Easier the second time

I married a very smart man.

The first night home from the hospital, after The Lad decided to eat every hour, on the hour between 3 and 5 a.m., after the baby's angry wailing about a diaper change woke The Boy, after the husband found me on my knees in front of the changing table with one arm around the bawling Boy and the other patting the screaming Lad, I asked the husband how he lived with me after The Boy was born.

"Because I was crazy," I said.

The husband wisely didn't answer my question.

But I was crazy with The Boy. When those things -- the clusterfeeding, the screaming, the confusion of early parenthood -- happened with The Boy, my response was to sob and gnash my teeth. "I can't do this! I'm never going to sleep again! I'm a horrible mother!"

This time, my response is to laugh. Or sigh resignedly as I roll out of bed to feed the kiddo. I'm not so anxious about being the perfect mother. I know that doesn't exist. I'm not so caught up in the horrible moments. I know even the worst ones will pass. Everything ends -- even colic (though I sincerely hope The Lad skips that). Maybe the postpartum hormones aren't affecting me as strongly this time. Even my body feels less beat up after The Lad. Knowing what to expect cushions the blows -- both physical and emotional. Lowered expectations also help. A two-hour window of sleep seems like an accomplishment this time.

The husband thinks The Lad might be an easier baby than The Boy. But I'm not convinced. What comes first? An easy baby or a relaxed parent? Either way, I'm grateful to be able to enjoy this time.

What about you? Were you an anxious first-time parent? Was it easier the second (or third or fourth) time around?

When date night gets canceled

The husband and I planned an evening with another couple Wednesday night. My sister agreed to take Peanut. Even though Peanut had been away from me for two nights, I knew it was good for the husband and I to get out together. It had been months since we were last able to do that.

We dropped her off and she fussed a bit but my sister sent me a text saying Peanut stopped crying by the time we backed out of the drive way so I relaxed a bit.

We got to our friends' house and they were cooking a fabulous dinner. We had a few drinks and just as we sat down to eat, I got a call from my sister. Peanut had thrown up. Everywhere.

We quickly finished eating and thought of all the different things that might have made her sick. Was she really sick? The husband hadn't felt great over the weekend but was over that in a matter of hours. Was she nervous being away from us? Was it something else?

We got to my sister's and Peanut promptly threw up on me. She was as cool as a cucumber and even laughed on the way home. She took a bath, giggling and playing the whole time but got sick once again before bed time.

Thankfully we had a puke-free sleep and she seems OK now. We'll have to see how the day goes.

Anyone else have to leave a date night to take care of a sick baby?

The Lad's arrival

This is a birth story in three acts.

A summary for those who don't want to deal with the long details: I started having contractions early Christmas morning, went to the hospital Christmas afternoon, was sent home, went back three hours later and, an hour after the second arrival at the hospital, The Lad was born.

The whole story --

Act I:

The husband thinks my labor really began Christmas Eve morning when I went swimming at the condo my parents rented for the holiday. I'd been two centimeters dilated and about 60 percent effaced for nearly a week and having contractions on and off for days. For weeks, I'd felt like I was splitting apart at the pelvis. Swimming felt wonderful.

"The Lad loves this," I told my mom. "I love this. I can see why people have water births. You're weightless. I might be having a contraction -- my stomach is tight -- but I don't feel anything."

"If your water breaks, I am not going to be the one to tell the maintenance people they need to empty the pool," Mom said.

The husband said the pool must have made The Lad decide to come out. He realized the rest of the world was "all womb-y like," according to the husband. But the real action didn't start until the first hours of Christmas Day.

From 1:30 a.m. to 2:30 a.m., I had steady, strong contractions every 10 to 15 minutes. I fell asleep and dreamed about giving birth and breathing through contractions. About 6:30, I told the husband we should probably get Christmas started, just in case. We woke The Boy, and while he exclaimed over the cars and M&Ms in his stocking, I called my parents and told them to come over sooner rather than later. The Boy played in his new sandbox and was thrilled when my parents pulled out the bike and blue bike helmet -- the very specific things he'd wanted from Santa. He thumped enthusiastically on the drumset my parents were kind enough to buy him.

Through all of this, I was having contractions. I never really timed them, but they came pretty regularly, feeling like bands of menstrual cramps across my lower belly and back. Everyone else was more excited and nervous about it than I was. I fielded calls from Michelle and my sister -- I'm FINE, I told them -- and got anxious, knowing looks from my dad every time I winced with a contraction. Mom kept reminding me how fast The Boy came -- I only pushed for seven minutes -- and telling me the second child comes faster. Shouldn't I be thinking about the hospital?

After dinner, I gave in. We left The Boy with my folks and headed to the hospital. I was not happy. Leaving The Boy was much harder than I expected. It was CHRISTMAS, and I was leaving to change his life forever. And I wasn't convinced I needed to go to the hospital. The contractions hurt, but didn't take my breath away. We got to the hospital at 2 p.m. We sat in an exam room for 40 minutes before a nurse came to check me. My contractions were five minutes apart. I was three centimeters dilated and 80 percent effaced. They sent me home.

I was PISSED. Not so much about being sent home, but about having wasted more than an hour of Christmas Day at the hospital. I was so angry about that I didn't quite notice that the contractions were getting stronger even as we drove home.

Act II:

So, we got back home. Within an hour, I realized we definitely were going back to the hospital that night. The contractions grew stronger and stronger, my stomach became upset and soon I was spending most of my time on all fours, leaning on the exercise ball and rocking back and forth through the contractions, which came in steady waves. Working through the contractions at home gave me more freedom than at the hospital, where I would have been monitored and grossed out at the thought of being on all fours on the floor.

But everyone else was worried.

The Boy kept coming up to me, his little brow furrowed. "How doin', Momma?" he asked as he patted my arm. My mom paced and rubbed my back. My poor dad was terrified I was going to give birth right there in front of him. He kept stage-whispering to my mom, "She needs to go to the hospital!" I put them both to work, giving The Boy a bath.

Finally, I had a contraction that came with a lot of pressure -- like need-to-push pressure. The Boy was finishing up dinner. I told the husband to hurry him up, take him over to our friends' house and then come back and get Mom and me. We had to go. The contractions were about two minutes apart and lasting about a minute.

Act III:

On the way to the hospital, every turn the husband took made me hurt. Then, at the hospital, there was a line seven-people deep waiting to show their IDs, a new security policy. The security guard was chatty. I could barely stand, the contractions were so strong and I was forced to listen to the security guard make bad jokes. We finally made it to the front of the line.

"Where're you headed?" the guard said, not looking at me.

"LABOR & DELIVERY."

"Oh. Oh! Do you need a wheelchair?"

I turned it down because the thought of sitting was more than I could take. But walking wasn't easy either. The Lad moved south as we walked to the elevator and settled on something that nauseated me.

"I'm going to puke."

"Well, you can't puke in my purse," Mom said. "Puke in your own bag." That's my mother -- awkward situations always necessitate a joke.

I managed to hold it together up to Labor & Delivery and led the way to the plexiglass window. I dinged the little bell as hard as I could and four nurses' heads whipped around, including the nurse who'd discharged me just hours earlier.

"I'm back," I said. "And I'm about to puke. You better find me a room."

"Oh! Oh sure!"

There was a flurry of activity, with nurses trying to show me where to put my clothes and telling the husband to fill up the jacuzzi for me to labor in. No one realized how far along I really was. I was oblivious to most of this. I'd hit the point of labor where modesty disappears and instinct takes over. I was stripping off my clothes and heaving into a trash can. Finally, they got me into bed to start an IV line and get a baseline monitor on the baby and my contractions.

It was 6:30 p.m. I was five to six centimeters dilated and 100 percent effaced. I also was at the end of my patience. I was snippy and sarcastic with the nurses, who could not manage to understand I was allergic to adhesive and didn't want to be strapped into a bed.

"Be nice," my mom said. "I don't care," I growled.

I was moving into transition. The contractions started coming on top of each other and pressure to push built. A nurse tried to relieve that with a pillow between my legs; I was lying on my side. The pillow helped for a bit and then, my water broke.

"Here we go," I said, according to my mom.

"Was it just a little trickle or a gush?" the annoying nurse asked.

"A gush," I snapped. I was lying in a puddle and could not understand why she would ask. Mom later told me you really couldn't tell where they were standing because of the pillow and the absorbent mats on the bed.

When the doctor broke my water during The Boy's birth, I had a baby within a half an hour. The same thing happened this time.

My water broke and within just a couple contractions, I was demanding to push. The nurses wanted me to wait. The doctor on call hadn't even made it to the hospital yet. But I couldn't. They grabbed a midwife from another practice. I pushed twice, awkwardly. It happened so fast no one was holding my legs or had adjusted the bed. I arched my back with the pain.

"Don't arch your back, sweetie," the midwife said. "You send the baby back up when you do that."

"THEN HELP ME!"

My mom and the midwife grabbed my legs. I pushed again.

"Oh! He's got hair," Mom said. "It's purple, but he's got hair."

I pushed again. Maybe a third time. And then there he was. The Lad had arrived. It was 7:29 p.m., an hour after we got to the hospital.

All alone

The husband took Peanut to his family's house up north for a couple nights. I had to stay home to work.

A week before this happened, I reveled in making plans for my alone time. I looked forward to some me time. It would be the first time in almost 18 months that Peanut and I would spend a night apart. I told the husband I was really excited and thought it would be great for me.

Then it actually happened and I cried like a baby when they left. Sobbed. Peanut kept looking at me like I was crazy (which is really not up for debate). It was made worse by the fact that we were at my parents for an extended family Christmas gathering (which included a traumatic encounter with Santa) so I blubbered in front of a bunch of people who see me about once a year.

Then 10 minutes after they were gone, I was fine and I was looking forward to my plans again. I'm kind of like a toddler. I throw my fit and then you show me something shiny and I'm fine again.

I love my daughter more than anything. She has been my main focus since the moment I found out I was pregnant. But I also I know this little separation is good for each of us. Here are things I have been able to indulge in while she is gone:

• Watching television at 5 a.m. I usually creep around the house as I get ready in the morning lest I wake the husband and Peanut. I was actually able to watch the news and get prepared for my day at work.
• Not feel rushed to get out of work. Pick up duty is one of my responsibilities so I always feel the need to leave Right Now.
  
• Do something after work. See above pick up duty. I got a book store gift certificate for Christmas and declared that I would spend three hours there just because I could. I spent 30 minutes but it was still fabulous.
• Eating dinner in bed. I know, I sound like a lazy sloth, but I love to hole up in my bedroom when I can. It feels safe, comfortable and completely indulgent.
• Watch anything but Elmo. Do I really need to elaborate?

But, just in case you think I'm about to chuck it all so I can eat in bed and not worry about a thing, let me tell you the things I missed:

• Having my daughter run to me when I pick her up after work. Her smile, her little arms reaching for me melts my heart every day.
• The readily available kisses and hugs from both my daughter and my husband. Neither of them deny me when I ask, and will even offer without being asked.
  
• Laughing with my husband, who always knows how to make me crack up no matter how cranky I am.
• Reading to my daughter who loves any book you put in front of her. If I sit on the floor, she grabs a book and backs right up into my lap. Each page I turn, she exclaims, "Whoa!"
  
• Watching my daughter dance to Elmo. Yes, he's good for some things.
  

Have you been away from your little one overnight yet? What did you do?

Big brother

The Boy meeting The Lad for the first time.

"Hi Momma!" The Boy said. "What you got?"

"I hold him?"

"Hi Lad. I big brudder."

The Boy likes being a big brother, though hasn't been completely angelic during The Lad's arrival. He's been a lot whiny and little tantrum-y, but really, nothing beyond what we expected. He missed me and, at the same time, was a little angry at me, I think, for being gone and then coming home with competition for my attention. He wants to sit next to me and tell me "love you," then refuses to say bye when he and the Daddyman leave to run errands.

But for The Lad, The Boy is all smiles. He voluntarily shared his blanky -- the sacred blank -- and surrounded the kiddo with his toy trucks, explaining what each was. "This firetruck!"

Before bed last night, The Boy wanted to hold The Lad. We settled him in with a pillow, and The Lad, fresh off a feeding, wriggled and squirmed.

"He touched me!" The Boy said. "He touched me!"

He giggled and tried to hold hands with his brother. Five seconds later, we had to prevent The Lad from sliding headfirst onto the floor, but I'd say things are going well so far.

Not nearly as exciting but ...

We had a nice Christmas even if it didn't include a trip to the hospital and the addition of a family member.

This is pretty much what we did:

Open presents Christmas Eve.

Open more presents Christmas Eve.

Open more presents Christmas Day and very excited about it.

Play with presents Christmas Night, showing off artistic abilities.

It also included a frantic phone call to Hillary after I read her husband's facebook status declaring that The Lad would be appearing on Christmas Day. Hillary had promised to call when they went to the hospital but I hadn't gotten that call. A calm and cool Hillary answered the phone and informed me she was fine (repeatedly told me she was fine), having contractions (having one as we spoke) and that there was no need to go to the hospital yet. I told her if she said she was fine one more time, I driving from Ohio to Florida to take her to the hospital myself.

About 7 hours later, The Lad was born. Hillary will have to fill you in on the details.

Hope everyone else had a very merry!

The best Christmas gift

The Boy was right. He's said all along that The Lad would be here for Christmas.

Wes Avett, aka The Lad, arrived at 7:29 p.m. Dec. 25.
7 lbs. 3 oz.
18 inches
plenty of hair and possibly a dimple in his right cheek

Merry Christmas

Hoping you have a blessed, relaxed Christmas, surrounded by the ones you love.


Thanks for coming along with us during a special year. Here's to a new year sure to be filled with plenty of joy and laughs.

Because it's two days before Christmas

And I have nothing creative to write since I am busy prepping for four Christmas get togethers in a 24 hour period, three of which are at my house.

Sooooo. I'm stealing this from Swistle and others.

Eggnog or hot chocolate? Eggnog makes me want to never drink anything ever again. I enjoy a small cup of hot chocolate but usually end up with a stomach ache.

Does Santa wrap the presents or leave them open under the tree? Wrapped. Always wrapped. Unless they are oddly shaped or just too big.

Colored lights on a tree or white? All white lights. I'm not a fan of colored lights. And I really don't like them mixed. The husband bought blue lights for our red house and I promptly took them back to the store this year. I'm anal.

Do you hang mistletoe? No.

When do you put your decorations up? The weekend after Thanksgiving. Our anniversary is around that time so we celebrate by picking out the tree. It always sounds romantic until we start bickering about finding the decorations and how to decorate the tree, both of which I tend to take over.

What is your favorite holiday dish? Does dessert count? My mother makes these bon-bons that are delicious. I once entered them in a cookie contest at work and won. There was a huge controversy because some people didn't think they were actually cookies. It was ugly. I still won.

Do you open a gift on Christmas Eve? When we were little, we opened a present from my parents and it was always our Christmas pajamas. (I'm 29 years old and I still get Christmas pajamas from my parents.) My sister and I also exchanged presents. Now, the husband and I are lucky if we even make it to Christmas Eve before we give each other presents. He already has one (a new cellphone) of his and I have one (a heated mattress pad) of mine. Don't think I haven't pointed out the inequity.

How do you decorate your Christmas tree? I am Christmas tree snob and must have a theme. We go with white lights, different colored balls, ribbon and twirly things. The husband asks what I will do when Peanut wants to make ornaments and put them on the tree. My response? She can have her own special tree.

Snow: love it or hate it? It's fabulous and whimsical and romantic if I'm sipping coffee looking out our front window. It's a pain in the butt when I'm trying to get to work or fly to Florida to meet The Boy for the first time (I'm looking at you blizzard of March '08. Don't think I haven't forgotten.)

Can you ice skate? No. Nor should I ever try. I once worked at an ice skating rink for a winter break in college. I told them I would only take money and pass out skates. They got desperate one night and begged me to referee the rink for awhile. After watching one trip around, my bosses pulled me off the ice snickering the entire time.

What is your favorite holiday dessert? See above.

What is your favorite holiday tradition? Does shopping count? I love buying gifts. I love trying to find great deals and still get really cool presents for people. I also love wrapping the presents. Ooh, and Christmas music. And decorating. And Christmas baking. And seeing family.

Candy canes: Yum or yuck? Not bad. Not great. I actually haven't had any yet this year.

Favorite Christmas show? Love Actually. It was one of the first movies the husband I saw together. I cry every time when the kid runs through the airport. I thought for sure he was going to run for the hills when he saw me cry. (He really likes the movie too).

Pillow talk

The scene: Bed time. The husband is already in bed, snuggled under the covers. I'm about to climb in when ...

The husband: I think there's in an indentation in the mattress where your belly usually is.

Me: That is not something you need to tell your pregnant wife.

The husband: (hugging me) Oh, c'mon now. You're nine months pregnant and it's just your belly that's large (pause wherein he realizes he's on thin ice) all the rest of you is, um, no bigger than it used to be.

---

Back off ladies. This smooth talker is all mine.

'Twas the Monday before Christmas

So it's Monday. I usually have a chronic case of the Mondays. But not today because it's the Monday before Christmas and nothing is more fun than the week of Christmas.

Last year I felt rushed and scattered, probably thanks to still adjusting to being a new mother. This year, I am so much more organized. Most of my shopping was done weeks ago. I finished wrapping presents Sunday. I've learned to plan better.

So, in honor of my good spirit, I thought I would share my cheer and tell you what I'm looking forward to this week:

• Not traveling anywhere. Since we started dating, the husband and I have always been on the road during the holidays, even during blizzards. Not this year. We told everyone they were welcome to visit us but we didn't plan to travel any farther than my sister's 20 minutes away. So, the husband's mom is coming Christmas Eve. My parents are coming Christmas morning. The husband's dad is coming Christmas afternoon and we are going to my sister's Christmas night to wrap up the festivities.
• Watching Peanut open presents. Last year, she was less than 6 months old so she really had no idea what was happening. This year, she understands a bit more. During her nap Sunday, I wrapped most of the presents and stuck what I could under the tree. When she woke up and went into the living room, she yelled "WOW" upon seeing the presents. (And, thankfully, she didn't attempt to open any of them).
  
• Spending some alone time when it is all over. The husband is on vacation next week so he is taking Peanut for two nights to visit his family. It will be the first time in 17 months that Peanut and I will be away from each other overnight. I'm actually OK with it.

What are you looking forward to this week?

Cookie day

So, we had Cookie Day.

This is The Boy helping me before his buddies and my friends arrived.

(Isn't my apron cute? An early Christmas gift from the husband.)

I wanted to have some cutouts on hand for immediate icing, though it really was not necessary. The boys spent most of the time playing while the moms decorated cookies. The kiddos did enjoy glopping sprinkles on. I don't have pictures of those cookies. They all went home with the other bakers.

My advice if you're hosting your own cookie day with toddlers/small children:

1. Bake ahead. I had three kinds of cookies done and boxed before people came, and the cut-out cookie dough made and chilled. I might not do as many ahead next time or as the kids get older, but it allowed me to send my friends home with a good amount of cookies and still get the kiddos to naps before things got unruly.
2. Stick with premade or buttercream icing. I was going to try royal icing with the kids, decided against it and am glad I did. That stuff dries too quickly for toddlers' attention spans. And anyway, they just really love the sprinkles.
3. Put out some butter. I totally forgot and we had to microwave butter to get it to "room temperature," and that just adds a step and dirties a dish.
4. Have the dads around. The husband and one of the other dads ended up being at the house while we were baking, and that was great. When the kiddos got tired of cookies, the dads kept them entertained and the moms got a little time to ourselves.

Nine months: Any day now

The Lad's due date is Jan. 1.

The Boy was four days early.

At my last doctor's visit, I was about two centimeters dilated.

I have an appointment for a haircut and pedicure Tuesday.

Obviously, there's Christmas in there.

And there's a full moon Dec. 31.

Any bets on when The Lad will make his appearance?

2:30 a.m.

The Lad has a thing about 2 a.m. I think it's going to be his witching hour. Almost every night for the last two weeks I've been awake around 2 a.m., sometimes out of a dead sleep, and staring at the clock. Then, sometime between 2:30 and 3 a.m., when I've given up all hope of sleep and have resigned myself to lying awake in the dark, my eyes close and the next thing I know, it's morning and The Boy is padding across the house to say, "Hi Momma!"

Usually I go through this process alone. Not so last night.

Just before 2 a.m., I woke up to the smell of our cat box. The cat box does not usually smell, I swear, but last night, it reeked. I lay in bed and tried not to notice. Maybe it was just super pregnancy senses. The husband rolled over.

"Why does the cat box smell so bad?"

"I don't know," I said. "I think maybe the cleaning ladies did something to it. It smells like an old lady's cat box."

"It reeks."

"I know."

We both tossed and turned for several minutes. Finally, the husband mumbled something and got out of bed. I heard him eating an apple in the kitchen. I tried to sleep. The Lad was tossing and turning, too. I heard the husband get the cat box. My stomach started to growl. I tried to ignore it. I started feeling sick. I sighed heavily and rolled myself out of bed.

As the husband cleaned the litter box, I ate a bowl of Cheerios. All the noise must have disturbed The Boy because there was a thud and then, "I fall. I fall out bed on carpet." Out he came, carrying his blanky.

So there we were, the whole family -- including the damn cat, who was mewling for good food -- at 2:30 a.m. I have a feeling we'll be repeating this scenario often in the coming weeks, only with a crying baby involved.

Declaration of Independence, or pay back as my parents would call it

When I was 4 or 5 years old, my mother volunteered me to be a model in a PTA fashion show. We had to walk across the stage in front of gym full of parents and walk down a set of stairs. Our little neighbor boy stood on the stairs to help the models. When it was my turn, he held out his hand for me to take it and I swatted him away, walking down the stairs by myself and giving everyone a laugh.

I'm guessing my parents think of times like this when I tell them of Peanut's new found independence while they laugh at me and say "It's pay back time." (Not that happened during a recent phone conversation with my dad).

Peanut has begun to assert herself as an independent little being with Opinions. Recently, those Opinions had to do with what shoes she wanted to wear. The husband tried to put her new pink shoes on her but she wanted nothing to do with them. She repeatedly shoved the pink shoes aside and thrust her brown shoes at the husband. 

She then wanted to buckle herself into the car seat with no help from Daddy.

The other night when I asked if she wanted a bath, she took off for the steps. When I tried to swoop her up, she brushed me aside and climbed up the stairs herself. She does this also when we are leaving the babysitter's. She doesn't want to be carried out. She will walk on her own, thank you very much.

It's funny to see her act like this. She's so little yet she thinks she's so grown up already. It does give me a little concern what our future might hold if she's already acting like this ...

What does your little one insist on doing independently?

One year of blather

A year ago, Michelle finally forced me to make good on the threat I'd been making since The Boy's birth. We started this blog.

We'd been talking about the idea for weeks, and I threw out the name, Not Raising Brats, as a joke. More wishful thinking and desperate hoping than anything else. It stuck, though there are days when one or both of us is fairly certain the name is false advertising at best and a blatant lie at worst.

In honor of our anniversary, here are some alternate names for this little bit of the Interwebs:
-- Not Raising Juvenile Delinquents
-- Not Losing Our Minds
-- Trying to Keep Everyone Alive
-- Keeping Our Expectations Low
-- Lying to Ourselves About Raising Brats
-- Raising Imps
-- Going for Good Enough

Going for Good Enough, Michelle's brainchild, is my favorite on the list. I think it sums up nicely the parenting reality.

You want him? Take him.

The Boy and I were at the grocery store, and I stood staring at the tiny jars and bags in the baking aisle. I hate the baking aisle when I am looking for a specific, new ingredient. All the jars and bags look the same and, inevitably, what I'm looking for ends up in another aisle altogether. The Boy was in a cheery, chatty mood, using mac-and-cheese boxes as maracas, reminding me "need yogurt, Momma, I get yogurt, Momma, get yogurt, Momma," and shouting, "Hi!" to every passing person.

Irritating to a momma looking for something she can't find. Cute to the passersby.

"Hi there!" cooed an older, grandmotherly woman who'd been enthusiastically greeted by The Boy. "Aren't you adorable? You're a good boy, aren't you!? What a good boy!"

"He is sometimes," I said, smiling wryly.

"All the time, Mommy," the woman said sternly. "He is a good boy all the time."

I know what she meant -- enjoy them while you can, this is the best time of your life and all that jazz. But oh, I wanted so badly to shove my cart at her and say, "Really? You think so? Well, take him home, and you let me know how that works out for you."

What's the most irritating, well-meaning advice you've gotten lately?

Potty in the house

We have secured a pink princess potty. And no, it won't be going under the Christmas tree. (I stick my tongue out at you, Hillary.)

We've been talking about getting Peanut a potty for about a month now but just hadn't done it until today. I almost got one on my first trip to Target today (yes, first) but got sidetracked. I stood in the aisle debating, singing toilet? no singing? pink? no pink? By the time I found the husband to ask his opinion, the thought had flitted out of my head.

Later in the day, I was curled up on the couch reading while the husband cooked a delicious chicken and wild rice soup. Peanut was entertaining herself with her own books when she went to lay down in the spot I normally change her diapers. She looked at me expectantly.

I asked her if her diaper needed changed. She said, "Shesh" (her version of yes).

I asked her if she poo'ed. She said "Poooooooo."

And she had.

The moment she was changed, she insisted on putting the wipes away in the cabinet, said, "I shut it," and ran off to play.

The husband and I agreed; it was time to get the potty. So off I went to Target for the second time to get the singing, pink, princess potty.

I got it home and out of box, explaining to Peanut that if she needed to go to the bathroom, she should do so on the potty. We tried a couple times but to no avail.

I'm not expecting any Christmas potty miracles but I would like her to become familiar with the potty. I know she is still pretty young (she'll be 17 months old this week) but since she's showing signs, we might as well try.

Any tips? What worked for you? When did you introduce the potty?

When I'm 64

I judged a senior citizen talent show today.

There was a woman in her late 60s who belly-danced. (I'm sorry I don't have a picture. The organizers felt judges should more dignified than to be snapping photos of the acts. Poo.) She wore a turquoise skirt and bolero, spangled with giant gold sequins, over a red bodysuit. She had amazing cleavage and beautiful skin. She was in my top three.

A retired police officer who only started singing three years ago and who performs with a barbershop quartet sang "Ave Maria" in a voice that filled the entire auditorium. Think Bugs Bunny doing opera, only, you know, good. He didn't place and after the results were announced an admirer of his leaned over my shoulder and demanded to know WHY he hadn't placed with a voice like that. He had a groupie.

A raspy-voiced, black-dyed-haired New Yorker performed an original stand-up comedy act. Most of it was about sex. She said after two knee replacements and two hip replacements, what was inside of her pants was worth $1 million -- and she wasn't dropping those drawers for just anyone.

And the winners were a couple, married 58 years next week, who performed a sort of swing dance together. He dipped her several times, dropping her lower and lower only to pop her up for a kiss. I alternated between worry that they'd break a hip or two and delight that they were so obviously still in love. They wore matching pink and white outfits. You could see the tails of his pink shirt through his white pants. She cried when they won.

I can play the flute. Maybe that'll be my talent entry when I'm a senior citizen. What's your talent?

Waiting happily

I have officially started the last year of my 20s. Yesterday was possibly the best birthday of the decade. I mean, my 21st was fun and all, but just the fact that I didn't finish yesterday hanging over the toilet means my 29th was better -- or maybe it just means I'm old. Whatever. Either way, what I'm trying to say is I had a lovely day.

The Boy slept in until nearly 7 a.m.

I had homemade scones for breakfast. (recipe courtesy of Smitten Kitchen.)

The husband gave me earrings that look like lemon drops, which perhaps doesn't sound cute, but trust me, they are. (Found on Etsy via the Style Lush Holiday Gift Guide)

We had a dinner date, thanks to friends watching the kiddo.

And he also arranged to have our entire house cleaned by someone who is NOT ME.

Do I need to tell you I nearly started crying when he told me about that? This means I can concentrate my nesting efforts on really important things like baking ridiculous amounts of Christmas cookies and organizing the kitchen junk drawer. It also means when I'm trapped in a rocking chair with a newborn, weepy with hormones and lack of sleep, I will not be staring at baseboards covered in dust and cat hair thinking, "God, we live like pigs." That, dear readers, is a wonderful gift.

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The husband asked if I had any goals to accomplish before I turned 30. He's a very goal-oriented person. By his 30th birthday, he wants to run a 5K in less than 20 minutes, something he hasn't done since we moved to Florida. I don't have any goals that are so concrete. Basically, I want to keep myself and my family happy, fed and clean.

My standards are high.

I feel about my life in general sort of the way I feel about The Lad's arrival. With The Boy, as his due date loomed, I was very focused on how I would give birth and how my body was progressing. I counted down the days and could barely think of anything else, just as I used to work feverishly and nervously toward school or work projects. But as The Lad's time in utero wanes, I'm not anxious, and I don't feel a burning desire to know when he'll arrive. I feel -- dare I say it? -- PATIENT, something I most definitely am not. But truly, he'll get here when he gets here. In the meantime, I'll enjoy the stretches and kicks and the awesome curve of my belly. I know that delivering him and becoming the mother and wife of a family of four will be hard work, but I'm content to accept that work as it comes and confident I can handle it when it does.

Maybe I'm getting old and complacent. Perhaps pregnancy hormones are making me euphoric. Whatever. It's a nice feeling.

The Twoddler: Every mother's nightmare

Have you seen there is something new to make mothers who spend time away from their children feel guilty?

It's the Twoddler. Twitter for toddlers.

I am not even joking.

According to an article on cnet, the Twoddler is a toy that allows kids to tweet. It's just a prototype but it works like this:

When a child presses a certain picture for a select amount of time, software captures sensor data from the activity center and selects and sends a predefined text related to that data.

For example, when Bobby plays with Mom's picture for more than three minutes, a Twitter message will post to Bobby's personal Twitter account saying, "@mommy_bobby Bobby misses mommy and looks forward playing with her this evening" (or as the messages get more refined and personalized: "@mommy_bobby Bobby is having a temper tantrum and wants mommy home now."

Because every mom needs to know that as she is going into an important meeting or trying to concentrate. They should call the thing "Make sure mommy feels so guilty she stays home."

My response to Bobby would be:

@bobby Are you bleeding? Have internal injuries? Fever? No? I'll be there at the normal time and we will snuggle then.

Or maybe:

@bobby Mommy needs to work so you can have Tickle Me Elmo 4 Xmas. Chill w the dramatics. Be cool. We'll play 2nite.

After reading this article, it did make me think of what Peanut might tweet me. Here are some of the 140 or less character possibilities:

@notraisingbrats Please stop asking me what a doggie says. I've already told you. You should know this by now. Squirrels and kitties too.

@notraisingbrats Thanks for putting me in these flower-print pants today. The kids are making fun of me. Hope insurance covers therapy.

@notraisingbrats Can you stop packing lima beans for lunch? I'm not eating them. Ever. Take a hint. I prefer fruit snacks.

@notraisingbrats Sorry I woke you at 3 a.m. I wanted a hug. Thanks for coming in 6 times before I fell asleep. Hope you aren't too tired.

What would your kid tweet?

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You can follow my tweets here.

Dr. Toddler

I'm working from home today with a sick Boy. I think it's just a little cold virus. He had a pretty good temperature yesterday when daycare sent him home early and was tired and had a "hurting head," he said. This morning, he was a little warm and a bit lethargic.

"Where do you feel bad?" I asked.

"Mine head hurt," The Boy said. "And mine tongue."

I'm diagnosing that as a headache and sore throat. I love that he can tell me what's wrong, more or less. Aside from the practicality, I really enjoy seeing how his mind works. Watching language acquisition is one of my favorite parts of parenthood so far.

A dose of Motrin had The Boy running all over the house this morning, so I'm pretty sure we can skip the doctor. I'm thinking a day of laziness with Momma, in front of the TV while I work, with plenty of liquids will be all The Boy needs to feel better. And popsicles, of course. Popsicles make everything better -- especially sore tongues.

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In other news, my latest article -- about my futile attempts to keep presents for The Boy under control -- is up at BabyFit.

So this is parenthood No. 8

Peanut is already playing us against one another. At 17 months old.

As I buckled her into the car to go home from the babysitter's, she finished the graham cracker she had been eating and asked for more.

I told her I didn't have more but we were going home and I would get her something there.

She then asked for daddy. I told her daddy would be home soon, too.

Peanut then said something that sounded distinctly like, "Dada give me more."

Wow. And so it begins.

Help me, Interwebz

So it's December 6 and I have most of my Christmas shopping done, which is a miracle.

I'm even already thinking about the Christmas card, which in years past sometimes makes it to our family and friends after Christmas. (I just wanted to keep the spirit of the season going.)

I took two pictures of Peanut last night and I can't decide which one to use so I turn to you.

Here they are:
Sweet photo of toddler, who finally sat still long enough for her mother to take a decent picture.


More characteristic of child's personality, especially since she didn't go to bed until 11:30 p.m. Saturday and wanted back out of bed at 5 a.m.

So what do you think? The obligatory in front of the Christmas tree shot or the funny, impish picture?

A teachable moment (or maybe I'm just mean)

When I was pregnant with The Boy, I signed up for a grocery store's baby coupon mailing. An early birthday card for the kiddo arrived in the latest mailing, and The Boy was quite taken with it. He called it a book and spent long minutes pointing out all the animals in party hats and telling me about the balloons and how the animals were about to eat cake.

Disaster struck tonight when, in his zeal, The Boy ripped the card down its bend.

"It broke. It broke! Fix it, Momma. Help me."

I was distracted, cleaning up after dinner, and said, "I can't fix it, sweetie." Of course, two seconds later, I thought how easy it would be to get the packing tape and solve The Boy's problem. But by then, he already was sobbing over his broken "book," and I figured, what the hell. If we're having a meltdown, let's make it count. So, I pulled him up on my lap and told him to take a deep breath. He did and stopped crying. I wiped his tears and showed him his ripped card.

"You're sad you ripped it, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well, that's why we have to be careful with our books. We have to be careful so we don't rip them, because when they rip, they're broken. We can't always fix them."

He buried his head in my chest. This was not a temper tantrum. This was a woe-is-me, I-screwed-up fit. It was another moment where I felt like I was parenting myself.

"Hey, look at Momma. Deep breath. See, you can still use it, you just have to be extra careful so you don't rip it more. And we have to be extra careful with the rest of our books, too."

"Yeah. Read 'nother book?"

"Sure."

We read another book, and The Boy went to bed, mostly OK with the situation. I sort of feel like a mean momma, but I figure it's better he learn not to rip and snort on a cheap card than on one of his favorite books. If Hop on Pop gets destroyed, I don't think his tears would disappear so quickly.

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The husband just asked what I was blogging about.

"Whether I'm a mean momma or a good one," I said.

"Can't you be both?" he said. "Don't you kind of have to be."

I think that sums it up nicely.

Wiggles give me the willies

No one would ever accuse me of being Glinda the Good Witch.

In fact, in high school (and sometimes beyond) my parents called me Katie Kaboom after the Little Maniacs cartoon hormonal teenager who would turn into a house destroying giant monster every time she got the slightest bit upset.

I'm warm and fuzzy while keeping my cynical charm.

All this to say I find the Wiggles disturbing and Imagination Movers suspect. In fact, any adults who do children's shows make me nervous. The dancing, the weird songs and overantimated behavior ... odd and unnatural.

I don't trust anything that is so, so, well I guess perky is the best word.

I can handle Sesame Street although Peanut prefers "Melmo, Melmo" pointing a chubby hand downstairs to the room where we watch Elmo's World. Other than that, she's not interested in television unless Taylor Swift or Keith Urban is on and then her world stops and she starts dropping it like it's hot.

I've always enjoyed the cartoons where some of the humor goes right over the kids' heads and is aimed toward parents - I turned on Madagascar 2 the other night while Peanut was playing and watched it more intently than she did.

What shows do your kids watch that you enjoy? Don't enjoy?

Shameless plug

Have you guys heard about SparkPeople? It's a health site that allows you to track your food and workouts and fitness goals. Being honest, I've not used it, but friends and family have with good results. The company also runs BabyFit, a health and lifestyle site aimed at pregnant women and moms, and I've started writing articles for them.

Check out my disaster preparedness tips. I've lived through three hurricanes, so I'm pretty confident in my advice. And you can also try out my tips for getting The Boy to listen, despite being a toddler.

Cooking up traditions

The year we decorated Christmas cookies with screwdrivers is one of my favorite memories.

Every year, my aunt Karen hosted Cookie Day. We'd trip over each other in her tiny kitchen and spill flour and sugar every where and fill card tables set end-to-end in her cavernous living room with sweets. We kids tried to have our hands in everything but eventually were shoved off to small tasks -- putting the Hershey's kisses on the peanut butter blossoms, smashing up candy canes for the peppermint twists and cutting out the sugar cookies. And, of course, when those sugar cookies came out of the oven, they were ours to decorate. We used butter knives most years, slathering on icing and shaking on as much colored sugar and those little silver-bullet -looking candies as our moms would let us.

But one year, Aunt Karen came up the basement stairs and set before us kids a case full of dozens of screwdrivers, never used and gleaming. I don't know what made her think of it. Maybe we were fighting over the butter knives. Maybe we were being exceptionally bratty or exceptionally good. Maybe she was irritated with Uncle Jim, for whom the set was a gift. What I do know is those screwdrivers were like paintbrushes, and we kids were giddy with the novelty of using a tool -- and a Christmas gift that wasn't ours -- to decorate cookies. In family folklore, the year of the screwdrivers is undeniably the apex of Cookie Day.

Since leaving home, I have tried with varying success to recreate Cookie Day. Snickerdoodles, my favorite cookie, were my downfall. In the husband's first apartment, I ruined a batch by using the existing Crisco, which had gone rancid. The snickerdoodles attempted on Christmas Eve in my first apartment turned to snicker-puffs (I'd greased the cookie sheet) and led to a screaming match that ended with the husband and I locked out, waiting for the locksmith on the futon of my divorced dad neighbor.

I mastered snickerdoodles after we moved to Florida -- always chill the dough, my friends -- and have found what I believe to be the secret to Aunt Karen's always-soft sugar cookies. The husband and I have learned to make his beloved and fussy Hungarian butter cookies without threatening each other with bodily harm. I managed to bake dozens of cookies last year with a toddler under foot. I even made The Boy special initial cookies out of dough scraps.

The Boy, "frosting" cookies last December

I've decided I'm ready. This is the year I host my own Cookie Day.

I don't care if I'm ridiculously pregnant. I don't care if The Boy and his best buddies are a little too young to decorate any cookies not being eaten by them. (Let's be honest: They're going to be finger-painting these cookies.) I am having a Cookie Day. I've got recipes marked and supplies purchased. Baking cookies is one of my favorite holiday traditions and one I want to give to my kiddos. I want them to remember licking spoons and smashing candy canes. I want them to burn their tongues on cookies still hot from the oven and argue over which cookies are best. I want them to have a really silly family story, like the year we used screwdrivers to decorate Christmas cookies, to tell their friends.

What holiday traditions are most important in your family?