Two Years Ago

Two years ago, little Ella Jo, you came storming into this world, defining the way you would continue to do all things, for the first two years anyway, which is, in short, on time but on your own terms. Every little milestone you seem to hit right when the What to Expect book would have me expecting it. Slept through the night at eight weeks. But on your belly. Got your first tooth at six months. Along with your first ear infection. Started crawling at seven months. Fast. Started walking at ten months. Now granted, that one is a little early in the timeline given by the omniscient authors of the What to Expect series, but I believe it is within it. And your birth, little one, was no different.

When Daddy and I found about your existence, it was a very normal Monday. Except of course for the fact that we were very anxiously awaiting the results of a little test I'd purchased at Publix, like it was no big deal, like it was just another grocery item rather than what it really is--a potential indicator of a completely life-altering fact. It was early September, and we were so excited, we called every person we could think of and began blabbing the news. Unfortunately for us, pretty much everyone knew we were trying and, knowing our evidently fertile status, had already assumed they'd be getting that particular news real soon. So not a whole lotta shock. But so much love and excitement. No one could wait to meet the newest little one. And Owen? Well, he just knew right away that the baby in Mommy's belly was a girl and that her name was Ella. (And of course, you know how that prediction came out. Still waiting on Owen to pick those Lotto numbers...) Anyway, the point of all this rambling is to get to the next fact: two weeks later, give or take, we went to the doctor and based on measurements and calendar calculations, the midwife gave us your due date: June 3, 2008. As in, your baby will be here by June 3 of next year or he or she is late. Sorry, I just have to make a little fun of that term. Bills are due. Library books are due. Babies come when they are done cookin. But I guess you heard that date and it stuck in your head because just under nine months later, on June 3, you thought you'd come on out. And here is the story of that beautiful, perfect day. I hope you enjoy it. I think you'll see (assuming you don't completely change in the years leading up to the time that you might read this) that your birth is totally YOU.

I was attempting to sleep. The next morning was the LAST day of work for the year. Students had already gone home, I'd finished report cards and cum folders, I'd nearly finished packing up my room, and I was ready to check out! So I was trying to get some rest, hoping to finish up these last few things before the baby (that's you) made his or her grand entrance. I'd been at work the day before and all I heard was "Haven't you had that baby yet?" and "Man, it looks like that baby's gonna fall out any minute!" So, naturally, I was getting a little nervous that I wasn't going to get everything done before you arrived. All I needed was one more day to get it done. Just one more.

Instead, I woke up at 2 am. I was having a pretty mild contraction, but it felt like I'd peed in the bed a little bit. So I went to the bathroom and then came back to check it out. I decided it wasn't pee. But it also was not my water breaking. I'd heard that was like a flood, so I would've known if it'd been that. Right? So I piled up roughly eight towels (no lie) and slept on my side with my knees clamped together in case my water did break. Little did I know that the clamped knees would do nada and the towels may not protect the mattress entirely either. I continued to wake up each hour on the hour to go the bathroom, and each time there was a little more of the mystery fluid. And each time, slightly more uncomfortable contractions. And each time, I looked at your daddy, sleeping peacefully, and thought about kicking him so he could join me in wakefulness. But I didn't. See what a big person I am? Finally at 7 am, I got up with your big brother and got him dressed for the day. As I stood from his bed, I felt something happen, like an internal pop and gush, and I knew! I ran for the bathroom and made it just in time to experience the flood that I had been expecting. At that point, I realized that I wasn't going to be going in to work, so I took the time to email my principal and let her know. She later told me that she thought it hilarious that in the middle of labor I would email her a coherent and professional excuse email for missing the last day of post-planning. As if she may not have assumed I was off birthing you. But I digress. My water broke and the contractions began to get pretty darned uncomfortable. I really wanted to shower before I went to the hospital, but your Gaga (my mommy) became pretty nervous about how I had to pause and bend over the counter for each contraction, so she suggested I skip the shower and head for the hospital. On our way, I phoned Miss Brandi. If memory serves, she skipped out early on a meeting at work to meet us at the hospital with her Nikon in hand. In triage, the nurse took her time putting in an IV, watching contractions, and calling for the midwife. As time wore on, I was starting to get pretty uncomfortable and was very glad to see Jane, our midwife walk in. She determined I was dilated to four or five centimeters. Only halfway. Hoo-wee. With some encouraging words, she headed to the office and said she'd be back around lunchtime. I glanced at the clock and told your daddy I was pretty sure we weren't gonna make it until lunch time. Soon enough we were in labor and delivery room 213 with our fantastic nurse, Joann. Checking vitals, listening to the baby, monitoring contractions. By the time Miss Brandi showed up, my contractions were starting to H U R T. I remember telling your daddy that I didn't think they'd hurt so badly with Owen. I attributed it to the memory-loss-with-regards-to-labor-pains phenomenon. Scott and nurse Jo decided that laboring in the tub might help. As it filled up, I attempted to ease into the water, but it was too hot. As I stood waiting for it to cool down a bit, I started to get really uncomfortable. At that point I became a little fearful, looked at Brandi and said, "I think I maybe feel like I need to push?" After a few quick questions, she ascertained that I indeed was feeling the urge to push. We called up the nurse who checked me and decided that an emergency phone call to summon our midwife was in order. As she put it, "I've delivered babies before, but I prefer not to. Let's get Jane back here." This was two hours after arriving at the hospital.

The next minutes are a bit of a blur to me. Jane returned, I moved to the bed and managed a few more pretty intense contractions. At one point I whispered to your daddy that I wasn't sure I could do it. Luckily, Daddy was prepared and reminded me that that feeling just means the end is near. And he was right. A few minutes later, I was pushing. I remember Daddy, Miss Brandi, Jane, and Joann having quiet conversation, making jokes and laughing. I tried to pay attention to what they were talking about but found that I couldn't. Instead I talked to you. This sounds crazy, but I saw you, as plain as day. I saw you, all 21 inches of you, working so hard to make your way out to meet us. So we had a little talk, you and I, and about twenty minutes I heard the encouraging words I'd been waiting to hear. "We can see the head!" And little girl, I have to tell you, you scared everyone! Everyone but me. I was blissfully unaware that from the appearance of your head, Joann thought you were coming out breech, booty first. Poor Daddy thought your brain was somehow outside of your head. But neither of these things was true. After a few more pushes, you brought new life into room 213--six lives where there had been five. You slid right into Daddy's waiting hands and looked at me! You, my little stinker, were sunny-side up, looking right at your mama as you came into the world. No wonder you had caused me so much pain! But God, Ella, did we love you. The nurse may have said it first, but I only remember hearing the words first from one of my dearest friends and your biggest fans: It's a girl! And I cried with relief and looked at your daddy and said, "Thank God she's here. It's a girl!" And we both looked at you and said "Nice to meet you, Ella." Because your brother, after all, had told us all about you.

And that is the story of the day you were born. Right on time but certainly in your own little Ella way. You came backwards, brought a pretty good deal of discomfort with you, but it made your appearance all the sweeter. We loved you immediately. And we always will. You are our girl. Forever. Love you, Baby Girl.

A New One

You know how when you became pregnant--especially once you became visibly pregnant-- it suddenly became acceptable for perfect strangers to ask you very personal questions, give unwanted (and often absurd) advice, and even TOUCH your stomach. As women, this is just something we deal with for a few months. If we're lucky, after the baby is born we only have to deal with the occasional "Awww how old's the baby?" The more personal questions and certainly the touching become far less common. The other day, though, I was floored by a question asked of me about my children. Seeing Owen, my oldest, next to 5-month-old Cole, a woman commented on how very alike they look. This is not the uncommon part. They do look very alike, and I usually respond to that comment with "Oh, you should see Owen's baby pictures. They're nearly identical to Cole." The odd thing was that this woman continued to look at them for another moment and then asked, "Are they in vitro twins?" At first I laughed, thinking she was making a joke. I made some snarky comment about Cole just sticking around in the uterus for 5 extra years. Then, I was shocked when I realized she was serious. A woman, a total stranger to me, had asked if Cole had been the frozen embryo twin to his brother. Now whether he was or was not, I ask, is that any of her damn business? Maybe I'm overreacting. But I thought that was way over the line.

Cole

Owen

Dear Cole,

This is nearly a month late. I planned to write it May 1--that would have been one year to the day. But alas, life gets in the way. I've been drafting this little note here in my heart for a while now. See, kiddo, there are some things you should know, so I'm going to write them down here for you to enjoy some day well in the future when you can read. Maybe I'll have you read it after a particularly rough day at school or a fight with you brother or something. So despite the fact that I'll be typing one-handed as you're draped over my right arm and nuzzled up against my breast in a very snuggly place, I'm gonna type. Here goes.

You, my sweet, sweet boy, are so very special. From your very conception, you were defying odds and breaking rules. Please don't let anyone ever make you believe there is something you cannot do. See, God put you on this earth for a reason. I truly believe that, with every fiber of myself. You will do wonderful things. You will be a wonderful person. You already are. I hold you in my arms and smell your sweet, sweet breath while you sleep. When you're awake, I kiss your perfect little lips and as you squeal and squirm and try to kiss me back, I smell that sweet breath some more. When I nurse you, you reach up and grip my finger so tightly, as if you're begging me to never let go. As if you need to beg. When you play on the floor, you make happy little sounds and talk to yourself, and after a while, you get annoyed. You talk a little louder as if to say, "Where is everybody?" And as soon as I appear, you smile. You smile with your whole face, your whole body even. You stop that loud talking, smile, and begin to kick your legs and wave your arms like a dog wags his tail. You say, "Yep, that's all I wanted. Just needed a friendly face over here. Love you." And when you do that, you melt my heart all over again. You, my precious boy, are so easy. So cooperative. So chill.

But these are things anyone knows about you. Anyone that meets you can see these things. Let me tell you something that not so many know. In fact, I only recently admitted this to even your daddy.

May 1 marked one year since the day I found out I was pregnant with you. The day I called your daddy at work, asked him to come home for lunch because we needed to talk. Of course, given our history, Daddy didn't need to come home. He guessed first thing: "Are you pregnant??" And when I called Aunt Brandi, she was shocked. In fact, I believe she asked if I'd taken two tests to make sure. Ha! But the craziest thing is that I wasn't shocked. Not like I should have been. There were a couple of reasons that your existence wasn't very likely. But still, just over a week before I came to know about you for sure, I had this feeling. I can't explain it except to say that I knew something was different, and my heart kept telling me that there was another soul riding with me. My head tried to deny it with all kinds of logic, but my heart just kept saying, "You'll see. Deny it, doubt it, and wait. But you'll see." So my head started looking for signs of any kind that might indicate a little stowaway was in my uterus. But signs? None were to be found. So I waited as long as I could, carrying around this feeling that you were with me and wanting so badly to know for sure. When it was finally a reasonable time to take a test, I found that I was going to be devastated if it revealed that I had been mistaken. As much as another pregnancy did not fit our plan at that time, when I saw the plus sign slowly come into being, I cried the happiest tears. I put my hand on my belly and said hi, and I'm sure you high-fived me. It's just something you would do.

So I can't explain how I knew before there was reason to suspect and without any signs whatsoever, but I did. I knew you were there inside me, beating heart and all. And no, it wasn't our plan, but God knows I am so grateful that He knows better. You are my little buddy. My connection to you is so tangible and real, it's as if Daddy never snipped that cord. I hope it is always that way. I love you, my perfect little surprise. But you know that. You feel it. Now go do what you do. Be you, be sweet, and change the world.

Forever your Mommy

Another fun mama quirk

A new surprise I learned today: after giving birth to three children, no matter what amount of Kegels you might do, jumping on a trampoline will probably lead to surprise peeing. Take from that what you will.

Mommy Moment

I had one of those moments tonight--when I could have either completely lost it, screamed and thrown things, or just laughed. Allow me to paint you a picture. I'm sitting in the kids' bathroom on the toilet, ready to brush teeth. The iPod is next to me, playing my theme music. (I highly recommend theme music. It gets me through a lot of tense moments!) At that exact moment, my theme song happened to be the cast of Glee's version of 4 Minutes, originally by Madonna and Justin. Anyway, I was rocking out, but it's important to note that it was a little loud and therefore added to the chaos in the next few moments. First, the littlest, who was sitting atop one knee, became impatient and began crying. Then, the biggest, too busy dancing along to my theme music, ignored my request to begin brushing his teeth no less than three times. Then, the middlest, who was trying out her crazy straw in Owen's bathroom cup, fell off the stool, poking Mommy with the straw and splashing water all over the bathroom and those occupying it. All three of these things happened at once, as Glee continued to remind me that "we only got four minutes to save the world!" So I took it in. I thought it over. And despite my long day and today's ever-present headache, I had to laugh. Rather hysterically, bordering on psychotically, but I laughed nonetheless.

Always with the Poop

I feel like every other blog I post has something to do with poop. With a 4-year-old boy, a potty-training daughter, and an infant, I suppose this is to be expected. But today tops them all, I think. After tucking Ella in with a book for her nap, I heard her quietly calling "Mooooo-myyyyyy" from her room. As I was nursing the littlest, I was in no hurry to get up. She wasn't crying or sending me any urgent messages. So when I wrapped up the burping of number three and entered her room mere minutes later, I was shocked--SHOCKED--to find her crib yet again covered in poop. This happened a year or so ago when she took off a poopy diaper after a nap and played with it a little. But today was something new. I guess she felt the urge to poop, but rather than call for me and ask to go potty, she disrobed, removed her diaper, and squatted and pooped on. the. book. THE BOOK! We are a family of readers! This is downright blasphemous! Pooping on a book? And then, she evidently used her pants to wipe her bottom. Yum. And when I shared this news with her father, it went something like this:

Me: Ella pooped on a book.
Scott: *sigh* Everyone's a critic.

Nice. And that, dear future teachers of my children, is why they will not know the story of The Jungle Book.

TGIF

Ahhhhh Friday. Here at last. Even a stay-at-home mama such as myself appreciates a good Friday. The jam-packed week full of appointments, errands, and playdates come to a close with the promise of a relaxing evening, maybe a glass of wine, maybe a movie with the hubby, followed by a jam-packed weekend full of parties, barbecues, and visits to the beach. The latter is what my hubby informed me today that he had in mind for tomorrow. Our third-born's first visit (while outside the uterus) to the beach and the season's inaugural visit for the whole clan. I was going to relish this Friday, with its morning of cleaning followed by a playdate with my daughter's favorite friend and capped off with an evening of dinner and wine with some of my girls.

And then last night happened. First, Ella woke up at eleven with a terrible cough and a fever. Yay. We spent most of the night taking turns cuddling her and administering infant tylenol in the always-accurate dose. Then Owen awoke. He "didn't feel good." I remember making this statement as a child and thinking that it said it all. As a parent, it might be the most frustrating sentence to hear. WHAT doesn't feel good?? Anyhow, he went back to sleep in the recliner, so we wrote it off. Fast forward eight hours. My phone rings, and it's Owen's teacher explaining that his belly hurts and even 25 minutes of toilet-sitting have done nothing to help the situation. Super. So I pick him up (and he insisted that I carry all 45 pounds of him. Awesome.) and take him home, putting him up in our darkened bedroom watching Star Wars. Scott lays with him, and pretty soon we are seeing the tell-tale signs of impending puking. You know, the cold clammy skin, the quiet groans, the gurgling stomach. Scott does his best to explain what throwing up might feel like, as at the age of nearly-five, the child is lucky enough to never have experienced it. So with the explanation that it might feel like your food wants to come back out of your mouth really fast (not a bad explanation, I thought), we settled in to wait. And sure enough, inside of an hour. Owen gave his breakfast back. Yum. And can I just say thank God for Daddy! Because, as all-mom as I am, I cannot CANNOT do vomit. I suppose if push comes to shove and I'm the only one home with a sicky, I'll handle it, but let's not test that theory, k? So Daddy handled clean-up of both boy and barf very calmly. Crisis averted.

But that Friday plan? Yea, that's way out the window. No cleaning happened this morning. Too tired from a night up with the fevered one. And no playdate. Didn't want to expose our favorite friends to aforementioned fever. And dinner and wine with friends? Enh. (That's supposed to be a buzzer sound. Hmm.) And beach tomorrow. Double enh. Too bad. But still, TGIF. Because if today is F, then tomorrow is S, and any day that begins with S is good. I hope. At any rate, Daddy is home to suffer with me through whatever S may bring. Cheers to teammates!

My Big Boy

Owen is 4 years and 9 months old on Monday. So big. So old. He'll be 5 in July. And, come August, he'll go to kindergarten. Kindergarten! Perhaps you didn't hear me--my BABY is going to be in KINDERGARTEN! This is pretty seriously freaking me out. Time flies! It's so cliche, but that must be because it's so true and it's such a powerfully overwhelming realization that you can't help but say it. Time is literally flying by me. I can so very clearly remember the moment that the midwife broke my water, the contractions began to come hard and fast, and then I was pushing, pushing, pushing, and then he was here. And I was--we were--completely and utterly transformed. In a moment we went from being a newly-married couple to a family. "It's a boy!" shouted by our teary-eyed midwife. Those words forever changed our lives. I remember seeing tears in Scott's eyes. Something I was pretty sure I would never see. (Like many foolish men, he prides himself on his stoicism. I say why hold it in? But whatever...) Tears in his eyes as he took in the little face and began to make calls to our family to announce the arrival of the first grandchild.

We became a family. And like I said, that was yesterday. Seriously. Where has this time gone? Since then, we've sold four cars and purchased 3 others. We've put our house on the market, moved to Illinois, and moved back. I've worked at two different schools. I've taken many months off work to care for my babies. We've traveled to Alaska, Yellowstone, Costa Rica, and Jamaica (That's not so bad in list form like that! How lucky are we?). We've repainted our house, sodded the backyard TWICE, put in new carpet and floors, spent roughly a billion dollars on Thomas the Train paraphernalia, and spent countless hours rocking babies, walking babies, swaying with babies, soothing babies. We've hosted barbecues, birthday parties, and baptism celebrations. And still, even with all these markers of time marching on, I can't believe Owen is as old he is. It seems like yesterday that he couldn't support his own head. Now he can name all of the letters of the alphabet, count to 100, list the planets of the solar system in order, and identify the parts of an insect. I can't believe that in a few short months I'll carefully select his first-day-of-school clothes, lovingly pack his first-day-of-school lunch (a good balance of healthy and yummy), and walk him the 0.8 miles to school, dropping him off at his kindergarten classroom. Crazy. And before I know it, it'll be the fifth grade dance, eight grade graduation, learning to drive, first dates, prom, graduation and off to college! Oh dear. I need to stop all this before I'm a blubbering mess. He's my baby. And he always will be. Now I understand that my mom really meant that when I was fourteen, and she still means it now. I love my little man. My big boy. My baby, grown up and (almost) off to kindergarten.

Enjoy the moments, whatever stage you're in. Even if the moment isn't the most fun, even if you're exhausted or up to your elbows in poop, enjoy it. Look at the face of that newborn/baby/toddler/teen/whatever, and drink it in. Love em up. And enjoy them while they're still yours!

GodzElla

My sweet daughter.



So beautiful, so fun, so full of life.

Such a pain in the a** sometimes. I love her. So very much. But there are certainly times when she makes me want to pull my hair out. We call her GodzElla because of her amazing ability to destroy. Whatever it is, she can destroy it. No matter how carefully you are watching her, she can destroy it. The more messy or expensive it is, the more likely it is that she will destroy it. Examples? Gladly.

1. Our fridge was in need of repair, so we were storing some food in coolers in the kitchen. Owen comes into the room where I'm changing Cole's diaper and says, "Ella's playing with eggs." And that was a very accurate description. Ella had opened the cooler, removed the EIGHTEEN pack of eggs, and was dropping them on the ground while shouting "bang!" Lovely.

2. We three were playing happily with the bubbles in the back yard today. When I put them down to answer the phone, Ella picked them up and poured them out. On her pants.

3. Ella wore an adorable bunny-ear headband home from school today. They made them in class. Cute little two-toned pink ears stapled onto a white headband. She wore them the whole was home in the car. She walked into the house and promptly tore both ears off the headband. Then she ripped the headband.

4. Ella brought home a cute craft made during her class's transportation week. They'd modeled little airplanes out of craft sticks and glued a picture of themselves into the cockpit. Ella proudly showed me the plane and then promptly ripped the head off of it.

5. This week alone, Ella has torn pages in two Eric Carle books and ripped the pop-ups out of Owen's giraffe pop-up book. And, ever proud, she brought them to me, saying, "See, Mommy, see."

6. Drumroll please. The final awesome thing that GodzElla accomplished this week... While sitting RIGHT next to me at the kitchen table, she picked up my camera that I was about to connect to my laptop for download, and dunked it into Owen's cup of water. Completely submerged. So no, you will not be seeing those pictures for awhile. It still won't turn on. I am not pleased.

This list is by no means exhaustive. And, on my honor, every one of these things has happened in the last seven days.

Our first major illness

We have been so blessed to have three beautiful, amazing, healthy children. Yes, we battled ear infections with Ella and eventually did tubes, but it was nothing major. Aside from the surgery, the longest 12 minutes of my life, I believe. Anyway, chalk it up to his winter birth or the fact that our luck was due to run out, but Cole has RSV. And let me tell you, those three little letters are pretty darn scary. For a baby as tiny as ours (in age, not stature), they can mean big trouble. After weeks of congestion and several days of serious coughing, I finally took him in to see our doctor. I truthfully thought they'd send me away with the suggestion of the inclined bed and a humidifier. Instead, three--yes, THREE-- different medical professionals listened to his little lungs. And each spent a long amount of time doing so, I must say. So finally, the doctor says, "Cole definitely has bronchialitis, most likely caused by RSV. I don't think hospitalization is necessary yet, but I want to watch him closely." Well, let me tell you, it was all I could do not to break don't crying right there in the office. You don't want to hospitalize my tiny, brand-new baby YET? It was the last thing I was expecting. Instead, they sent us home with THE MASK. A little bit Top Gun, a little bit Hannibal Lecter, a lot sad. Sad sad sad when you're littlest is wearing it.

So we've followed doctor's orders. Mask every four hours for a fifteen-minute treatment, inclined bed, humidifier, lots of rest, and lots of love. I don't know what's more sad--when he hated the mask and fought it the whole treatment, or now that he's given up and just sits there for the whole treatment, a very resigned look on his little face. So he wears the mask, we cuddle him all we can, and in the meantime, the house has fallen apart.

But alas, our little man is starting to get better slowly. Apparently, we can expect this to last a total of 3-4 weeks. Yikes! And as for the big sister and biggest brother? They're surviving. Big sister likes to take advantage of the treatments to wreak havoc, but that's to be expected, I suppose. I have to remember she's not yet two. And in between times, they're hanging out together, no worse for the wear.

So I hope to be posting in just 2-3 weeks that all is well. I hope. Until then.

Ahh the third

I've said this to all of my girlfriends recently--those that don't already have children. I also make sure to say it to any pregnant woman that I meet. (Yes, I am now the woman I hated when I was first pregnant. The dreaded unsought-advice-giver. And yea, that's a legit term. Look it up.) Anyway, I feel this "advice" is valuable enough that I want to share it with anyone I can. So here it is: I've been saying so frequently since my little Cole was born that I wish everyone could have their second child first (Hear me out...) because then they could truly appreciate how easy the first child is. Am I right? Mamas of more than one, can I get an amen? Allow me to elaborate. With my first, I was rather anxious. What if I didn't do everything right? Was he getting enough milk? Oh my God! He's not tracking objects with his eyes yet. Ok, he's six weeks today. Why hasn't he smiled at me yet? Shouldn't he be rolling over by now? The list goes on. Furthermore, I thought it was SO HARD. I could hardly get anything done for holding the baby all the time. How could I possibly get the laundry done or make the beds while holding a fussy or sleepy baby? (See my last post.) And I was tired! I mean, I had a BABY. And he didn't sleep all night. And why didn't they teach that in sex ed? (Sidebar: I think a really effective method of encouraging abstinence would be to rent out newborns to families with teens and let them wake up every 2-3 hours to change diapers, warm bottles, soothe the colic, etc. And after 3 or 4 nights of this followed by school or work the next morning, THEN you'd give them the tantruming two-year-old and the backtalking four-year-old. Ha! Seriously, I may market this.) And then there was the worst of it: I was lonely. And, if I was honest with myself, a little bored. I spent all day taking care of a little human that just cried and pooped and wanted to be on the breast. He hardly acknowledged me, didn't smile, and certainly offered nothing in the way of intelligent conversation. I remember waiting eagerly by the door at my husband's ETA on our doorstep. Tell me everything! What happened at work today? What'd you eat? What's it like outside? And hold the baby so I can pee! Ah yes, I look back now at my cute little 24-year-old self, and I think, You idiot, you didn't know how good you had it. Because that's the life, isn't it? One baby. ONE baby. One BABY. All they do is cry, poop, and want to be on the breast! Their needs are so easy to determine and so easy to meet! They don't harass you for new toys, they don't want to watch TV when it's dinnertime, and they don't require creativity to entertain. You hold em in the crook of your arm while you surf the net, paint your toenails, vacuum, read a book, whatEVER. They don't care. You prop them up here or place them in the swing there, and they are more or less content to watch the world go by. I remember placing Owen in his bouncy seat atop the dining room table, and we could enjoy a leisurely, hour-long dinner, sip wine and talk about our days, and he was cool. Now? With a 4-year-old and a 21-month-old? I can't remember the last time we had conversation over dinner that didn't involve Abby Cadabby or diapers. And an hour? Puh-lease. Dinner is roughly a 15-minute affair during which time we eat very little while trying to convince Owen that he does, in fact, like macaroni and cheese (can you imagine??) and placing back into her seat at least a half dozen times. But Cole? He's cool. You guys still eating? Cool. I'll just look at the light fixture. Holla when you're finished. He hangs out between us on the bed while we watch movies or TV shows that aren't appropriate for the younger audience. But see, he's not going to repeat those cuss words or mention to his Sunday school teacher that he saw a show about vampires. Nope. Uncensored TV watching and conversation with him around. And as for that complaint that I was tired with one? Ha! Nuh uh, girlfriend. This is simple: you sleep when he sleeps. Nevermind that you were going to fold some laundry or take a shower. Let. It. Go. Lay down and take a little nap while he does. Because once that second baby comes along and keeps you up all night, you can forget about napping when she does. Because your precious first born will be insisting on being entertained in those rare moments that he can get your undivided attention. And by the third? You'll be running #1 to soccer practice or some such during naptime, and sleeping behind the wheel of the minivan is not recommended. And as for being lonely or bored? Nope. Nipped that in the bud. Found a few playgroups (all free of course!) where the baby is stimulated while I can interact with other parents. Or not. Sometimes some good people watching and the comfort of knowing that other humans are out there is all you need. And I don't know whether it's because he's my third or because I'm a little older and a little wiser (I hope), but I have learned to soak up that "nothing time." Time when I can just sit and hold him and look into his little face. Because guess what? Tomorrow you'll wake up and that little face will be writing his name, reading words on TV, singing Miley Cyrus's latest hit, talking back to everydamnthing you say, and about to go off to kindergarten. And that, my friends, is what we call life flying by. I can't believe how old my "baby" is. So do I just sit on my arse and look at Cole and soak up this time with him? Yes. When I can. With two others, there's not a whole lot of that down time. But I take what I can get. So there we go. All the reasons that I wish everyone could have their second child first. On account of that is impossible, I hope that people will read this and take to heart what others tell them about your first. Yes, it can be scary and intimidating. But follow your gut, don't be afraid to call your mom or the pediatrician (that's why they get paid the big bucks!), and enjoy every little minute of it. I know I am. Even the bad ones. Lovin it.

Oh, the things I can do

As I typed that title just now, I thought I'd take some inspiration from the half dozen Dr. Seuss stories I read for bedtime tonight and make this post rhyme. Now that I think twice, I decide I'm too tired for all that creativity. But I did want to comment on the amazing things we mamas can do. Especially while holding a baby. With my first, I remember just sitting and holding him, not doing much else unless he was asleep or securely in his bouncy seat. But with two others underfoot, I have both more experience in holding the babies and less time to get things done. So, naturally, I find myself doing a whole lot with a little one nestled in the crook of my left arm. For more involved tasks, I'll put him in my Baby K'tan carrier, which is awesome, by the way. Without further ado, just some of the many things I can do while holding a baby:
-read a book
-blow bubbles
-wipe bottoms
-wipe noses
-take cookies out of the oven
-push a stroller
-give Owen a shove to get him started on his bike
-fold laundry (yep, with one hand!)
-type emails, FB statuses, blog entries, etc
-pay bills
-push kids on swings
-load dishwasher
-unload dryer
-reload dryer
-lift toddler and hold her while singing "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star"
And that's just today! And certainly there are things I'm forgetting. Mamas are amazing, that's all I'm saying. What did you multitask today?

Bodily Fluids Wednesday

Not as catchy as other monikers for Hump Day, but it pretty accurately describes my day. I woke up to Owen, pantless, entering my room. I knew before the words were out of his mouth. "Mommy, I peed in my bed." Ok, no big deal. Strip the bed, give the kid a quick from-the-waist-down bath, throw in a load of laundry, and go on with my day. Fast forward twenty minutes or so. Owen, Ella, and I are enjoying oatmeal while the littlest, Cole, enjoys his breastmilk breakfast. Ella begins to whine and grab her bottom, saying "Poopoo, Mommy, poopoo." I calmly tell her that I'll change her in just a minute when Cole is done nursing. Instead, she walks over to me, and as she does, poop--made quite stinky and very runny by the antibiotics-- is running down and out her pant leg. Yum. So I de-jammie another little one, soak her soiled britches in the sink, and proceed to give her a from-the-waist-down bath. Another load of laundry also awaits. Finally, freshly bathed and dressed, my children are off to school. It's just the littlest and me, but we're volunteering at the book fair at school today, so at lunch time, off we go. At the end of my shift, I'm talking to a good friend while her daughter picks out a few books. Just then, her daughter begins to cough, says "I don't feel good" and proceeds to throw up her Lunchable and CapriSun right. in. front. of. me. Awesome. As luck would have it, I didn't have to clean that one up. Thank God. I do NOT do well with vomit. The rest of my afternoon was fairly quiet. Until, that is, I was changing Cole's diaper, and he peed right over his head and right onto the moon lamp nightlight. And that, my friends, was my bodily fluid Wednesday.

It starts early

I love my husband. (Let me just start with that.) But there are days that he drives me crazy. You know, the little things that he can't seem to do for himself--we all know what I'm talking about. I often curse his mom (silently, of course) for babying him too much. Turns out it may not be her fault after all. It just may be an innate behavior, letting the ladies take on the lion's share of the work.

Allow me to illustrate. As we are leaving school the other day, I have all three in tow. I am carrying the newest in the infant seat. I pick up the oldest, who has a lunchbox, backpack, coat and an assortment of papers and art projects for me to peruse at my leisure (ha!). Ditto for the little girl. So I am holding my son's papers, the keys, my pick-up pass and the infant seat. He begins to insist that I take something for him: the lunchbox, the backpack, the coat, "anything," to use his word. I calmly explain that my hands are too full to accommodate any more of his crap, so he'll have to be a big boy and carry it all himself. I continue the trek to the van, happy that he is complying. I reach the van without any children at my side, and as I turn around, I see why. Owen is encouraging Ella, saying "Good job, sissy!" as she is carrying her lunchbox over one arm (much like a large purse), his lunchbox in that hand, his coat and hers slung over the other arm, and in that hand, his backpack, so large that it is dragging on the ground. If you're keeping track, that leaves Owen with NOTHING in his arms. And Ella complains not, just continues to trip along on her way to the car, happy to be helping her brother. And so it begins...

Mama of Three!

I should have posted sooner, but I am currently cuddling my very cute excuse for not doing so. My third and FINAL (God, are you reading this?) child entered the world on December 28, 2009. He arrived weighing 8 pounds, 7 ounces and 21 1/4 inches long. And I did say HE! With the exception of two people, this was a surprise to all. I, of course, have been saying all along that I felt it was a boy, so I found myself feeling not too surprised and very smug when the midwife announced "It's a boy!" My husband, on the other hand, was apparently caught quite off guard. According to my doula/birth photographer (amazing, by the way, and yes, I'll share her info if anyone is in need of a great person to coach and photograph their child's birth), the look on his face was one of complete shock. Wish we'd caught that on film. But anyhow, Cole Thomas is here, and I am now the very proud mommy of three. I'm currently still lucky enough to have my mom and dad on hand to help out, but I'm sure I will very shortly be on the verge of insanity. Stay tuned for my many misadventures in mothering three!