Toddler theology

The boys go to a Baptist daycare. Our old daycare was evangelical Presbyterian.

I am Vaguely Spiritual. The husband is Cynical Lapsed Catholic. We don't go to church, but we both believe in a god and, like my parents did, I think the boys should be exposed to all religions. Though we didn't choose our daycare because of its religious affiliation, I consider it a perk. I like that the boys are getting some sort of religious teaching.

It also makes for great dinner conversation.

They must increase the amount of Bible time in the 3-year-old room because The Boy has come home every other night singing about God Our Father or Jesus or A-a-men! He was singing, "Jesus love me, this I know, Bible tells me so," over and over and over again the other night, including at the supper table, where singing is not allowed. No singing, we said.

"But I just singing Jesus Loves Me."

"Well, no singing at supper. But we can talk about it. Who's Jesus anyway?" I asked.

"Ummm, I don't know."

"How do you know he loves you?"

"..."

"Who's Jesus?"

"He just Jesus. Jesus Loves Me." He said it like it was Jesus' full name.

"Oh, so, what does Jesus do?"

"Um, he loves me. And he, he, he hops on one foot."

"Really. What else does Jesus do?"

"He Bible thumps."

"What?!"

"He Bible (mumble mumble). He's the Bible baby."

He also informed us that Jesus has brown hair and a smooth face, no beard.

Halloween costume help

I need help finding a Halloween costume for me, not Peanut. She's going to be a peacock in a tutu with my niece. It's really quite cute. My sister and I are making the costumes together.

I am having a problem finding one for me. I don't think I've ever gone to a Halloween party as an (responsible) adult. In college, we were known to throw quite the Halloween party. One year I was an angel (not a slutty one) and another a cowgirl (again, not slutty).

This year, I've been invited to at least one, possibly two Halloween parties and I have no idea what to wear. It seems every costume for women involves knee highs, high heels and short skirt. I even saw a "sassy" costume for Cookie Monster and Big Bird today. Really?

While I'm not opposed to wearing knee highs and a short skirt (wow, that sounded a lot worse than I meant it too), I will be seven months pregnant at Halloween. I just don't think it will look right.

So far, my ideas have been a school girl in trouble or a cheerleader in trouble. I even thought about finding a white dress and going as a bride for a shotgun wedding.

Any other ideas besides painting my belly like a pumpkin?

Just call me Sue

We had friends over Saturday to say goodbye to a couple who are moving back to the Midwest. Their son is just a few months older than The Boy. We all had a good time, which for the kids meant every piece of every toy we own was scattered to the four corners of our house. But whatever. That's what parties are for. Toward the end of the festivities, the kids were playing alone in one of the bedrooms. Things were noisy, so we figured everything was fine. Then, The Boy came out crying, holding drumsticks and rubbing his head. Our friends' son ran out after him, laughing and holding a drumstick and a recorder.

"N hit me!" The Boy sobbed. "He hit my head with the stick!"

I rubbed The Boy's head, looked at him, looked at N.

"Are you bleeding?"

"Noooo. But it hurts."

"Do we need to cut your head off?"

"No! But --"

"Are you going to live?"

"Yes, but --"

"No blood, no sympathy. We don't tattle."

I am becoming my mother. Or maybe my father. It's a toss up.

Peanut's thoughts

When told she was going to have a sister, Peanut told the husband, "I want a brudder. Don't want a girl."

Later when he asked what we should name her sister, she said, "Brudder."

I'm not quite sure how to explain to a 2-year-old that a) a baby is coming and b) it's not exactly what she wants. (How a 2-year-old knows she wants a brother is beyond me.)

So instead we talk a lot about all the fun things we are going to with the baby. We will sing to her (Peanut loves to sing her ABCs and Itsy Bitsy Spider), we will read to her and give her kisses and hugs. And when she gets bigger, they can have tea parties and wear tutus and jump in her bounce house together.

This seems to help some.

She also likes to tell us now who is a boy and who is a girl. I think her father is thankful that she has figured this out since she has been known to tell people that her daddy is a big girl and a good girl.

Sure you can hold the baby

I took the boys to a restaurant alone for supper last Friday night. I picked the little beach-side pizza place so if yelling ensued or puffs went flying, I would only be slightly mortified. But I needn't have worried. The Boy was perfectly behaved, watching out the window at the castles (read: high-rise condos) across the street, and The Lad was too busy shoving applesauce, bits of crust and anything else within reach into his mouth to raise a fuss. Mary, our waitress, and other patrons cooed over my boys and played peekaboo with The Lad. I was feeling downright smug by the time the check came. Tidying up our table, I unthinkingly asked The Boy if he needed to go potty before we left.

"Yeah, I need to pee."

Crap. The physics of holding The Boy up to pee in a public restroom while carrying The Lad and keeping our skin from touching any surface were beyond me.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I need to pee."

I must have looked less than serene as I gathered up my giant bag and The Lad and started to herd The Boy toward the bathroom. Our very kind waitress Mary stopped as she swooped up the credit card receipt.

"You want me to hold the baby?"

"Would you?! Thanks!"

I totally left my child, my baby, in the arms of a complete stranger. Again.

Having two kids has taught me to take the help where I can get it. A momma has only two hands ... and no vat of Purell to dip the boys into.

But what would you have done? Juggled the kids and hoped no one fell in the toilet? Or trust in the kindness of strangers?

And the baby is...

So we have two weddings that we need to save up for.

That’s right. We are having another girl.

The ultrasound tech said she was on a streak of finding out the sex of babies this morning and most of them were boys. So I was disappointed when she said we had broken her streak. I thought she meant she couldn’t tell.

Then she typed girl on the screen. I laughed out loud. I couldn’t see what the husband’s reaction was because he was sitting behind me watching a second screen.

Later when we moved to another room for a check-up, I said, “Well, we need to start saving now because we have two weddings to pay for.”

“That was my first thought too,” the husband said.

We are both excited but perhaps a little stunned that we were so wrong in our guesses.

I think the best response so far from people we’ve told has been “So you are having another vagina.”

She is measuring exactly where she should be for our due date and everything looks good.

The good news is that we no longer need to find new nursery bedding, which is a little sad because I had finally come up with the cutest theme ever: Sock Monkeys. Feel free to use it for your next child. Instead, we are going to use Peanut’s old bedding that is pastel polka-dots and stripes. I plan to paint the walls a pale yellow and decorate with fairies.

We don’t have a name picked out. The husband vetoed Violet and Fiona this morning (sorry, Hilllary, no Fifi.) I vetoed Lily. I don’t want any names in the top 100 baby names. So if you have any cool girl names you would like to pass along, I would love to hear them.

And the winner is of the giveaway is Carey. Of the 19 responses (two were on our Facebook page), nine guessed girl. Carey, I think I know where you live so I will be sure to deliver your gift soon.

Deadlines

I work best under pressure and deadlines.

Up until recently, I really haven't felt the pressure of this new baby. Sure, I was pregnant, had morning sickness, was tired, etc. but it didn't really seem real. I was too busy trying to be a full-time, working mother of a toddler and a wife to really wrap my mind around everything.

Now, the baby is moving, I'm showing and we are about to find out what we are having. (Today is your last day to go here to tell me what you think we are having).

I'm beginning to feel the pressure. So much so that I insisted on moving dressers by myself this weekend while the husband was out washing the cars. I dragged one dresser out of one room, dragged the other one in and then got tired and decided to let the husband finish the job. A little piece of advice: moving furniture while about five months pregnant probably isn't the best idea.

But it HAD to be done right then. I was decluttering the extra bedroom that will be the nursery. I'm trying to figure out if we can leave the double bed in there with a rocker, a crib and a dresser. And because I am impatient, I didn't even bother to wait for the husband to come in and help me. Thankfully no one was injured in the process.

I told the husband that the new nursery must be done no later than Thanksgiving. I don't want to deal with that during the holidays. He's put his own deadline on himself to remodel our bathroom in October. I'm also determined to get all of the Christmas shopping done before Thanksgiving.

Have I mentioned this child isn't expected until Jan. 2?

I don't know if it is the second trimester boost of energy or what but I feel like everything must be done, planned, prepped sooner rather than later and sooner is right now.

How far along were you when you began getting down to business preparing for baby?

In the husband's (running) shoes

So, The Boy ran a half-mile last week. I mention this not to brag -- though, while we're at it: MY BABY RAN A HALF MILE! I couldn't even do that, sadly. -- but because if you follow that link, you'll find a really sweet post about it the husband wrote for our paper's running blog. In the post, he writes that he usually takes The Lad on his cool down run to keep him out of my hair while getting ready for work. The husband was the featured runner on the blog last week, too, and in that post, he also mentioned me and how running helps our family work. About running with The Boy, he wrote,

At the same time, it's win-win-win. Taking him running makes life easier for my wife Hillary. He enjoys it and we have a fun dialogue. Plus, it makes me stronger by adding that extra resistance.

Later in the post, the husband said he wouldn't be able to run at all if it weren't for me picking up slack.

Reading those posts reminded me why I love my husband. He is a practical, hard-working, goal-oriented man with an incredibly sweet and caring streak. He truly does try to make my life easier -- and often gets nothing but nastiness for his efforts. Some weekend mornings after his long run, when The Lad's been cranky, I greet him at the door with sarcasm. "I hope you had a fabulous run," I sneer. I have actually said to him, "Just don't help! You think you're helping, but you're just making my life worse!" To his credit, his response to this usually is not reciprocal nastiness but a question: What would make things easier?

Of course, he gets angry with me, too, and he has his own set of faults. We're both human.

But my temper is hotter and quicker than his, so usually it's me getting angry. The thing is, I lash out and then I'm over it. It's not like we're fighting every day -- or even that the fights last that long -- so I never really think about the temper tantrums. Neither of us do. We're both too busy with the kids' tantrums. I never take the time to put myself in the husband's shoes, because when I am thinking about who's doing what to make our family run, I'm angry and all I can see is how overworked I am. Forget him.

I read a book earlier this year that made me want to be nicer to the husband. Reading those posts, seeing his thoughts from an outsider's perspective, reminded me I needed to follow through with that resolution. I am lucky enough to have a partner in this not raising brats business. I should appreciate him more.

Nursery ideas

I need help planning a nursery. I know I'm jumping the gun a bit here since we don't know what we are having but it is all I can think about right now.

If we have a girl, we will use Peanut's old bedding and do fairy accents. She had flower accents so I want to go with something a little different.

This was her room days before she was born.

I painted the flowers on canvasses and will do fairies in a similar manner if we have girl.

This is where it gets tricky for me. Decorating a boys room seems so much harder. I don't want to be something too babyish because he will grow out of it in a minute. But I don't want it to look too grown up because what it is the fun in that?

I've settled on the theme of wild animals but finding something that fits what I like has been difficult. Here are the two that I like so far.

This, however, is more than I would like to spend on bedding.

I love this but worry that it is too babyish. Plus I don't think the husband is a big fan.

How did you decorate your nursery? If you had a boy and girl, was it harder to do the boy's?

Overheard from the bathroom

Daddyman: Let's have a pee race!

Boy: Look! I'm peeing on your pee. Ha ha! I'm peeing on your pee!

---

Boy: Man, pooping's hard work.

---

Daddyman: Whoa! Look at that poo. That's some good pooping.

Boy: Yeah, that's a big poo. Whoa.

---

Boy: (frantic, while sitting down to poo) I can't push my penis down!

Daddyman: Your penis is fine. It's already down.

---

Boy (to Daddyman): Wanna have a poop race?

Momma: You can't have a poop race. Where's Daddy going to poo?

Boy: Ummmm (looks around from his perch on the toilet) ... Here. (points to child potty/stepstool at his feet)

---

Next up on my to-do list: Teaching The Boy that talking about bodily functions is impolite.

When Momma's the brat

I practically pushed The Boy out the door as I hoisted The Lad on my hip and shot the husband one last nasty look.

"Momma, are you angry with Daddy?"

"Yes," I said, feeling ashamed of all the shouting The Boy had just overheard. "Sometimes we get angry at people."

The Boy chattered on about other things as we drove to school and work and guilt built up in my chest like air filling a balloon. Finally, I sighed and said, "I was angry at Daddy and yelled. How did that make you feel?"

"I don't know."

"Well, were you sad or happy? Or scared? Or angry?"

"I was angry. You should hug him, Momma."

"What? You think I should hug Daddy?"

"Yeah. You should hug him and say sorry."

I had been throwing a tantrum, I realized. A change in the morning routine made the last 15 minutes, which always are a little crazy, more hectic than usual and lashed out at the husband. Baby poo on my hands and an endless stream of toddler questions made me feel martyred, so I started shouting. If! Then! You always! You never! No help! -- the usual litany of sweeping (and mostly unfair) generalizations.

"Yeah," The Boy said. "You should hug him and say sorry for throwing a fit."

I was glad my words are getting through to The Boy. We make him apologize when he's mean or throwing fits. But I also worried what lessons he's taking from my actions.

Parenting sheds an unforgiving light on your personality. Every character flaw and bad habit is revealed and magnified. My worst traits are a hot, quick temper and impatience, and I have never had a hard time admitting this. I've even been a little proud of these traits -- more than a little, if I'm being honest, and sometimes for good reason. I've always stood up for myself and my friends. But I was not proud the other day when, as both boys cried in the back seat, I shouted at them to just SHUT UP! The Lad was fussing himself to sleep, but The Boy was throwing a tantrum. He had been clingy all morning and we were leaving the park because he refused to play alone and instead wanted to whine and cry and flop on me. The Boy was hungry and tired and just wanted his blanky, which was at home, and was throwing a fit about that. He shouldn't have been throwing a tantrum.

But then, neither should have I.

The more I shouted, the more The Boy cried. "Blank! Where are you blank?! I want my blanky!" And you know, this only dawned on me after I managed to grit my teeth and pull my shit together long enough to calmly say, "I know you're upset. It's OK to be upset and sad, but it's not OK to throw a fit." The Boy took a deep, shuddering breath, wiped his face and said, "Yeah, OK."

I know I need to control my temper. I know I need to be more patient. But knowing and doing are too entirely different things.

You'd think I'd be a little more sympathetic when The Boy runs into that same problem.

Boy, girl, boy, girl giveaway

Ladies and gentlemen, we are on the countdown to finding out what this little baby is.

The date: Aug. 25.

If everyone cooperates (and by everyone, I mean you little baby, the size of large heirloom tomato, according to my weekly email) we will know if we are having a stinky boy or a another girl who will have her father wrapped around her little finger in a heartbeat.

I have a strong feeling it is a boy. This is a very different pregnancy than what I had with Peanut. However, a friend said the same thing about her second pregnancy and she ended up with two girls.

I did guess right with Peanut. I thought it was a girl from the very beginning and only second-guessed myself the day of the ultrasound when Miss Thang kept her legs shut tight so that the tech had a difficult time determining. The tech tried and tried, pushing and massaging my stomach, making me move around, lifting my hips and dropping them back to the seat. After 20-plus minutes, she said it was most likely a girl but couldn't tell us 100 percent.

We have settled on a boy's name, to be revealed when we know what we are having but still have not come to an agreement on a girl's name, which probably means it will be a girl.

We would, of course, be happy with either one.

The husband has been calling the baby his little boy. He said he would be thrilled with another girl but he would like to know what it is like to have a boy for at least four months of his life.

So this is where you come in. What do you think we are having? Leave a comment below. If you guess right, you will be eligible for an awesome giveaway prize that will probably include chocolate, maybe some teas or a fun kitchen towel. I'm not quite sure yet. I'll have to see where my pregnancy hormones take me when I go shopping for the prize.

Commenting will close Tuesday, Aug. 24 in anticipation of the big news.

Daddy's bright idea

I'm not sure how this conversation started, but here's where we come to the pictures below.

Daddyman: Let's put The Lad in your Spiderman bag, Boy!

Boy: Yeah! I can fit in the bag, too. Put me in the bag.

Daddyman: No, you're too big. But we can put Beast in the bag. Beastie in the bag!

The Lad was OK with it ...

until The Boy tried to pick up the bag. Then, my sensible little Lad sensed danger. Note the furrowed brow. Imagine much squawking.

Around this point, The Lad was disgusted with all of us. Though, let me say for the record that we did NOT allow The Boy to tote around The Lad in a Spiderman backpack. We just took pictures that made it look like he could. That's way better.

This is what living in a house full of boys is like. I'm sure it's only going to get worse.

Dear self ...

Things I wish I would have known a year ago ...

You are going to have a bit of doubt and indecision and upheaval in the fall and winter. By spring and summer, you will be fine. Better than you were before even.

You can will be able to withstand watching countless Imagination Movers even though the very thought gives you hives.

Spending a weekend alone with a two-year-old while pregnant will be easy-peasy. Just make sure you have enough planned so that everyone gets worn out and sleeps well.

You will stop worrying about milestones and stop reading baby books. Your child will still be fine.

The idea of having a second child won't be so overwhelming. Still a little overwhelming but manageable.

You won't fret and fuss over everything that does or does not go in your child's mouth. You will learn that a toddler will eat like a bird for a few days but then more than make up for it a couple days later.

A night alone - either by yourself or with your husband - won't seem so unthinkable anymore. You will look forward to these without so much angst.

Anything you would like to have known a year ago?

A fitting nickname

I am Beans to my grandfather. If he ever called me anything else, I would think he was sick or angry. I've mentioned before that my father and his family found my sister and me, and that makes my nickname a little more special. My mom had occasionally called me her little Hill 'O Beans, but not often and never in front of my dad before we kids met our grandparents. Grandpa, who nicknames everyone, took one look at me and called me Beans. I have never been anything else to him.

My family, and sometimes Michelle, call me Hill, while the husband uses my middle name, Rue. My mother and my sister, when she wants to be silly or irritating, call me Hilly. But that is not something I would tolerate from anyone else. To most of the world, I am only ever Hillary. I like that. I like that my nicknames are held dear for special people.

The Boy, when he was born, was covered in hair. Downy fuzz coated his shoulders and his hairline nearly touched his eyebrows. I called him our little Rhys Monkey, and that's stuck, though it's not something I use in place of his name all the time. At school, he is Rhys-y Piece-y Pumpkin Pie (don't ask, I don't know) and my in-laws call him Rhys-y. But mostly, we just use his name.

The first time The Lad and I were alone together, when he was just hours old in the hospital, I looked into his scrunched face and said, "Hello my little Wesdebeest." The play on wildebeest popped into my head and the thing is, it's perfect. He squawks and growls and snuffles. He eats ravenously. (His latest trick is to wail and shove away perfectly pureed baby food before trying to steal The Boy's food by force.) He roams the house. We call him Wesdebeest and The Beast and Beastie. Nothing is cuter than hearing The Boy yell, "Beastie! No!" And he IS a beast of a baby. He isn't huge in size, but he is in ambition and personality. He already is pulling up to standing and trying to walk behind things. When you talk to him, he flashes his dimples and laughs. Maybe it's because he's the baby or maybe because it fits so well, but we call The Lad by his nickname just as much as his given name.

The Boy has a rather deep voice for a toddler. Imagine if The Lad has the same voice, my mom said. He'll go to kindergarten and they'll ask, 'What's your name?' and he'll look at them and say, in that deep voice, 'They call me THE BEAST.'

It might very well happen.

Making progress

When I first found out I was pregnant, we talked about it constantly with Peanut, telling her she was going to be a big sister, that she was going to have a brother or sister and that mommy had a baby in her belly.

She was mildly impressed. At first she played along, sometimes throwing us a bone, claiming she wanted a brother. But most of the time she just ignored us completely.

I get it. She's only two so the concept of a baby in mommy's belly or a baby that would eventually live with us might be a little perplexing. Nevertheless, I didn't want to give up.

It seems to be working. The other day, while talking about it, she came over and kissed my belly, announcing, "I kiss da baby."

And now, in her prayers each night, besides thanking God for herself, she thanks God for the baby too.

I can't wait to see what a wonderful big sister she is going to be.

Any tips for getting toddler to understand that another baby is on the way?

On the countdown

I feel lately that I am always on the countdown.

I have two more hours until I need to get up. I have three hours until I need to get ready for work. Fifteen minutes until we need to get out the door. An hour until I need to get home. Two hours until Peanut goes to bed. One hour before I need to go to bed.

Twenty-one weeks until this baby comes.

I have lost the ability to be here now. I am unable to be in the moment.

There is laundry that needs to be done. Stories that need edited. Lunch that must be packed. Sleep that must be had. Food that must get in my belly. Food that should get in Peanut's belly even though she would prefer to live on cereal, yogurt and suckers.

As I sit here now in bed having just gotten Peanut in her own, I have a story waiting to be edited in my inbox and a basket full of clothes that need to be folded. When she wanted me to color, I told her I couldn't because I was working on my laptop, finishing up what I wasn't able to do in the office because I needed to rush out and pick her up.

I don't do it on my own. The husband folded laundry this morning, got dinner together for us to heat up when we got home and got Peanut to the sitter's.

Even while snuggling with Peanut tonight, I kept thinking about the kitchen that needed to be cleaned.

When people ask me how far along I am in the pregnancy, I usually sigh and say "not far enough." This answer made me realize that I am rushing through everything, plotting what I have to get done next and not just enjoying what I have now.

This will most likely be my last pregnancy and while I am not the biggest fan of being pregnant, there will come a day when I will be a little sad that I won't feel the flutters anymore or hear the heartbeat at the doctor's office.

There will come a day when Peanut doesn't want to snuggle. When she doesn't want me to color. When she doesn't want to sit on my lap.

So the laundry can wait awhile. The story will get edited sometime. I'll get my sleep in somehow.

For now, I'm going to try to just be. I'm going to enjoy the moment right now and I'm going back to snuggle with Peanut.

Beginning of the boobs' end?

I didn't bring the pump when we went to Ohio because The Lad and I were together all day, every day. "This is perfect," I told the husband. "It'll be a chance to sort of reset my supply." And really, despite the sleepless nights caused by teething and homesickness and lord knows what else, The Lad nursed beautifully that week, on more of a schedule than he ever has and with greater concentration than I had been getting or have gotten since from him. When I returned to work, I expected to pump the necessary 15 ounces with ease every day.

Instead, I had to thaw out two bags of milk that week to supplement what I pumped. I've been struggling to keep up since then. If it weren't for the formula we left for The Lad on Saturday while we went out -- and the bottle I pumped when we returned -- I would have had to thaw out another baggie tonight.

The Lad is eating more and more solid food and refuses food that is too smooth and mushy. He wants bites with bite in them. He is, sometimes, distracted nursing, though other times he is totally and completely focused. He is interested in drinking water from a cup, but still demands to nurse, launching himself at my chest.

Mondays always are my worst pumping days. By Friday, I'm usually back up to the required daily 15 ounces without problems. Sometimes I think my body just needs a couple days to readjust to the damn pump after every weekend.

Or maybe that's just wishful thinking. As much as the thought of not having a kid attached to me multiple times everyday is freeing, I also find myself dreading weaning The Lad. Nursing is such a peaceful time. It calms me and quiets me and forces me to be nowhere but here, doing nothing but this. Bottlefeeding actually did this, too. Holding a child on your lap and feeding him -- there's not much else you can do but enjoy the moment. I need that. I'll miss that.

I won't miss the pump.

Beasts to Monkeys

We call The Boy our Monkey and The Lad is The Beast around the house. I discovered this week beasts are to monkeys as apples are to oranges. That is, they are not the same.

I don't follow milestone charts or books, so even with The Boy, I wouldn't know whether he was early or late to do something until after he did it, for the most part. I got so upset when he rolled over late, I determined ignoring the official charts was best for my mental health and my marriage. With The Lad, I've been even more oblivious. Where I worked with The Boy to hold a bottle and then a cup, I just sort of looked up one day, saw The Lad could hold a bottle and thought, "Gee, let's try a cup." Then, I promptly forgot that thought thanks to a tantrum or a burning dinner or an article to be written or a giant poo and, weeks later, when I saw The Lad steal his brother's cup, handed him one of his own to ward off a fight. That's been my approach to every new skill. "Oh, you can do that!"

So, I don't know why I suddenly became preoccupied with The Lad's lack of babbling.

He babbles some, but The Lad communicates in short bursts, not strings of sounds. Exclamations of ah! and giggles and this half cough/half laugh are interspersed sparingly with squeals and squawks. The Boy, at this age, babbled like a white noise machine. He was saying mamamamama while trailing after me. Consonant sounds, which according to the official books -- I looked -- should be making their way to babies' mouths by the end of 7 months, rarely slip into The Lad's babbling.

I was convinced he was hard of hearing. Nevermind the fact that he has never failed a hearing test and responds to sounds, including his name and No! Nevermind the fact that if you say "Cat!" he'll come looking for his favorite thing to pester. When I couldn't argue these facts with the husband, my mind wandered to the blogs I read where children have sensory problems or are on the spectrum. How early was too early to diagnosis a speech problem? I knew I was being crazy, but I couldn't help myself. I googled and despaired.

Then, I picked up The Lad from school and Miss Linda, who raised six kids and is one of The Lad's favorite people, started telling me about his adventures that day. He had bumped his chin repeatedly trying to stand up on a new play table. He chased after the other babies. He used a cup and ate puffs. He pulled himself to standing at his favorite spot. He finally mastered standing at the new spot. "He's amazing," Miss Linda said. "He just does so well."

"But he's not babbling much ..."

And she told me about her one daughter who didn't talk til she was 2. I remembered my sister, who never needed to talk because of Chatty Cathy me and so didn't really talk until one day, when everyone was busy, she pulled on Mom's pants and said, "I want water NOW."

"He watches everything," Miss Linda said. "He doesn't miss a thing."

She's right. The Lad is a watchful little guy and an independent one. He's busy mastering his body right now. He's figured out crawling and standing and this weekend actually was trying to make a stepstool work as a walker. Since realizing I was being ridiculous, I have been listening a little closer and he does, occasionally get in an S-sound in his babbles. He'll figure it out.

Now if I can just figure out how to keep from comparing the boys against each other.

Because I no longer think clearly ...

This is a random thought edition brought to you by my pregnant mind:

I saw my doctor today for a regular check up. I told him I am Hungry/Starving all of the time. He told me I should eat more then and that my body is trying to tell me something. I explained to him that I feel like I haven't eaten after eating an entire meal. He told me to relax, eat more and enjoy it. I think I love this man.

********

We are still struggling with the paci. Peanut likes to use it when we snuggle. The other day, we went from snuggling to watching "Dinosaur Train." I told her she had to give up the paci. She said, "No, I'm sleeping," and laid on the pillow acting like she was sleeping, yet smiling the entire time behind that damn paci.

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We are in full on potty propaganda. I know, I know. They won't do it until they want to but I'm determined to make going on the potty so cool that she will want to do it sooner rather than later. So far the progaganga consists of a lot of talk of Tinkerbell undies and who in our lives knows how to use the potty properly.

Peanut just kind of looks at as like "what-ever, people." I will not be detered.

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I am alone until possibly Saturday night. The husband and Peanut went to visit his family for a couple days. I have to work Friday and volunteered to work for a co-worker Saturday. I'm really kind of sad about this. Peanut and I have spent some nice quality time together lately and I'm going to miss them. The husband thinks I need to some alone time but I have no idea what to do with myself except mop the kitchen and sleep uninterrupted.

Any suggestions?

Physical therapy

The Boy threw a fit every time we asked him to go to the potty this weekend. I figured he was just angry to have playtime interrupted by a biological necessity -- and really, haven't we all felt that way? -- but in the midst of a colossal fit, my inner hypochondriac kicked in and I wondered if he might be giving himself an infection or something, holding the pee.

"Does it hurt?" I asked.

"Yes," The Boy moaned.

"Where does it hurt? How does it hurt?" I wanted to make sure he wasn't just parroting my suggestion as a stall tactic. (Not that a 2-year-old would EVER do that. Certainly not my little angel.)

"My arm! My elbow hurts."

This is not where I thought the conversation was headed.

But after further questioning and inspection, we discovered The Boy would not or could not extend fully the arm he broke in May. He also couldn't bend the arm enough to touch his shoulder. Instantly, everyone was guilty. I was convinced I reinjured the arm when I unceremoniously tossed the tantrumming Boy into bed. The husband, after The Boy said the elbow hurt in the jogging stroller, was sure he should have been more careful helping the kiddo out of the stroller. My mom blamed The Boy's four-wheeler crash. I became less concerned when, the morning of the better-safe-than-sorry doctor's appointment, The Boy took a flying leap off a stool, landed on his arms and never made a peep. Perhaps he's just babying it when convenient, I thought.

I was right. The Boy's arm is just stiff, according to the orthopedist.

"I always tell parents," the doctor said, "we could send them to physical therapy, but the physical therapist isn't going to accomplish as much as you can. The kid doesn't trust them."

So, we're now doing physical therapy with The Boy twice a day, which basically amounts to tricking or coercing him into extending the arm into its full range of motion. We're playing Simon Says and using Momma as a jungle gym/flying machine. Add another unexpected line to the parenting job description.

Anybody else ever had to do this? Any tips?

Just a summer cold

Peanut spiked a fever of 102 yesterday while at the babysitter's. The husband went to get her and we debated if we needed to go to the doctor.

I always hate this decision. Do you risk looking like the crazy mother who freaks out every time your child coughs or do you wait and risk looking like the careless mother who doesn't care if her child is seriously ill?

The husband called and told the doctor about her fever and a cough she's been fighting for a few days. They told him if her fever didn't go down by today to call again.

So fast forward to this afternoon. She still felt warm despite a dose of medicine and an ear scan showed a temp of 101.9. Thankfully the doctor's office could see us right away.

A little background on our pediatrician. He's a nice man. He's a little dry but nice. However, he's been a bit doomsday with us in the past. During one of our first appointments, I asked him about a bluish mark on Peanut's forehead that turned darker whenever she cried. He told me it could be a vein but it was more likely that it was a growing birthmark that would either grow into her brain causing developmental problems or grow out and over her eye, making it possibly inoperable. He told me to watch for "mushrooming" of the area and left. I too left and went and cried at a friend's house, fearing my child was doomed. Two other times he mentioned surgery for problems that never surfaced, just like the birthmark that wasn't.

After the third talk of surgery, the husband asked the doctor to maybe not go to worst case scenario every time and things have been much better since.

So today, he checked her over, noting that her temperature was just 99, she had a little fluid in one ear and slight irritation in her throat but nothing to be concerned about. He said it was just a summer cold, looking at me like I might be a little crazy.

That's right. The hypochondriac doctor looked at me like I was crazy. I paid $25 for this.

Tell me you've had a similar experience.

Big boys

The Boy is a big boy now.

We know this because he tells us. All the time.

"I peed in the potty. I'm a big boy."

"I don't like this lunchbag. Big boys have different lunchbags. I'm a big boy. Big boys have lunchbags with Spiderman and Wolverine and Cars and Ironman and Wolverine and Capt'n 'Merica." (Wolverine was always listed twice. We settled on a Spiderman-only bag.)

"I'm a big boy. I don't need to go to my school. I want to go to the big school and play football."

"Boy, you're not old enough to go to the high school."

"But I'm big. And I'm strong. I'm a big boy."

"NOOOOOOOO! NO, LAD! That's not for you. That's mine. That's not for babies. I'm a big boy."

"You pooped on the potty today, kiddo? That's great."

"Yeah. I did. I'm a big boy."

Trying to explain to a 2-year-old that he is not, in fact, big enough to go to an elementary school -- let alone a high school -- is trying, to say the least. For those of you without 2-year-olds: They are stubborn. They have one-track minds. You might as well argue with a wall. They are infuriatingly charming.

I'm really happy about the potty-training. I'm really starting to regret the big-boy propaganda.

Meanwhile, The Lad also thinks he's big stuff lately. He doesn't just crawl around the house now. He zooms, generally in whatever direction he shouldn't. He's a trouble-seeking missile with a penchant for all things Cat. Cat food? YUM. Cat litter? PERFECT Cat? LET'S PLAY! Thankfully, he's never made it to the litter, but either the Cat's getting lazy or The Lad is quicker than his brother, because this kiddo has caught up to her several times. He was undeterred by the warning slaps and ended up with a scratch on his cheek. I'm also fairly certain he's managed to shove a couple fistfuls of cat food into his mouth, which is funny considering his usual reaction to finger food. We just started him on puffs and Os and bits of toast. He grasps it in his clammy little fist and then just stares at it. Once we show him how to bring the first one up to his mouth, The Lad usually at least attempts the others, but his success rate is low. He wants to eat what we eat and do what we do. He is fearless. Trying to change him is like wrestling an eel. He lunges after the rubber ducky in the bathtub, grappling over his brother to get the duck, and doesn't even sputter when he gets a dunking in the process. He gives me heart palpitations.

This morning in the car, The Boy looked at me in the rearview.

"Are we rotten, Momma?"

They hadn't been particularly rotten this morning, but I tell them all the time that they are my dirty, rotten boys, so I just smiled.

"Yep, kiddo. You're my dirty, stinky, rotten boys."

"Nuh-uh, Momma," The Boy said, laughing. "I'm not rotten. You're rotten. I'm sweet."

"Yep, you're my sweet rotten boys."

Hungry, hungry hippo

I have gained one pound 17 weeks into this pregnancy. Given my food aversions and morning sickness, I am not surprised (although looking at my growing belly I would have guessed more.)

But I think things are about to change. I am Hungry all of the time now. One day for lunch last week I had a BLT with avocado and pasta salad. Still hungry. The husband had a slice of cheese pizza left over from a meeting so I ate that. Still hungry. A coworker took pity on me and gave me grapes and a banana. Finally, I was satisfied.

Since then I have been hungry much more than normal. I'm trying to fill up on healthy foods, lots of fruits and veggies.I graze all day, eating watermelon and cantaloupe, carrots and cucumber with ranch dressing, or cheese crackers between meals. It just doesn't seem to be enough.

What are your go-to fill up healthy fill up foods especially when pregnant?