breast vs. bottle vs ... shut up.

Those breastfeeding militants can screw off, I remember thinking as I snuggled The Boy close and held a bottle for him. I had read somewhere while I was pregnant with him that mothers don't bond as easily with bottle-fed babies because nursing puts newborns at the optimal distance from a mother's face. Bottle-feeding makes it too easy to keep short-sighted infants too far away for them to really see the momma. Before The Boy was born and in the frustrating days of our short nursing relationship, I totally bought that argument. But after I got over the guilt of my breastfeeding failure and decided a happy baby needed a happy momma first, I realized what bullshit it was. He was my baby. I was going to snuggle him while I fed him, from whatever nipple the food came.

When The Lad came, we gave him formula the first night to get some sleep and then tried nursing. I was prepared for it to be hard and to hurt at first. It was and it did, but we continued and I kept a can of formula ready. The can grew dusty. When I went back to work and had to become intimate with the damned pump, I expected every week to be the last one. Fifteen ounces a day, more or less, was my pumping threshold, and surely The Lad would need more. But on average, he never did. Nursing became What Works Now, and here I am on the other side of the breast vs. bottle nonsense.

These anti-breastfeeding women can screw off, I thought as I pumped milk for The Lad and read about celebs and, more appallingly, a parenting magazine editor deeming nursing gross and "creepy." One of the pseudo-celebs compared public breastfeeding to shitting in public and that editor publicly declared breastfeeding something to which "funbags" should never be subjected. Really? A grown, educated woman whose job it is to disseminate information to parents is using what is possibly the worst euphemism ever for boobs and saying breasts should only be used for sex.

Sigh.

I've been thinking about breastfeeding a lot lately. The Lad and I have hit the six-month mark, which many mothers decide is enough for breastfeeding. Truthfully, I wasn't sure we would last six days, and even when we passed that and then six weeks, I figured surely six months would be my limit. He eats solids. He has teeth. ("That's the end of that," my mother-in-law declared.) I still think the pump is an unnatural nuisance, and when I nurse him, The Lad is often distracted these days, eager to scoot backward into whatever adventures he can find.

But.

But but but. Breastfeeding still is cheap and easy. I can nurse anywhere and have. The pump has become just one more thing on the daily to-do list. The Lad has learned to keep his chompers to himself. Nursing is one of the few times The Lad is still enough to snuggle these days. I've decided -- as I have repeatedly since he was born -- to keep breastfeeding until it doesn't work any more, and I find myself unreasonably sad to think about the inevitable end.

I apologized and rationalized and explained about bad latches and crazy-making hormones when people asked if I breastfed The Boy. And despite all the "breast is best" propaganda, I have found myself apologizing and rationalizing and explaining about nursing in public and cheap food when people ask if I'm breastfeeding The Lad.

So, back to the recent anti-breastfeeding sentiments. Let's forget about the grossed-out, attention-seeking celebs. Let's talk about that editor calling breastfeeding creepy. She has since said she wrote the article -- in a flippant tone -- trying to make women who formula-feed, for whatever reason, feel better about the choice. Amen. I'm all for that. There are a thousand of reasons why babies need formula, and nursing, though natural, isn't easy and doesn't work for everyone. I know that. But, do we have to make formula-feeding women feel better at the expense of breastfeeding women? For that matter, when breastfeeding still is something a minority of women do -- because of crappy maternity leave, because they can't afford the up-front, hefty price of a pump, because they don't have time to pump, because they have to work, because people still hassle breastfeeding mothers in public -- why belittle that choice?

Breast vs. bottle shouldn't be what we're yelling about. What should be our concern is creating a world where women have options and are left the hell alone to feed their babies the best way for them.

Things that make me smile

Listening to Peanut sing. She's in love with Taylor Swift right now. It is the only thing we can listen to in the car. (Dear Taylor, please come out with a new CD. Soon. Yesterday.) The other night, she was belting out "Fifteen." She gets about one-third to half the words and sounds something like, "Fifffffteeeeeen...Wub yooooooooooou...."

Peanut's latest addition to her vocabulary. She's learning the concept of hurt. Except that Everything hurts her now. Her little cousin touches her? "Owwww! She hurt me." Mommy splashes her with water? "OWWWW! You hurt me." She then goes around saying "Mommy hurt me." Although I might get a call from Children's Services, it is still funny to see her dramatics.

Thinking about decorating the nursery. I love to decorate so it makes me so happy that I have an excuse to redo a room. I'm thinking safari if it is a boy with a large canvas of a giraffe (painted by me) with smaller canvasses of various animal prints or his name spelled out in snakes. If it is a girl, I think I will go with fairies. I can still use Peanut's bedding, which was polka-dots and flowers but paint fairies on canvasses, thus making the girls' rooms distinct.

Hillary and her brood will be here so very soon. It's been almost a year since we've been together and The Lad was just a baby bump. I can't wait to see if The Boy still eyes Peanut suspiciously why she molests him with unwanted hugs. I also want to nom-nom-nom on The Lad's cheeks and kiss his dimples. And, of course, I can't wait to see Hillary and her husband.

What's making you smile?

The sibling factor

The Boy is a social little creature, much like his father. He loves playing with other kids and, other than his biting phase, sharing has never been a problem. And yet this is what I heard repeatedly over the weekend while the kiddos were playing near each other on the carpet:

"NO! That's mine! No, Lad! Don't touch the tunnel! That's mi-i-i-i-ine!"

"Boy," I said sternly. "You have to share. You -"

"But he's messing my train track!"

"Boy, you share at school, don't you? You can share with your brother."

"Ah! No, Lad! That's mine!"

At that point, I had to hide my giggles behind a book. Why is it that a sibling can irritate and infuriate like no other person in your life? I saved my breath and didn't bother to lecture further. The Boy had been reprimanded, The Lad didn't need defending -- he happily grabbed whatever he could reach, oblivious to The Boy's whining -- and nothing I said was going to change The Boy's feeling of OMG-my-annoying-little-brother-is-touching-my-stuff!

My parents used to tell us to fight nice. We weren't allowed to tattle unless someone was bleeding, and even then, were more likely to get a "Well, did you deserve it?" than sympathy. Having spent a pleasant half an hour reading my book while the kiddos played whined together, I can see the wisdom in this policy.

In the in between

I am 12 weeks along today. 

The morning sickness comes and goes but I am dealing with it thanks to a prescription of Zofran. It's still nothing like what I had with Peanut.

I'm not nearly as tired as I was early on, mainly thanks to Peanut going back to her old sleeping habits. She's sleeping through the night and not getting up until after 8 a.m. Some mornings, I have to go an get her up.

I am now getting to the point where my regular clothes are beginning to feel pinchy but maternity clothes just look silly on me. It is really too bad too because I have a ton of maternity clothes thanks to my sister. As soon as she found out I was pregnant, she rounded up all of the clothes from both her pregnancies and the clothes I gave her from my one.

There are all kinds of cute dresses and skirts, shirts and pants, most made for the summer months since we were both at are largest then. I have no idea what I am going to wear this winter.

Thankfully she has a few "on the way up, on the way down" clothes that aren't maternity but just a size bigger than what we normally wear.

I'm thinking I might have to bust out the belly bands soon or start using a hair band to give my pants a little extra room.

Any tricks you used for dressing in the in between?

Six months: How the hell?

How is my little Lad half a year old? Tell me this.

How is he sitting up?

How is it that we're considering banishing the bouncy seat because the little booger regularly tries to throw himself out of it?

Will the playmat be the next to go, as he constantly collapses it down on himself by pulling on the rings while rolling, thus rolling the whole thing over with him?

How is he managing to roll, scoot and wriggle himself all over the house until he wears little blisters on his tiny baby toes?

(And was that random toy really worth all the carpet fuzz he ate on the way?)

Why is he not content with the wriggling? Why is pushing himself up on all fours, preparing to crawl? Does he want to push me over the edge?

How can he be maowing on peas and peaches and cereal and yogurt, broccoli and carrots and sweet potatoes and blueberry applesauce?

(And yet still try to steal food from my plate!)

How have I managed to nurse him for six months, with no end in sight?

(Would you look at those rolls and chins we have produced?)

How can he be, seriously, chasing the cat already? (Albeit in slow motion, mostly backwards)

Who does he want to play with more: The Cat or The Boy?

Is it any wonder the daycare ladies call him their little teenager? Or their little tyrant?

How can my little baby be fighting with his brother, demanding his share?

More importantly, why would he want a corner of that dirty, stinky blanket?

How have six months passed?

How has it only been six months?

How did we live without this silly, cuddly, stubborn, cheerful, energetic, curious, tyrannical, wonderful little person?

How could you not love that face?

Names!

One of my favorite things about being pregnant is picking out a name for the baby. There are so many possibilities (until the husband and I start talking about it and then we can't seem to agree on much).

But still, I love thinking of everything we could possibly name our little one.

First, some background: I've mentioned once or twice that Peanut's name is Emery Margaret Sue. Emery is for my grandfather, Margaret for the husband's mother and Sue for my mother.

We like family names so we are going to incorporate family names with the second one. If it is a girl, her middle name will be Sarah for my sister. If it is a boy, he will have two middle names like his big sister. Lucas for his father and Michael for my dad.

So here is a list of what we've talked about so far:

Boys:
Griffin - we both love this and seems to be our top contender.
Huck - we've always talked about this name, I think even before we were married. Most people I know, however, think it is an awful name.
Elijah - I originally agreed to this the first time around. The husband really likes it but I've moved on.
Jasper - I adore this name. I think my heart stopped when I saw it and thought of it for our child. The husband, however, won't even discuss it as a possibility.

Girls:
Violet - I really like this plus it was the husband's grandmother's name. He, however, is not such a fan.
Lily - The husband came up with this the other day and we are both really into it.
Fiona - I like this and so does Hillary. She says she will call her Fifi, which I find endearing.
Anna - This has always been the husband's top pick but I refuse to go with anything that starts with an A because her initials would be ASS. I knew a kid in third grade who had these initials and I still remember his full name all these years later.

Jealous bits

A friend from high school whose daughter is almost exactly the same age as The Boy announced on Facebook that they are diaper-free except for naps. Less than an hour later, I see a post from Michelle's husband that Peanut is refusing to wear diapers.

Do you see me turning green with envy? The Boy's only concession to potty-training since the failed weekend boot camp has been to say, "Next month. I poo on potty next month."

---

For Father's Day, we got the husband a massage and I made his preferred dinner and peanut butter cookies. The best gift he got -- the gift the boys did not manage for me: Concurrent naps.

---

I thought I could come up with something else I am jealous of, but no such luck. My life is pretty good. I shouldn't complain. Instead, I'll be happy for you diaper-free parents!

Why it's good to have dads around

A dad takes you to a birthday party where they have this:






And then he talks mommy into buying it for your birthday. Then he talks mommy into giving it to you a month before your second birthday so that everyone can have another month of bouncy fun.






Daddies are fun like that. Especially Peanut's daddy, who is a wonderful man, husband and father.


Happy Fathers Day!

Attention to detail

The scene: Momma drying her hair in the bathroom. The Boy, having just come in from a run with Daddyman, flops on the floor to "hang out." (He thinks it's going to rain, so he doesn't want to play outside.)

Boy: We not going to school today, Momma.

Momma: Yes, we're going to school. You're going to school and I'm going to work.

Boy: But why you got your sandal-flops on?

Momma: (looks down at her bare toes in sandals, which, technically, are forbidden by the company's dress code, though it's Florida and everyone flouts the rule, especially on Fridays) I want to wear my sandal-flops.

Boy: Where your work shoes?

Momma: They're over there. But I want to wear my sandals.

Boy: I think you better wear your work shoes.

Momma: (sighing) Fine. You're probably right.

Boy: (brings over red flats) Here.

---

Maybe he has a future in human resources.

Good things

All the things you want to hear at an early ultrasound:

• There's one baby.
• The brain is in the head.
• There's two arms.
• Looks like there's two legs.
• There's the heartbeat.
• Everything else looks good.
  
• There's one baby.

I had an irrational fear there would be two of them in there but alas no. We have one healthy baby who was measuring about five days ahead of schedule. The due date was moved to Jan. 2. They told me if I opt for another C-section, they will do it at 39 weeks meaning this baby could be here by the end of the year.

Somehow, there seems to be a big difference between 2010 and 2011, even if it is just a week.

Identity

"Hi," said Anthony, one of The Boy's best buddies, as I walked up to the playground Tuesday afternoon. "Where's Boy?"

"Boy is with his grandparents," I said. "He'll be here tomorrow."

"Oh."

I went in to collect The Lad. He's been at daycare as usual this week so my in-laws could be straw-bossed within an inch of their lives spoil The Boy silly enjoy time with his funny, busy older brother. As I walked back out to the car, several of the kids called out. "Bye! Bye, Lad! Bye, Baby Lad. Bye, Mr. Lad!"

"Bye!" I said back to all of them, waving. Anthony, sitting in the corner on a big wheel, waved back.

"Bye, Boy's Mom."

It was one of those moments that catch my breath and make me smile because I realize, "Oh my. I really am a mom. I really am the responsible adult here."

I am a daughter and a sister, a friend and a wife. I am a reporter and a writer. I've been a student and a cashier and a produce girl and a factory worker. But for the next two decades, while the kids are in school -- really for the rest of my life, I suppose -- a whole swath of the people I know will see me primarily as The Boy's Mom, as The Lad's Mom.

Before having kids, even while I was pregnant, I thought that might bother me. I thought being a mom might blot out some essential part of me. Hell, some days I still struggle with keeping enough personal time and space. But when I get right down to it, I don't mind being the mom. I didn't feel negated when I heard that little boy call out what he thinks of as my name. I got the same tingle of having a secret I feel when someone uses my married name at work or my maiden name, which is my byline and professional name, when I'm with my husband. I've joked since getting married and using two names that I've got a secret identity and I like it. Being a mom is just another identity.

Back to reality

For our anniversary, the husband and I rented a Mustang convertible and drove around the ritzy areas along the beach. I wore sunglasses and a scarf wrapped around my head and tied behind my neck to keep my hair from blowing in the wind.

"Just call me Audrey," I joked.

We window-shopped and had lunch at a restaurant that has been open since 1921. Though it looks a bit shabby now, the dark wood booths and patio tables sitting on tile floors beneath wide-bladed fans teemed with the ghosts of stylish people having cocktails. The husband and I joined them, toasting ourselves with good beer and strawberry pie in the midday heat.

And then, just to keep things classy, I pumped in a parking garage. Nothing like parenthood to keep you grounded in reality.

---

In other, somewhat related news, The Lad has two teeth. His bottom front teeth popped out over night just in time for our anniversary. (Such a thoughtful kiddo, that Lad.) You know how you scrape your teeth along a fork to get the last crumbs of cake? Well, The Lad has done that twice to me after a feeding. The first time I was so shocked, I did nothing. The second time, I will admit to tapping his cheek out of reflex and yelling. The yell scared him, and at the next feeding, I was safe. But that also might have been because I was monitoring every suck and, at the first sign of a wriggle, unlatching him.

We call the Lad our little Beastie. You long-term breastfeeding mommas have any good tips to ward off a mauling, should The Lad decide to live up to his nickname?

What Peanut thinks of the new baby

The husband: Are you going to share your books with the baby?
Peanut: Yeeesssss.

The husband: Are you going to let the new baby play with your toys?
Peanut: Yeeessss.

The husband: Will you let the baby have your fruit snacks?
Peanut: Yeeessss.

The husband: Will you let the new baby sleep in your crib?
Peanut: Yeeessss.

Me: Will you watch Elmo with the new baby?
Peanut: No.

Apparently even she has her limits.

What I'm thinking

What I said: Peanut, only babies use pacies. You are a big girl. You don't need it anymore.
What I'm thinking: How are you a big girl already?

What I said: Peanut, you need to use your big girl voice. Momma doesn't know what you are saying when you whine and cry.
What I'm thinking: How are you a big girl already?

What I said: Peanut, if you don't want your diaper changed, then you need to start using the potty like a big girl.
What I'm thinking: How are you a big girl already?

This child is growing up too fast and I don't know why I'm encouraging it.

Things I couldn't tell you

Here are the things I've wanted to tell you over the past couple months but have been unable to:

I took The pregnancy test on a whim, 7 a.m. on a Monday morning. It turned positive instantly. I was just past 4 weeks. I giggled uncontrollable. When I told the husband, he hugged and kissed me, said "here we go again," and promptly asked if I thought it was a boy.

***

I mistakenly calculated my due date and thought the baby was due in February for almost two weeks.

When I finally figured out the baby was actually due in January, I felt like I was much further along in my pregnancy. I also felt like a ding-dong.

***

While whining about my nausea, my husband jokingly told me to suck it up. I told him if he ever told me that in the next two years, I would divorce him on the spot.

I'm surly when I'm pregnant. Especially when I have morning sickness like this. Thankfully it is not as bad as what I had with Peanut.

***

One morning while the husband was golfing, I was stricken with bad morning sickness. While I wretched over the toilet, Peanut stood by and watched.

When I was done, she looked at me and said, "Momma said (insert wretching noise here)."

She continues to do this every time she sees my in this state. I hope she won't be traumatized.

***

I have left my husband to fend for himself for dinner. I absolutely cannot cook right now. It is not even an option for me. Thankfully he doesn't seem to mind too much. He's a saint. Beyond.

***

I have been known to wake up in the middle of the night after a bad day of nausea and be Hungry. Stomach cramp hungry. You can usually find me sitting on the kitchen floor eating a mug of cereal or pineapple.

Cereal has been my go-to food. When nothing else sounds good, I can eat cereal. We've gone through many boxes of cereal in our house.

***

I am terrible at secrets. I want to tell everyone everything so keeping this secret for more than five weeks has been torture. This is part of the reason I haven't written as much the past few weeks (thank you, Hillary, for being there.) All I wanted to say to you was, "Hey, I'm pregnant and feel sick and tired and there is a toddler here who doesn't understand and still wants momma to play."

It has taken everything inside of me to act like I am fine at work. I told a few select people early on, mainly my bosses, so they wouldn't think I am space cadet or wonder why I was alternating between shades of green and gray.

I play along and share some news

A year ago I was planning Peanut’s first birthday party extravaganza. We were still waiting for the arrival of her first tooth, which finally made it’s debut two weeks before her birthday, saving all of us from exploring toddler dentures.

A year ago, I was weaning Peanut after a very successful year of breastfeeding. She was learning to walk and communicate.

A year ago, I had baby fever while celebrating Hillary’s baby news and the anticipated birth of my lovely niece.

A year from now, I will be a mother of two. I will have an almost three year old and probably be exploring the possibility of preschool. I will have a five month old. Right now, I'm 10 weeks pregnant.

A year from now, I hope to still be nursing the latest addition to our family. I hope to be handling being the mother two with finesse. I plan to be done having children and feel complete with our family of four.

A year from now, I hope to still be sharing all of this with you.

Diaper shopping spree

I get a 10 percent discount card to Target every time I hit a certain spending level on one of my credit cards. Those little red-and-white cards used to mean new outfits or purses or shoes or make-up with, maybe, some cleaning supplies or toilet paper thrown in the cart.

I used one of those cards last night. I bought: diapers, diapers, diapers, diapers, diapers, wipes, wipes, wipes, paper towels, toilet paper and a bagful of various personal or home cleaning supplies. Somehow, it's just not as fun.

On the upside, between the discount card and coupons, which also arrive regularly, I saved $59.06. And I got $10 in gift cards because of a promotion on the diapers. So, there's that.

A year ago, a year from now*

A year ago, the husband and I were heading to New Orleans to celebrate our third wedding anniversary. I was pregnant, but barely. The Lad was just more than a thought making the smells of the city overwhelming. The Boy was a busy not-quite-18-month-old building trains out of his blocks and just starting to have real conversations. He still slept in a crib. We all got at least eight hours of sleep every night.

Now, the husband and I are staying home for our fourth anniversary, which is Thursday, but taking a quick daytrip this weekend along our area beaches.

The Lad is nearly half a year old. He still is nursing, but eats anything we give him and grows frustrated at dinner because I won't let him eat the things on my plate, things like chicken and corn on the cob. He has mastered rolling and backwards scooting, and is desperate to achieve forward motion. He was up on all fours for a few seconds last night. We're not sure who he wants to chase more: The Boy or The Cat. He sleeps in the crib, but thinks sleep is over-rated. We average five hours a stretch. We love him anyway.

The Boy, meanwhile, sleeps mostly undisturbed in a big boy bed. He builds castles for his trucks to crash and smash. He has taken to saying, unprompted, things such as, "I love you, Momma," and, "I like you a lot, Momma." Just a minute ago, he sent the Daddyman in to ask if The Lad could come outside and play with them. When he likes a song, he asks, "What THIS song?" and then tries to sing along. When he likes something someone has suggested, he says, "Yeah. That be an i-dee." He has figured out when the husband and I are spelling things, it usually means something good or interesting. Often, he figures out what we're talking about, I think from context clues. He can spell his name, but if you ask him how to spell anything else, he says, "Ummm, A ... I don't know."

A year from now, the husband and I will be celebrating our fifth wedding anniversary. We hope to take a trip somewhere again. The Lad will be nearly 18 months old. I would imagine him doing the things The Boy did at that age, but who knows? He's a different kid. I wonder what his dimples will look like as his face grows less babyish and more boyish. I wonder what he'll build with the blocks and what words will dominate his one-word conversations. The Boy will be nearly three-and-a-half. I hope to goodness he'll be potty-trained. Is that old enough to start teeball? I wonder if he'll really be able to spell by then and, if so, how we will keep our conversations private. The boys really will be able to play together then, not just near each other like they do now. I imagine I will become a momma referee.

Where were you a year ago? Where will you be a year from now?

**I should add that this is one of Swistle's favorite games. So, the idea is stolen from her.

Highs and lows

Our weekend was filled with highs and lows. It started off great with a Friday off for the whole family. We decided to go to a local park with a water play area and a children's garden.

Peanut was hesitant to play in the water but quickly warmed to the idea. She wanted to water the plants in the garden and called to the fish in the pond.

"Fisheeeees!"

Then we hit a low point early Saturday morning. Peanut came stumbling into our room, obviously feverish. She puked in our bed and all over me while we snuggled. Fun. We canceled two playdates and spent the next 24 hours trying to keep her fever down. When it went down, she was manic. When it came back, she just wanted to snuggle. Thankfully none of this involved more vomit. I'll spare you actual visuals of this time.

Sunday morning dawned with a fever-free Peanut. She was playful, hungry and ready to go. We still scrapped our plans for the zoo and opted for a trip closer to home. So off to a local festival we went.

"Hi, I'm a dare devil and made momma feel the need for sedation."

No fear. She was at least four inches too short to get on these things but they let her anyway.

It was a bit muddy. And by a bit, I mean a lot.

She was very taken with the woodland creatures made of wood. I was afraid we would have to shell out $50 to buy one. Thankfully, she was easily distracted.

Helping daddy make rice krispie treats after her nap (which explains the hair). This involved asking for a spoon and eating the cereal before it could be made into a treat.

How was your weekend?

Baby therapy

I was angry for all the usual reasons this morning. Because it was 8:30 and I still was wearing my nightgown and smeared eye make-up. Because I hadn't had a chance to shower. Because I had spent the previous two hours fixing dinner and baby food and pie crust for later in the week. Because I was doing all this with The Lad. Because the husband had been out for what seemed like a ridiculously long run, as usual. Because when he came back he didn't immediately take The Lad off my hands. Because dust coated the furniture, fingerprints marked the windows and cabinet doors and spaghetti sauce splattered the kitchen floor. Because I had started a dozen chores and finished less than half. Because The Lad needed to sleep and I knew I was going to have to stop what I was doing, again, and put him down. Because the sweaty husband still was stretching from his run.

So, I snatched up the fussing Lad from his seat in the jogging stroller and muttered a sarcastic, martyred comment in the direction of the husband. Rough and hurried, I changed The Lad's diaper. I plopped into the rocker and pumped the chair hard as I nursed him, my mind running through all the things I still had to do before a mid-morning playdate. I felt pinned to the chair. When The Lad came up for air, I assumed he was done, glad to be free, only to have him fuss and wriggle because I had rushed him. Resentfully, I put him back to the boob. Singing softly to The Lad as he, finally finished, drifted into sleep, a rush of love pushed my to-do list to the back of my mind. One last cuddle and I went to settle him into his crib -- where he instantly woke and pushed up off the mattress squawking.

Angry again, I grabbed him and flopped back down into the rocker, practically flinging the chair back and forth. I clutched The Lad, straining and struggling, against my chest. "It is nap time," I said in the steely, mean momma voice, and hearing myself, realized how ridiculous I sounded and how pointless it was to command a five-month-old.

I took a deep breath, as we're always telling The Boy to do when he's angry, and forced myself to relax into the curve of the rocker's back. The Lad settled against my chest and I let the weight of him sink into me. I rocked slowly and hummed, my lips against his soft forehead. Muscles I didn't even realize were tense -- forearms and shoulders and the slope of my neck -- relaxed. The Lad fell deeper into sleep, flopped onto my shoulder. I smelled his milky breath and saw the dark crescents of his eyelashes. How can I imprint this forever in my mind? I rocked slowly and watched The Lad and thought of my grandmother telling me after The Boy was born that she felt like she rocked her own babies so much she had rocked around the world and back.

But, she told me, you don't mind.

When the cast came off

My happy thought: My son's arm no longer smells of foot.

The cast removal went remarkably well. We had prepared The Boy to expect a saw cutting off the cast and revealing an arm that might be a little gross. Still, when we were actually walking up to the doctor's office, he got quiet and teary-eyed. "Your arm's going to be a stink bomb," we said, using his new favorite phrase. He giggled.

He lay quite still while the nurse sliced off his cast. (That saw by the way is too cool. It's basically an oversized dremel tool, cuts through rock-hard cast, but doesn't hurt skin. How does it work?) He sat on my lap while they took X-rays to make sure the bone had healed. (Also cool: new bone growth. How do our bodies work?) He held his arm close to him, still protective of it, as the doctor declared it good as new.

The Boy's memory is good. As we left, he asked to go to the fountain, which is where we went after the fall in the park that put him in the cast. Our visit then was cut short.

"But I don't fall off the wall anymore," he said.

We gave him some acetaminophen for the achiness and dropped him off at school. Everyone oohed and ahhed over The Boy's reclaimed arm, which he still held away from his body awkwardly. The doctor said to keep him from climbing and rough-housing too much for the next few weeks, and I relayed that message to his teachers. By the time the husband and I walked back out to the car, The Boy was on a swing, going to and fro alone for the first time in a month. I was reminded of when the doctor told us to keep the cast dry and clean, and it ended up ketchup-stained the first night.

Oh and for the record, there was mulch in the cast.

Happy thoughts

Peanut is doing remarkably better in her big girl bed. She gets up maybe once a night and has been sleeping past 7:30 a.m. for a few days.

Iris is home! Iris is home! Iris is home! k's daughter, who was born premature and has spent months in the hospitals has finally made it home.

The husband and I both have tomorrow off. We are debating a trip to the zoo or a visit to the local park with a children's play garden and water area. Good choices.

I have three days off of work and I might even get to see a friend and her new baby for mommy and baby time Saturday.

Paul Rudd is on the Sesame Street we are watching.

What are your happy thoughts?

Off topic*: Books

So, it's been awhile since I shared my reading list. Believe it or not, I was inspired to share again by my last post. Anne Lamott's novel "Imperfect Birds," picked up during a recent library trip, is another reason I've been thinking about the perils of raising teens. The teen daughter of the main character appears to be a well-behaved, perfect student, but actually is abusing a variety of substances and manipulating her parents. Every one of the characters is flawed, which makes them seem real even as they infuriate you.

(A side note: Reading this book made me feel my age. Ten years ago, I think I would have identified more with the daughter even though her behavior was unacceptable. Now, I just wanted to beat her.)

Other books I've enjoyed in the last three months:

• Matchless, Gregory Maguire -- just a little, reworked fairytale, but a very nice one (You can read this in an hour or less.)
• Marriage and Other Acts of Charity, Kate Braestrup -- essays that made me want to be kinder to my husband; not sure if I've been successful
• Shadowtag, Louise Erdrich -- a story about the disintegration of a marriage
• We Need to Talk about Kevin, Lionel Shriver -- an unfortunately titled novel written from the perspective of the mother of a school shooter; being honest, the characters are spectacularly unlikable, but I found the plot gripping
• The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and The Girl Who Played with Fire, Stieg Laarsen -- I thought the first one was over-rated, liked the second one and am looking forward to the third installment of this very popular series.
• Where the God of Love Hangs Out, Amy Bloom -- short stories about unlikely love; I usually detest short stories, but liked these because of Bloom's writing and because two chunks of them are about the same couples, making them more like a short novella.
• The Girl Who Fell From the Sky, Heidi Durrow -- picked this solely because of a recommendation blurb on the cover from Barbara Kingsolver, whose books I love; I was not disappointed.

What are you reading these days?

*Quick, on-topic, cute-kid story: We started reading "Charlotte's Web" to The Boy at bedtime. He gets a little impatient during the pages without pictures, but seems to be getting the idea after a few nights that if you listen to the words you can imagine pictures. Tonight, he launched into fits of giggles when I read about potato bugs and stink bombs. I was so proud.

Preparing for the worst

Michelle and I picked the title of this blog laughing. It was a flippant gesture, but also one made with the confidence and hope of first-time parents. Surely our children wouldn't be brats. And even if they were, a little, they wouldn't be that bad. They would be ours.

But that's not the whole truth, as every parent learns. These children are their own beings, because of us and in spite of us. We teach them the best we know, but ultimately, they are responsible. We can't mandate their every behavior. We can't protect the world from them, and we can't protect them from the world.

I've been thinking about these things because of work. I've been writing articles about prescription drug abuse and hearing story after story of teens using prescription narcotics at 12, 14, 16, 19. The drugs are everywhere, the addicts tell me. Everyone does it, and some are unlucky enough to become addicted. I think about those kids, nonchalantly describing overdoses, when I check on my sleeping baby or dance with my silly toddler.

As a child, I was terrified a fire would burn down my house while I slept or a tornado would rip through and blow away my entire life. These terrible things seemed inevitable. My mom, exasperated one night, said, "Hillary, I survived. Nothing bad like that ever happened while I was a kid. You can grow up without them happening to you." I slept a little easier and use this tactic on myself now. When The Lad was newborn and slept just long enough to make me worry about SIDS: Millions of kids survive infancy, Hillary. When The Boy first went to daycare: Kids go to daycare and still love their parents, Hillary. When The Boy started becoming a daredevil on the playground: Tumbles are part of childhood, Hillary.

But sometimes those tumbles result in broken bones. He'll survive that, of course. My point is just that sometimes terrible things really do happen to us, to our family, to our kids.

The worst has happened to Katie Allison Granju and her oldest son, Henry. Katie is well-known for her book about attachment parenting and her blog, mamapundit, and she also blogs at Babble. A month ago, she "came out," as she put it, as the parent of an addicted child. Eighteen-year-old Henry had overdosed and been severely beaten. She is eight months pregnant with her fifth child. She has a toddler and two other teenagers. And she's spent the last month keeping vigil over Henry as he fought to recover from his severe brain injuries. He lost the battle. She lost a child.

I wanted to share Katie's story, in case you hadn't seen it, because I think parents need to be aware of these worst-case scenarios. A psychiatrist I once interviewed about hurricane season called it a healthy amount of denial: You must believe the bad thing won't happen to you so you can function, but you need to be aware of the threat so you can prepare.

As to how you prepare for an addicted child -- or better yet, avoid it -- I don't know. I hope I'll figure it out as my boys grow. I'm still hopeful, but I'm losing my arrogance.