecoming, some of whom were able to dress nicely and still look cute, one whose dress was so short I said, "That's not homecoming, that's a negligee."
• Questioning whether the husband would be OK with getting an Ohio State University toy box for his man room for Christmas. His response, "Would that really be for me?" and when I said yes, he shrugged his shoulders and said OK.
• Griping over $34.99 Buckeye T-shirts. Seriously, who pays that much for a T-shirt with a nut on it?
• Judging parents who brought a 3-year-old to a PG-13 movie that didn't get out until 10 p.m. Staring at my husband intently when they had to take him out because he was crying.
• Opting to go home and raid my parents' liquor cabinet and spend some quiet time with the husband instead of going to a noisy piano bar with friends.

And who says your life is over once you have kids?

Like an Amish mechanic

This might just be the glucose drink talking, but I'm feeling a little icky and a little feisty this morning. I've already delivered a rant about the way our society views teen girls as sex objects -- there was a reason, I swear -- and I'm really annoyed about the new doctor my OB/GYN practice hired.

My OB/GYN practice rotates the preggos through the doctors and midwives so the person catching your kid -- or cutting you open and pulling out the baby -- isn't a complete stranger. I get that and am OK with the fact that I won't know until The Lad is born who our doctor or midwife will be. But I do have favorites, and the doctor who delivered The Boy was one of them. She left, unfortunately, and the practice hired this new guy, whom I met today. He was really late for the appointment and abrupt. He didn't even wipe the gel off my belly after listening to the heartbeat. That's just rude.

Mostly, though, I'm annoyed he's a man. I don't understand male gynecologists or obstetricians and always have insisted on female gynecologists. I know there are good, even great male OB/GYNs, however, going to a man for these things just seems like taking your car to the Amish to get repaired. What the hell do they know about the parts? They might have read the manual, but it's not the same as having practical experience owning and using them.

The practice has three male doctors -- one of whom I genuinely like, despite my bias -- one female doctor (my gynecologist) and three female midwives. I'm feeling pretty good about my chances for having someone I'm comfortable with delivering The Lad.

But I've also been trying to remember that really, it's the nurses you get in the hospital who matter. They are the ones who check in on you through your labor, encourage you through contractions and control the environment in which you labor. Come to think of it, maybe this time around I should bake some goodies as extra incentive for them to be nice to me.

Deep breath. I think I feel the sugar crash coming on. Damn glucose.

Just because

Check me out. I'm reading.



Why, yes, I did crawl into the basket by myself. Does that surprise you?

These were taken when she was sick this week. Can't you tell? She actually was a mess in the morning but after a hearty nap, was feeling much better by late afternoon. Thankfully it was short lived - teething plus a cold makes for an unhappy baby.

Yeah, there's going to be TWO of them

I bought this book for The Boy the other day when it seemed to be staring me in the face while I birthday-shopped for one of his little buddies. I meant to break it out nearer to The Lad's arrival, maybe around Christmas, but ended up reading it three times tonight before dinner. (The Boy was a big fan.) The entire world seems to be conspiring this week to remind me, "Hey! you know that pregnancy you keep gushing about? Yeah, there's a baby in there. A BABY. You're going to have TWO kids. TWO."

I haven't really stressed much about the logistics of two kids. Two seems reasonable, normal and doable, and I figured matter-of-fact talking about the baby would be enough to prepare The Boy, given the age difference. He's going to be days shy of 2 when The Lad arrives; he won't remember life without a brother. But then I was talking to my sister and in the background are two little boys clamoring for her attention NOW. And then I read this post from Clueless But Hopeful, wishing she had more time for everyone, including herself. And then I see a plea for advice for dealing with two kids under 2 on Motherlode.

And then I realized, "Crap. I'm going to have two kids."

The advice Motherlode readers offered, like most advice to parents, was often contradictory. Make time for yourself; just schedule your life around the babies. Pay most attention to the toddler; teach the toddler to be independent. Allow the toddler to help; expect to "baby" the toddler for awhile. The most useful tips, I thought, were the ones advising the mother to remember mistakes are OK and to not feel guilty for doing whatever works now. (Though, arguably, telling a new mother or, for that matter, any mother, not to feel guilty is like like telling the sun not to rise.)

I know, logically, dealing with two kids will be just like dealing with one kid: A total mess mixed with beautiful moments, with the proportions of each varying by the day.

But I started reading blogs -- and writing this one -- because I liked the community it created. I liked hearing from women who were going through the same experiences. So, at the risk of getting more contradictory advice, what are YOUR best tips for going from one kid to two?

G is for genius

**Warning: Mother gushing, bragging about child ahead. You have been warned.**

My daughter is a genius. OK, stop laughing. I know all moms say that. But, people, she is at that age where every day, every hour, heck sometimes every minute she's doing something new and I'm like "My daughter is a GENIUS."

She picks up new words every day. She understands what we are saying and follows directions. She knows where the treats are hidden and points to the cabinet, signing "please" and "more" every afternoon. (She is my child.)

The other night she crawled into my lap with a stack of books that we read all of the time. Over and over and over again. She picked up a baby sign language book and began panting (because that is the sign for dog), flipped to the dog and cat page and did the sign for cat like she had been doing it her whole life.

Next, she grabbed the alphabet book - a is apple, alligator, b is for baby ... you get the point. My not-even-15-month-old child flipped to the g page pointed at the picture of the girl and said "Girl."

Yes, honey, g is for girl. And genius.

Then again she also spins in circles making her dizzy and causing her to fall down so maybe it all just balances out.

Little moments

Gross-out moment of the day: The Boy tripped on the sidewalk going into school and nearly face-planted into the cement. He caught himself with his hands, and as I reached down to help him up, I saw he'd come thisclose to sticking his hands in the squashed, bug-ridden carcass of a road-killed squirrel. I stifled my shriek so as not to alert The Boy to the existence of the desiccated squirrel, which I'm sure he would have wanted to investigate further had he noticed.

Good Lord I'm Surrounded by Boys moment of the day: The Boy started blowing raspberries toward the end of dinner. "I blowing bubbles," he giggled. Before I could discourage this behavior at the supper table, where it sends food bits blowing across the room, the husband brought both hands to his mouth and made the most tremendous farting noise. Both of them laughed uncontrollably. They spent the next five minutes "blowing bubbles."

Not A Brat moment of the day: We asked The Boy after dinner to please pick up all the refrigerator magnets he'd scattered across the kitchen. He started to throw a fit, but stopped immediately when I told him it was time to clean up and began to sing the clean up song. I noticed The Boy sing-songs "clean up, clean up" whenever we pick up toys, so I asked daycare and sure enough there is a song.* The Boy loves it and picked up all the magnets and his blocks without further complaint.

Maybe A Brat moment of the day: "Momma, Joce food in train. Joce food in train."

Joce is Josephine, our cat. The Boy has become fascinated with her dry food, which resembles little balls according to him. While the husband showered and I dried my hair, The Boy put almost the entire bowl of the cat's food into this ball-popper train he has. When I informed him the cat needed to eat her food and he couldn't play with it, The Boy cried real tears.

"My train!" he wailed as I dumped the food in the cat's bowl. "My train!"

Oh Dear moment of the day: The husband swore loudly as he dropped something from the heavy load of assorted baby stuff he was carrying across the house.

"Bich!" The Boy shouted.

We really have to start watching our mouths. The Boy is mimicking whole phrases now, not just words.

I Love Being a Momma moment of the day: I parked behind the daycare, where the playground is, to pick up The Boy. I spied him cruising around in one of the toy cars, and he must have noticed me, too, as I walked around to the gate. He wanted to get to me so badly, he didn't bother opening the door of the car and just flung himself out over the top, Dukes of Hazzard style, to run over the fence. Before I was even through the gate, The Boy had wrapped himself around my knees in a giant hug.

*In case you'd like to try the clean up song: Clean up, clean up/everybody, everywhere/clean up, clean up/everybody do their share.

Do what you got to do

I'm pulling a fast one on Peanut.

She has no idea that she's eating those dreaded vegetables for dinner every night. With gusto even.

Peanut will only eat lima beans (I know, you pick one vegetable, kid, and it's lima beans? Really?). Everything else, she primly moves to the edge of her tray and commences gobbling down the rest of her meal. I can't even give her carrot sticks to munch on since she still has a total of five teeth, all of them in the front.

Worried that she wasn't getting a balanced diet, I tried some tricks. First, I finely chopped up steamed squash, broccoli, cauliflower and carrots and put them in her spaghetti. She loved it.

The next night, I pureed peas and green beans and put them in taco meat. I didn't tell the husband what I did until after the meal. He was impressed.

Then Friday I made pizza, pureed zucchini and put it in the tomato sauce. No one knew and everyone ate heartily.

I know eventually she will need to learn to eat her vegetables but by then I will be able to bribe her (Kidding. Kind of.) Until then, I'm looking for anything I can puree and cover up, just so she gets something.

Might be a matron, but ...

Guys in baseball caps, obviously out for a good time on a Saturday night, packed the car in front of me as a friend and I sat in my little Saturn, waiting on the other women we were meeting for a bachelorette dinner. They went into the grocery store and came out with six-packs, opening the beers as they got in the car. One flashed me a grin.

"Hey! Hey, sweetheart! Sweetheart, you wanna hangout?" I hear as I get out of the car. "Hey! Sweetheart!"

I turned around, smiled and shut the car door.

"A seven-months pregnant sweetheart," I said.

My admirer's mouth was a perfect O.

"Well, I just thought you were really beautiful."

----

Made this old married lady's night.

Jinx

The Boy has slept in his big-boy bed for several weeks now without even a railing to keep him safe. My little daredevil -- sleeping without a net. He's done wonderfully, so much so that the husband said to The Boy last night how proud we were that he hadn't fallen out of bed.

Cut to 11 p.m., just after the husband and I had fallen asleep. The Boy woke us whining and crying.

"He probably just dropped his blanket or Moo overboard," I mumbled as the husband rolled out of bed to check on the kiddo.

The Boy was on the floor, half rolled under the bed. Blanket was with him; Moo was not.

"Oh! Did I jinx you, Boy, saying you hadn't rolled out of bed yet?" the husband asked as he picked up The Boy and tucked him back into the covers.

"Yes."

We didn't hear another peep til morning.