Aunt Shelli's special place

Here's a conversation my sister had with my 4-year-old nephew, who, like everyone else in my family, calls me Shelli.

Nephew: I want a Baby Maddie for our family.

Sister: Well, Baby Maddie is part of our family. She will be for all of us.

Nephew: How will baby Maddie get out of Aunt Shelli's belly?

Sister: The doctor is going to make a small cut and pull her out.

Nephew: Is that how my sister got out of you?

Sister: Um, no.

Nephew: How did she get out?

Sister (who wins an award for thinking on her feet): God made a special place for babies to come out of their mommies.

Nephew: Doesn't Aunt Shelli have that special place?

I believe at this point she tried to distract him with something shiny. I love that kid but now I'm afraid he's going to ask me about my "special place" the next time I see him.

first words

The husband and I are having a debate: What constitutes a first word?

The Lad has been saying dada and mama for awhile now. He also has a word that sounds like ba-ah, that I think means "brother." Just this week he started saying, "Whoa!" or "O-Whoa-a!" when things are pretty (Christmas lights) or shocking (his brother rawrs!, he drops something).

The husband says "dada" is The Lad's first word. I say "Whoa!" is word number one.

I don't dispute that dada was the first word-like sound The Lad made, however, he uses mamamama and dadadada interchangeably to refer to us. And sometimes those noises -- along with the ba-ah word usually directed at The Boy -- still seem like just noise. "Whoa!" is consistent and precise.

We had this same debate with The Boy, who, according to the husband, said "mama" first. The husband had recorded The Boy's first word weeks before I finally agreed "mama" was a word and not gibberish. I conceded that argument only after The Boy came crawling into the bathroom while I was taking a shower and tried to pull back the curtain, all while chanting, "Momma, momma, momma!" This time, though, I think I'm right. (And honestly, I still sort of think of The Boy's first word as "kizzee," meaning kitty.)

What do you think? Can mamamama and dadadadada really be first words or is that just parental narcissism? What were your kids' first words?

Getting there

With one major holiday under our belt, here is what we've accomplished:

• Visited the in-laws and my family for a lovely Thanksgiving.
• Successfully shopped Black Friday 8 months pregnant and didn't kill anyone, including my sister, who is a notorious putzer (who I also love so very much).
• Celebrated 5 years of marital bliss with a dinner out and a little shopping.
• Cleaned out the storage part of the basement so that we have twice the space that we did before. Can you say pack rats?
• Cut down and decorated the Christmas tree in record time with no bickering. Peanut was more interested in moving the ornaments from one box to another but she declared the tree "bootiful" and loved all the sparkles, which are in her wheelhouse.
  
• Washed three loads of baby laundry. Oh how I love the smell of baby detergent and folding teeny-tiny clothes. I kept holding socks up for the husband and making weird noises that sounded something like "Wook at da itty bitty witty wittle socks."
  
• Had contractions for about an hour Saturday night and didn't freak out. Thankfully no more have come but it was a good reminder that little sister could really be here at anytime, which leads me to...

What we need to get done:

• Paint the nursery. She has a place to sleep and clothes to wear, which I suppose are the most important things. At this point with Peanut, we had everything locked and loaded just waiting her arrival. Raising a child and the holidays have complicated things a bit this time.
  
• Finish the bathroom remodel. The husband has done most of the work of demolition and tiling all by himself. It looks lovely and I can't wait for it to be done so that we can go back to two functioning bathrooms.
• Pack a hospital bag. Given the contractions, I suppose it wouldn't hurt to get that done this week, you know, just in case.
• Wrap Christmas presents. Usually this is a favorite activity of mine but negotiating the belly might make things a wee bit more complicated.
  

Thankful

This afternoon, I made green bean casserole, stuffing (the kind that won't actually go in the bird, so I suppose it's technically dressing) and a relish tray, sliced up brussels sprouts and onions and celery for the stuffing that actually will go in the turkey and made room in the fridge for everything. Only The Lad was around to keep me company. My parents took The Boy and his cousins, along with my grandparents, to the beach, where I assume they continued to fight dragons and rawr! and generally act like "farts in a skillet." (That's something my mom says when she wants to sound like she's 90 instead of not even 50. Suffice to say the boys are ornery.)

They all came back to a dinner of homemade chili and biscuits, leftover from the weekend. They ran around and wrestled some more, slaphappy from no nap and lots of time with Grammy, until finally Mom said, "That's it. We're leaving. You boys all have to go to bed before 10 tonight." (Don't you love hard-ass grammies?) Mom and Dad packed up my nephews into the van to go to the beach condo where they're staying. Hugs and kisses all around.

"Bye!" The Boy shouted at my grandma, the last one out the door. He threw the toy he was playing with in the basket then marched into his room. "I'm going to bed now."

----

My dad is the youngest of five kids. There are 11 grandkids, spread out in age over more than a decade, so add in friends, boyfriends, girlfriends, husbands, wives and great-grandkids on any given year. Plus whatever extended family might be around. A lot of people is what you get. A 20-pound turkey was the minimum for Grandma -- or later Mom or my aunts -- to fix. Plus a ham.

I remember playing hide-and-seek and tag and games without any name that basically just required you to run around and yell. I remember listening to my aunts gossip and my uncles shoot the shit. I remember my grandma shooing us out of the kitchen and Grandpa threatening to rub his whiskers on us. I remember my uncle Rick sitting on Grandma's counter, and my uncle Jim shouting, "This is not a gymnasium."

I remember eating until my belly hurt. I remember my cousin Michelle, even after she was an adult with kids of her own, licking a slice of pecan pie to make sure no one else ate it. I remember sneaking one more piece of cheese off a relish tray after Mom said no. I remember fighting at the kids table while the adults were busy.

I remember going home full and happy and exhausted.

----

I am so thankful my boys know my grandparents. I am thankful my grandparents made the trip to see my little family and my happy Florida house. I am thankful my boys have cousins to wear them out. I am thankful I can -- I hope -- return the favor for all those happy Thanksgivings.

Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours!

Copy cat

So k started this, Erica kept it going and since I feel like crap, I decided to steal it for my blog post for the day.

Here are 10 things you might not know about me. Feel free to share your own items in the comments or keep it going on your blog.

1. I wanted to either go into the military or become a police officer for a hot minute in high school. I even began researching West Point. My dad, who spent 31 years on the state patrol, and my mother both said, um, no. I became a journalist instead. I sometimes wonder if they wish they would have encouraged my original aspirations.

2. I love to plan showers and can make a mean diaper cake. I also love to put together gift baskets. I'm fairly crafty although I can't sew to save my life.

3. My husband and I have always worked together. We met while working for two different newspapers covering the same area. Since then we have worked in two newsrooms together. Some people find this weird. I think it would be weird to not work with him.

4. My sister and I have been mistaken for twins even though she is four years older, four inches taller and I problem have (mumble, mumble) pounds on her, even when I'm not pregnant.

5. When running errands, I like to try to keep my trip to as many right turns as possible. The husband thinks this is crazy.

6. While we are talking neurotic, I also do not like my foods to touch on my plate and I've been known to eat one item at a time. When I was younger, I was much more anal about this. I've relaxed some but it still makes me twitch a little.

7. I have small hands and feet. Hillary and friends used to call them carnie hands in college (although I don't smell like cabbage). Peanut has inherited this. Her cousin, who is a year younger than her, already has bigger feet and hands.

8. I used to be a cops reporter and was known to be at murder scenes and fatal accidents in the middle of the night. I've climbed down highway embankments in high heels and hopped highway barriers in skirts. While I do miss it sometimes, I realized this was not a lifestyle for a person who planned to have children some day.

9. I love movie trailers. Sometimes I love them more than the movie I'm seeing. I was so excited the day I found a movie trailers on demand channel on cable. I check it every few weeks for new trailers.

10. I feel weird when people buy me presents but love shopping for others. This is why Christmas is a mixed bag for me. I feel uncomfortable telling people what I want but love to find the best gifts (and deals) for everyone on my list.

Beastie tricks

The Lad -- my little Beastie-Beast -- is walking.

But that's not all he can do. No, The Beast is not content to just walk. He wants to climb. He stands up in carts and highchairs. He climbs into the kid-sized rocking chair and then stands backward on it, rocking it as fast as he can. He climbs into my cupboards. He climbs up the footstool, into the chair and then hangs over the side.

When I holler, No! he laughs. The Beast scoffs in the face of danger. I place him on the floor, he waits til my back is turned and then scrambles back up. When I turn around again, he's trying to crawl off the chair, oblivious to the fact that it's a foot-long drop, face-first into the tile floor.

He tipped the rocking chair onto himself the other day, so he was caged underneath it. He wasn't hurt. Just pissed that he couldn't get out from under it fast enough.

But The Lad is not only a daredevil. He is an artist. He colors with his brother. He tries to work the crayons just like The Boy and sometimes succeeds, which I find pretty impressive. I find less impressive his use for crayons that don't work exactly as he wants: an appetizer. I'm pretty sure I found bits of green crayon in his diaper today.

He doesn't really talk yet, but he can say "mamamamama" and "dadadadadada" and something that kind of sounds like "brother." He has a squawk that sounds like "Hi!" And he makes a "vroom" noise while pushing cars around, so, you know, he's figured out the important bits.

He also has figured out how to get a point across nonverbally. Don't want that food any more? Over the side of the highchair. Prefer a bottle to a cup? Toss the cup repeatedly, cry profusely and launch yourself in the direction of the nearest bottle. Want to play horsie on Momma? Bounce up and down on her leg, making a humming sound.

He's 11 months old. Where the hell did the year go?

Vacation time

I am on vacation this week. No trip to sunny beaches in store for me though.

I am getting ready for the baby, whose birth feels like it could happen at any possible minute. I'm not in labor but I have this very anxious feeling that I could be. It doesn't help that many people have told me they have a feeling she's coming early. The husband thinks we will be home with her in time for Christmas despite our Dec. 29 schedule.

I was awake for an hour last night thinking, "What the heck are we going to do if she comes early? I don't even have baby laundry detergent yet." I know, of all things to be worried about having. At least I don't need to worry about the crib. The husband put that up weeks ago because I told him it would make me feel better to have that done.

So instead of wasting time worrying, I decided to make a mental list of everything that needs to get done (including buying some Dreft.) Today I am going to concentrate on cleaning out the baby's closet and getting all things baby out of the basement. If I have time (and energy because holy moly, hello third trimester lack of energy) I'm planning to go through Peanut's baby clothes to see what we can use despite their births in different seasons.

I also need to organize the gifts from the wonderful sprinkle my friend and babysitter, B, threw for me yesterday. It was lovely to spend the afternoon with great ladies preparing to welcome Maddie. Peanut only tried to claim one of the gifts for her own and was OK when I told her it was for her sister. As one friend said, she will learn to share because she won't have a choice.

We still need to paint the nursery but the husband plans to do that this weekend (I hope). I don't remember being worried about all of this with Peanut but that's probably because I had everything done at this point. It's amazing what you can accomplish when you aren't caring for one little one already.

We'll see about that

I took both boys to Target while the husband was mowing. I should have known the trip was doomed when, after leaving the boys for 30 seconds to walk five feet and grab toothpaste, I returned to find The Lad standing up in the seat, bouncing up and down and grinning. Another mother was beside my cart, cringing. Mother of the year, I am.

So, I buckled up The Lad and proceeded to cruise through the aisles. I failed to find the toffee candies I need for a pumpkin cheesecake for Thanksgiving, and all the candy turned on The Boy's I-Want switch. "I want that, Momma." "I need this, Momma." "Momma, can I have that?"

After about the 50th "I want," I told him yet again we were not buying for him, that Christmas was coming and that if he asked one more time, there would be no more cartoons for the rest of the day. Two aisles later: "Momma, can we get a Lightning McQueen?"

"That's it, Boy. No more cartoons."

Instant tears. Instant wails. I got in his face and hissed, "That is enough." I threatened some more. I ignored. I tried to look unconcerned as I perused cute baby girl clothes for a friend, despite the red-faced, snotty-nosed preschooler trailing in my wake whining, "I want my momma. I want to watch car-tooooooooooons." Finally, I gave up and headed to the checkout.

Just as I was paying, he looked up at me and said, "I'm done now, Momma." "I should hope so," I said. I went over to Starbucks. Public embarrassment merits a peppermint mocha, I think.

"Momma, can I watch cartoons?"

"No, kiddo. I'm sorry, but you didn't listen and then you threw a fit. No."

More wailing and gnashing of teeth. People were laughing, which I considered a victory. At least they weren't shaking their heads in disgust.

On the way home, The Boy calmed down and seemed to accept the no-cartoon edict.

"But I'll still play basketball."

"We'll see about that."

"Momma, are we watching cartoons tonight."

"No, Boy. You threw a fit. No cartoons today."

"We'll see about that," The Boy muttered under his breath.

He went directly to bed, without lunch. I'm sure my parents will say I deserve this.

Random pregnancy bits

First and foremost, thank you for all your encouraging words about the C-section. I originally planned not to tell anyone about it and just write about it after the birth. Even when I decided to blog about, I hesitated for a day before publishing.

So thank you for your support.

*****

I had a mild scare with my blood pressure this week. It was higher than normal but nothing off the charts. Still, my doctor didn't like it so he sent me to get blood work and made me come back two days later.

Thankfully everything is OK. Blood work turned up nothing suspicious and my blood pressure was back to normal today.

It was a good reminder that I need to keep calm during these last few weeks and avoid stress as much as possible (I'm looking at you, holidays.)

*****

I had this fear that the baby would grow up to resent us for conceiving when we did, forcing her to celebrate her birthday so close to Christmas. Thus she would turn to a life of crime, always blaming us for slighting her so.

I talked to a co-worker whose birthday is Dec. 28 and she told me not to worry. She never felt slighted because her parents always made sure to celebrate the two occasions separately.

Bullet dodged.

*****

Baby girl is getting bigger and bigger. I've had multiple people comment that my belly looks Big. My husband has been offended by these comments even though I don't think people meant any harm by them. He even took to Facebook to remind people that it is not cool to tell a pregnant woman that her belly is huge.

Ladies and gentlemen, chivalry is not dead.

*****

I've gone from a having a baby that seemed to be hanging out low in my belly to having her move north so that she's crushing all my internal organs.

Before she was so low, my sciatic nerve was always irritated. Now, I can feel her kicking along my bra line. I know part of it is she's just getting bigger and running out of room. But even the husband commented last night that she seems to have positioned herself higher.

*****

Peanut is still very excited about her sister. She promises to give her everything from her pacifiers and blankets to her stool for her bed and dolls (which is HUGE for a little girl who loves her dolls).

She even talks about it in her sleep. While visiting my parents this last weekend, she decided she wanted to sleep in bed with me. In the middle of the night, she proclaimed, "Mommy! Baby Maddie is in your belly."

Ghosts of pregnancies past

I got a peppermint mocha this morning and after taking the first sip had an intense urge to pat my belly. I felt pregnant. I'm NOT. And even if I was (I'm NOT), it wasn't a feeling of being newly pregnant, but of being hugely pregnant, about to pop, like I was this time last year. I remember a lot of mornings through the holiday season before The Lad's arrival, walking into work, balancing my bags and a mocha and hoping not to spill on my giant shelf of a belly.

Every time I eat hot wings, I think about being pregnant with The Boy. Around the three-month mark, I craved hot wings so much that we ate them three times over a single long weekend. That's what we did for our anniversary dinner that year: Baskets of hot wings and fries.

When I hear Bernard Fanning songs or tracks from Old 97s' "Blame It On Gravity," I think about driving with the windows down, singing along and tapping out the beat on my belly.

What things trigger your pregnancy memories?

My choice

I've officially scheduled another C-section. I am not going to attempt a VBAC.

I know some people might not agree with this but this is what it comes down to for me: it is my choice.

It was not something I arrived at lightly. I researched. I agonized. I talked it out with my husband, my family, my friends, my doctor. I researched some more.

With Peanut, it took me awhile to come to terms with her birth. I think what really bothered me was that I didn't feel I had a choice in the matter. In the end, I got a beautiful, healthy little girl, who continues to grow and thrive every day. And that's what really matters to me.

This time I want to be the one to make the choice. I know what I am getting into. I am familiar with the process and while surprises could still happen, I know what to expect for the most part. The thought of a failed VBAC, going through labor for hours and hours again only to result in another C-section is not something I am prepared to deal with.

So instead, I'm going in for the C-section Dec. 29 and hope that Madeline Sarah will be just as healthy as her big sister and just as sweet.

I know that my decision is right for me but not necessarily for everyone else. I had a lot of encouragement from many of you when I was contemplating the VBAC. But I believe I am doing the right thing for me and for Madeline.

Like mother, like daughter

Hillary wrote yesterday about how she is turning into her mother.

Today, I will tell you how my daughter is turning into me.

When I was younger, my parents used to say, "Telegraph, telephone, tell a Michelle," for my inability to keep a secret. It's part of the reason I enjoy journalism. I like to be the first to tell people things.

This trait is apparently genetic.

Last week, my daughter told her father what he was getting for his birthday. Upon seeing one of his presents, which he got a week and a half early, she told him of the present Gramma, my mother-in-law, bought while Peanut spent the weekend with her and Pop-pop.

Then, tonight I got a call at work from a very amused husband. He told me I need to change my habits because our daughter had been on her play phone for more than two minutes explaining to her Ma'am, my mother, that I walk around the house naked.

I admit it. In the rush to get ready in the morning, I tend to run around in my birthday suit. I'm sorry if this is TMI but I do get ready in the buff. I get hot especially 8 months pregnant.

Apparently I need add a robe to my Christmas list.

Balancing Christmas

Every year growing up, my sister and I were guaranteed to get the same Christmas present from our maternal grandpa, only in different colors. The first example that comes to mind is our matching stone-washed denim purses -- hers with red trim, mine with blue. We were stylin', let me tell you.

Mom inherited that sense of fair play and always tried to make the Christmas budget equal between my sister and me. Sometimes, when we were little, this meant matching gifts, a la my grandfather. This occasionally backfired: The year I got Mimi, the blonde Hot Looks doll, and my sister got Stacy, I remember being extremely jealous of her doll's long, straight, black hair. Later, and even now, Mom's budgeting often means that as Christmas nears she'll call and say, "Hey, I need to make up $20 for you. What do you want?" I scored a great pair of shoes that way last year.

I never thought I would be like Mom and Grandpa, budgeting down to the dollar, if not the penny, for Christmas. But there I was at Target today thinking, "Hmm, I bought $5 worth of wooden cars for The Lad. How many Matchbox cars can I get for The Boy?" I never ever save receipts -- but I did today. I want to make sure the money's even.

Further proof I'm turning into my mother. Just call me Susan.

Do you keep Christmas equal between your kids? Do you do it by money? Or by package?

Veterans Day

For work today, I was a judge at one of our local Veterans Day parades. It was a lovely experience.

Two kid-related things I really loved:

1. The older kids at the school where my boys are in daycare marched in the parade, many of them carrying blown up pictures of their grandparents who were veterans.

2. Another private, church-based school made cards in which the kids wrote a thank you message and then handed the cards out to veterans at the parade. The veteran on our judging panel got one and was so moved by the childish scrawl and the kind, simple words of a little girl named Abby that he couldn't even talk about it.

And that about made me cry.

It was a good morning.

What do YOU want for Christmas*?

This has been the question asked of me so very, very much recently.

Do you know what I want? Not to feel sick one day and then ravenous the next. Not to be awake from 2 to 5 a.m., three or four times a week for inexplicable reasons. Not to limp around because the baby is killing my sciatic nerve.

OK, OK. Fine. I will get all of that for Christmas, or at least a few days after, only to be replaced by a cherub faced darling who will wake me up at all hours of the night and scream at me for no reason. But she will be cute, so I will forgive.

Anyway, material-wise, I have NO idea what I want for Christmas. The husband and my mother have been asking me for weeks.

I first told the husband I wanted jewelry with a December birthstone for the baby. I have a wonderful ruby ring for Peanut so it would be nice to have something representing the baby. He told me no. That's more of a Mother's Day gift.

I said fine. I would like a gift certificate to get a pedicure every other month for a year. He said if I wanted pedicures that I should just go get them. I don't need them as a Christmas present.

I refused to give any more ideas since he nixed my first two. (Really, how does he get to say no to what I want? He says he wants to get me something I would never get myself but I still say I get to pick.)

I've been hemming and hawing over getting an eReader for a couple years now. My mom said if I decided to get one, she would get it for me so the husband is out of luck. I think I've decided that, yes, I do want one, especially since I can check out books from the library with it. I think I'm going with a Nook. I told the husband he can get me a gift certificate to buy books but he thinks you only buy gift certificates for people you don't like.**

Other than that, I really don't want much. Maybe a new vacuum cleaner, but no one is willing to buy that either.

What are you asking for, if anything? Do you have a hard time picking something for yourself?

*Or whatever it is you choose to celebrate this time of year?

** I disagree with this philosophy. For me, part of the fun is shopping and finding a good deal so I feel giving a gift certificate not only gets someone a gift but an experience.

Tall tales

This was not a good Monday morning. The Lad woke up with suspiciously red eyes -- at 4:30 a.m. The Boy knocked over a table and broke a planter. The husband said, "I told you that table was in a precarious position." I said, "I'll just have to look for a new table," kind of joking. The husband rolled his eyes, also joking -- only none of it felt like joking, so that turned into a fight over whether or not I spend too much money. I shouted. The husband, upon request of The Boy, read him a book -- only to me it felt like he was protecting our child from his crazy shouting momma. The Lad got clingy. We both shouted. The Boy asked me why I was throwing a fit.

I was still fuming when I loaded The Boy into the car and yelled goodbye to the husband and The Lad, who was staying home for a much needed doctor's appointment. But I had made a point of apologizing for the fit -- I was going to put that in quotes, but honestly, a fit is exactly what it was -- in front of The Boy. We talked about it briefly in the car. I knew he was a little upset to see his parents yelling at each other, but I thought we had covered it.

I was wrong. When I picked The Boy up from school tonight, his teacher informed me that first, he had cried during the morning playtime and said he was just having a bad day. (That's what I told him when he asked about the fit.) Then, just as they started Bible study, he told her that Momma and Daddy were shouting at each other all morning. So -- and here's where I wonder if I really want my kid in a Baptist daycare -- they prayed about it. Apparently, they all pray everyday for safe workdays for the parents, and today they just added in the prayer for my marriage. The Boy felt better after that, the teacher said.

---

When I was in first grade, I told my teacher that my mom hit me and I got a bloody nose. Now, this was technically true. I was doing something I wasn't supposed to and she swatted me on the butt, after which I got a bloody nose, a malady that often happened to me at that age. I could get a bloody nose just walking across a room. But of course, the version I told my teacher made it seem like Mom punched a 7-year-old in the nose. It was an unpleasant conversation, and I remember having an equally unpleasant conversation with Mom afterward about what I did and did not need to tell people.

---

The whole time The Boy's teacher was talking to me, I was thinking about that bloody nose incident. For all this woman knows, my marriage is about to fall apart. I don't think she took it that way -- she actually, I think, handled it pretty well (although the praying is a bit weird to me), telling The Boy that she and her husband sometimes yell, too -- but still, I was embarrassed.

And remembering the bloody nose incident, all I could think is that this is the only beginning of the awkward conversations. Because, let's be honest, that is not the last time I yell in front of my kids. Fun.

Funny things the Peanut said

The other night, she told the husband that she wanted to take her doll out to enjoy the sunshine ... it was 7:30 p.m. and the sun had set awhile before that.

*****

She was being very lippy with me the other morning so I told her she needed to go to her room and she could come out when she was ready to act like a big girl.

Five minutes later, I went to get her. She pulled my head down to where she was in her bed and said, "Mommy, I'm ready to act like a big girl."

*****

She recently has decided that she would rather shower with me than take a bath. I'll take it over the tantrums. After a shower the other morning she said, "Whew. That was a good shower."

*****

If she finds something at the store that she wants, she now picks it up, holds it tightly to her chest and says, "I pay for it now?"

Apparently she has a bank account that I don't know about.

*****

During a Target trip, Peanut decided she wanted a Nutrigrain bar. I told her she could have it once we got to the car. In the five minutes it took for us to check out and get to the car, she must have asked/told me she wanted the Nurtigrain bar no fewer than 16 times. Finally, I snapped and said, "I heard you. I know. I will get it. You are driving me crazy."

What did she tell daddy later that night?

"Daddy, you driving me crazy."

Oops.

Chomp! redux

Awhile back on Facebook, Michelle asked what people wanted us to write about. Someone wanted to know how to get a toddler to stop biting.

I wish I knew.

The Boy was a biter. I tried ignoring the behavior. I tried shunning him. I tried biting him back. With daycare, I tried nasty tasting stuff and timeouts. All of it seemed to work -- until it didn't. Every time I thought the biting was over, we would have another incident. Sometimes weeks or even months would pass between bites. Ultimately, I think he just outgrew it

And now, The Lad is biting.

He seems to be following the same pattern as The Boy, i.e. biting when he's teething and, occasionally, out of frustration. I think that's why The Boy out grew it. All of his teeth are in and he's physically, emotionally and verbally capable of at least trying to deal with most situations. We have a long road before The Lad is there. In the meantime, he's living up to his Beastly nickname. He's chomped his brother, his dad and me.

One thing I learned from the first go-round: Biting is not cute, no matter how little the baby.

We smiled, maybe even giggled the first few times The Boy bit. He was nearly a year old before we got serious about telling him NO! and even then, we didn't see biting as serious, bad behavior. How could it be? He was our baby, our innocent, tiny, precious infant.

Yeah right.

Look, it's true that babies aren't really reasoning creatures, but they are little sponges. They learn how to play peekaboo and figure out patterns like, "OH! They're getting out those plates. Must mean food." They can figure out that you don't want them to do something, too. So, this time around, we have a hard-core, zero tolerance policy on biting. If The Lad bites, he is told no and removed from the situation. It's not a serious timeout, of course. He can and does come right back. But if he bites again, he is removed again, farther away this time.

I don't know if this will work. I really think some things just have to be outgrown by kids. But I'm hoping this at least keeps the chomping to a minimum.

Any tricks you've picked up?

Duh.

Someone should probably smack me.

On Sunday, I took a leisurely nap with Peanut. After we snuggled down and both dozed off, I woke with a start. The baby was doing a tap dance routine in my belly.

For whatever reason, the realization hit me. There is going to be another baby. No, really. Like another one of these things that needs stuff, like to be fed, and changed, and looked after so that she doesn't grow up feral.

She's going to wake up in the night. A lot. She's going to cry whenever she wants and won't listen to reason. She's going to go through six diapers in one changing at 2 a.m. when I am barely able to function.

My breath quickened like I had just found out I was pregnant.

Maybe it was the realization that it is November and that I can now say, "I'm going to have this baby next month." Or maybe because we put the crib together and are making progress on getting the nursery in order. Maybe I've just had my head in the sand for the past seven-plus months.

No matter. This baby is coming whether we are ready or not. I'm guessing now is time to start getting ready.

Halloween horror

So, that trip to the hospital on Halloween ...

Mike was running a half marathon that morning. He had trained for this race for the last several months, tracking all his runs and planning what his pace should be each mile so he could finish somewhere around an hour and 35 minutes. I know nothing about running, but he talks about his training often. Thank god I sort of half listen.

The boys and I were standing by the finish line, waiting for the Daddyman. A friend came up. He'd been riding the course on a bike and saw Mike at mile 10. He was on track, about an hour and 20 minutes into the race. People started finishing, including, right before his goal time, the woman I knew he was trying to keep up with. But no Mike. I started to fret -- not that something bad had happened, but that something had thrown off his race and I was going to have to listen to him analyze it all day.

Another 10 minutes went by. No Mike. I started to worry. I picked at my cuticles and wondered aloud, not thinking about The Boy until the words were out, what might have happened to Mike. "I'm mad at Daddy," The Boy said a minute later. "Why?" "Because he's slow."

'Round about this time, an ambulance pulled up near the finish line. I couldn't see what was going on and, though the thought that it might be Mike crossed my mind briefly, I pushed it away. He probably had just pulled a hamstring again, or maybe that calf muscle had acted up.

At the two hour mark, I decided I needed to go ask somebody. Even if he had walked the last three miles, he should have finished by then. Trying to ram my way through the crowd with the stroller and The Boy, I was approached by a worried runner I had never met.

"Did Mike finish?"

"That's what I'm trying to find out. No."

"Oh! He was at the ambulance."

Tears welled up. I imagined my husband crumpled on the side of the road, hit by a car. I imagined him dead with one of those sudden aneurysms you hear about. I imagined being a single parent, a widow.

The Boy tugged my hand and I pulled myself together long enough to go talk to the race organizer. I must have had crazy eyes, because the first thing she said to me was "don't panic!" She squeezed my hand and told me Mike had collapsed around mile 11. He was severely dehydrated and disoriented. He couldn't tell her where he was. They called 911. He was going to the hospital.

"But he never lost consciousness. It's OK. Don't panic."

Tears welled up again, but I never actually cried. I grabbed The Boy's hand and pushed the stroller as fast as I could make his little legs go. We tracked down Mike in the emergency room, where he was propped up in a bed, pale and hooked up to an IV. I nearly started sobbing in relief, but The Boy was holding onto my hand and looking at his daddy with big eyes, and The Lad was in my arms.

"Don't you scare me like that again."

My uncle died in 2006. He was my dad's older brother and best friend. He had cancer, again, and died just days after setting out with my parents on a cross-country journey they knew would be his last. My mom and dad woke up to find his body and had to make arrangements to get him home. After his funeral, after the wake, my parents fell apart. My sister was home with her kids. I had flown up for the service by myself and was staying with Mom and Dad. By default, I was the one to take care of them after the funeral. I was happy to do it. But I have never felt so alone or so grown. I wasn't a kid any more.

I felt like that again Sunday, trying to keep it together so the boys wouldn't know something horrible might have happened.

Except, when my uncle died, I had Mike to call at the end of the night. I could come home to Mike. All I kept thinking Sunday was that if horrible had happened, I would have no Mike.

I realize this is melodramatic and really, he's fine. An IV and I don't know how many gatorades later, he was back to normal. But waiting for him at that finish line, I imagined what life would be like if I truly were alone. I'm so lucky to have a partner.

I should probably tell him to bookmark this post so he can bring it up next time I rage about the towels being folded incorrectly.

Big puffs of tulle

They were supposed to be peacocks.

Instead they turned out to be big puffs of tulle.

Peanut turned mute at every house, barely holding her basket up for people to drop candy in. I couldn't get one "trick or treat" or "thank you" out of her.

She did, however, want to see the creepy baby statue at one house that had red eyes and whose head turned all the way around. "I want to see dat baby," she said. I hustled her past.

She hung in there longer than we thought she would but was vocal about being ready to go home.

And we celebrated our first official trick or treat outing, which will be our last as a family of three.