Day Dream and Night Terror

Day Dream: wakes up smiling, even when his sister has woken him up.

Night Terror:  Hits his wall and begins crying and rage babbling.

Day Dream: Eats solid foods for breakfast while laughing at his sister and Daddy.

Night Terror: stays asleep for a long stretch which starts at 6pm and ends when I'm juuuuuust fallllling asleeeeeeeeeeep.

Day Dream: plays independently in his playpen. Hits developmental milestones for gross motor.

Night Terror: "Is he STILL not sleeping through the night?" as if I have failed somehow even though my first born TOTALLY SLEPT.

Day Dream: Takes two solid naps a day. Can be put to bed awake and will play until he falls asleep.

Night Terror: 2:30 am. The moaning begins.

Day Dream: Can go to restaurants and loud shopping malls without incident. Smiles at older women, evoking sympathy and platitudes. "Enjoy him.  It goes so fast!"

Night Terror: 2:45. still crying. Daddy attempts to soothe.  JUST PISSES HIM OFF.

Day Dream: Feeds himself off his tray, sensually licking his fingers.  Is not picky like SOME PEOPLE I KNOW (Looking at you, husband and toddler). Avocados are allowed back into the house.

Night Terror: 3am. I go in. HE'S WICKED PISSED. WRITHES, SCREAMS, RIPS AT MY CLOTHES.

Day Dream: Laughs and plays while I read to his sister. Happy to observe her antics. Is forgiving of her when she loves him too fiercely.

Night Terror: Dying of starvation, he pulls at my shirt until I relent. 80th percentile baby is not actually needing to eat.  I hear the pediatrician's disappointed rebuke as I erase any sleep training with each let down.

Day Dream: Gives me open mouth kisses and squeals with delight as I sing to him and change him into his PJs.

Night Terror: Husband echos the pediatrician's mansplaining, that if only I were strong enough, I could sleep train this baby. But my feminine resolve is TOO WEAK.

Day Dream: Nurses and begins to drift into drowsiness. He complains a bit when I drop him off, but does not persist beyond when I shut the door.

Night Terror: Asleep in my arms, he does not want to let go.  Sweet, sweet baby, all he wants is me. His darling loneliness manipulates me into holding him just one more minute. I plop him down clumsily, drunk with sleep deprivation, and shuffle back to bed, flopping down on the mattress, willing myself to fall back into deep sleep because...

Only two more hours until the toddler wakes up...

Why I Wear Leggings as Pants

1.      I have no pants. 

All my pants seem to fit wrong.  Too big too small to low too high to much crotch too much leg.  They are never right. 

2.      No one lets me buy new pants

I just now tried to buy pants and I don’t know what it is about Nordstrom Rack, but my kids HATE the dressing rooms there and have had some epic crying jags.  This time it was the boy baby and I picked him up finally, thinking he was hungry but he just looked at me in the mirror and smiled so BIG as if to say, “Mom I love you just the way you are…in your ratty, decade-old underwear and nursing sleep bra.  I love your stress-sweat aroma and your fogged up glasses (from embarrassment).  We are bessssst friiiiiends. Never let me go.”

3.      Deep squats

All I do is bend down and pick things and people up.  I don’t need my butt slipping out.  I need something that works with me. 

4.      I could exercise at any moment

You never know.  It could happen now.  Or now.  Or now.  Or later.  Or never. 

5.      My life is casual

I’m not rushing into formal meetings.  I’m not teaching a seminar.  I’m wiping people’s body parts and going to kids’ music classes. 

6.     I can buy them online

Unlike real pants which require a dressing room debacle in order to determine that they don’t look good, leggings look pretty much the same on everyone.  Tight. 

7.      I can sleep in them

If I slept.

8.      One compound word:

Moisture-wicking.  For all the moist things that touch me with their moist little fingers and moist mouths. 

9.      Black is slimming.

So I’m told.  Or at least hides stains like when I lift the stroller into my car in the rain and hit myself in the leg with the muddy tire. 

10.   Shaddup I want to be comfy gaddammmmit.

I’m already holding a twenty pound lump of open mouth baby kisses in one hand and wiping a newly-potty trained toddler with the other while deep squatting and covered in mysterious moisture while sleep-deprived at a Nordstrom Rack.  I can AT LEAST be comfortable when I do it.  

Blow. Out.

The scene is the children's museum.

The toddler is happily playing in the water room.  It’s loud.  There’s a cacophony of splashes as simple machines and delighted children pour and squirt what I’m sure is the purest mountain drinking water. 

You have seven minutes left on your parking.

The baby, snug in the ergo, is looking around the room quizzically, his mouth slightly agape, drowsy from a nap upon your bosoms. 

A grandmother remarks how funny your toddler looks with a coffee cup drawn on her face and you explain that, at the face painting station, she did not want to be a “cat nose” as per usual, but insisted on a cup.

Then you feel it.

The reverberations.

From within the baby. 

And you remember that his last poop was last night. The ergo rumbles with yet another tiny but productive fart.

You try to encourage your toddler to leave the room. You bribe her with stamps. You implore her that her brother needs a diaper. She does not want to leave. Why would she?  What’s in it for ME, she seems to ask as she ignores you and moves onto a station that seems to be for racing rubber ducks. 

Finally, with a combination of bribery and flattery, you coax her out of the room, make her stand under the dryer for a minute, and then lead her, still mostly wet, to the stamp station, side stepping a toddler having a tantrum face down on the ground.  You smile at the frazzled mother and tell her, “Everyone lies on the floor at the children’s museum at some point.”  But really, you’re just hoping your toddler doesn’t choose this moment to join him. 

You make it to the stamp station.  Methodically she tattoos her arm with the fairy stamp and then, miraculously, allows you to take her hand and exit the museum. 

She, for the first time ever, crosses the parking lot while holding your hand and without complaint, and lets you buckle her into the car seat, all while the baby begins to feel the effects of his rumblings.  The sun blinds him and he begins to thrash in the ergo as you hand the toddler a book and get the spare clothes from your backpack. 

You have two minutes left on your parking.

And anyway, it is far too late. By the time you strip away the sweaty ergo you see the telltale orange stain. It has gone through the diaper, through the baby pants, through your sweatshirt, through your undershirt, and onto your skin.

The baby howls as you peel off his soaked pants and wriggle him out of his onesie.  Wipe at the ready, you remove the tape of the diaper. 

It is epic.  It is front to back. It is in every tiny baby fold. It completely coats his baby boy genitalia. 

Your “one and done” wipe is not enough.  Wipe after wipe you remove the watery milk poop from every nook and cranny.

“He’s crying.”  The toddler remarks.

“YEAH!” You yell over the yowl. 

“He not in his car seat.”  Bossy toddler remarks.

“I know.  I’m changing his diaper.”

“I’m in MY car seat!”  Just the facts. 

“You’re being very patient, thank you.”

“I spilled water on my bagina.”

“Ok…You can have clean clothes at home.”

Finally, the baby is clean enough.  He begins to wiggle happily, letting the cool autumn air dry his nether regions.  You fear for the fire hose and quickly diaper him and put on the fresh onesie. 

Baby goes into the car seat.

“He has a DUCK on his shirt.” She exclaims.

“Yeah he got a new shirt.”

“Fun at museum!”

“I’m glad.”

The Sequel

You know how sequels are just like the original but with MORE EXPLOSIONS and the same basic jokes and they’re usually more expensive but not better?  Yeah.  That’s how this pregnancy is…

Issue: morning sickness

Original: puked twice.  Roughly weeks 11 and 15.  Not a big deal.  Just vitamin.

Sequel: 6 weeks.  Puked more than ever in my life.  Took anti-nausea meds for 10 more weeks. Lost 10 lbs.  Most fun diet ever. 

Issue: heartburn

Original: had heartburn, whined.  Took drugs.  Went away.

Sequel: heartburn came on SO STRONG the minute I stopped being morning sick that I went to lie down and surprise threw up stomach acid.  Took drugs.  Went mostly away. 

NOTE: No more vomit in this post I promise. 

Issue: footies.

Original: See post about my plantar.

Sequel: Tuesday, Alice’s bday, I was carrying her down some stairs and, at the bottom, I just straight up stepped on the side of my foot and it went POP and I got a grade 2 sprain which I paid a $15 copay to hear after Dr. Google told me that’s what I had.  I walk like a Walking Dead extra, but it is healing. 

Issue: old lady hip pain

Original: started at week 39.  SUCKED.

Sequel: started at week 20.  Went to get a massage and the lady was like, “what is wrong with your hips?!”  So basically I get more massages?

Issue: Pregnancy glow

Original: Glow = sweat.  Starting in January, I carried ice water everywhere and wore only undies at home.

Sequel: whose idea was it to have a baby in JULY.  Mine?  Right.  That was dumb.  I’m gonna be so sweaty, you guys.  And new babies are SO HOT and make me sweaty.  And hormones.  Gonna be steamy, people. 

Issue: resulting baby

Original: Booberry is the bestest little crazy toddler I could have ever asked for…she says while lying exhausted and elevating her foot caused by carrying said toddler while she washes her jacket that Boo threw into the toilet at the OB this morning. 

Sequel: this kid is gonna be like the Aliens of second children: more exciting, scarier, higher production value, and more catchphrases.  But he better exit the normal way not like…

Prenatal Yoga

            I hate yoga.  Why?  I dunno.  I don’t breathe right.  And I don’t like paying money to lie about on the floor and feel unflexible.  Inflexible?  NOT FLEXIBLE!  And I don’t like hippie bullshit.  Except recycling.  That’s not bullshit.  And coconut oil.  That’s just delicious.  And fresh eggs. 

            But I like prenatal yoga.  Mostly…mostly…

            At 7pm, I heeded the Doctor’s words. “Run.  As fast as you can.  Get out of here.”  Booberry was crying and snotting everywhere and we don’t know why.  He put her in the bath and she was TOTALLY FINE so I snuck out with my yoga mat, which has been unused since last pregnancy, wearing a hand-me-down maternity t-shirt that says “I love you already.” I figure prenatal yoga is the only place I can respectably wear that.  

  

            I walked into Om Base, which, yes, is a witty name for a yoga place and I like witty names for things (the best food cart name is “Fried Egg I’m in Love”) and was immediately chastised to take my shoes off before crossing the threshold into yoga land.  After I, barefoot, padded up to the desk and paid the price of four delicious lattes (or two quesadillas) (or half a pedicure) for yoga, I chatted with the other moms until it was time to enter the sanctuary or whatever the crap you call the yoga place and find a good spot. 

            The room was warm and balmy from whatever crazy class was happening right before mine and the preggos complained about the heat. It was quickly remedied because no one likes an overheated preggo.  Once everyone was settled, the teacher, who spoke with a very pronounced vocal fry, told us it was time to share. 

            Everyone shared how far along they were and if it was their first and what is going well and what wasn’t.  It was a diverse group.  Ok sure three people were 27 weeks and I think everyone was white, middle class, 30 something women (duh, women).  But some people were…more bumpin’ than others. Yoga really brings you together because you realize how alike all of mankind (in this yoga class) really is.  

I was glad that I got to share last.  I think I forgot to mention how many weeks I was or anything about Smudge (new fetus’ fake name) but I did mention that I have a “passionate” toddler and that first trimester sucked and that I have a sinus thing and that my sciatica is already bothering me and that I feel big already and that I’m bad at being preggo.  People offered advice about chiropractors and elderberry syrup and then we got to yogaing. 

            The significant difference between regular and prenatal yoga is that prenatal yoga is MUCH more low pressure.  In regular yoga you’re supposed to get better and more flexible as you go along, but in prenatal, you just get worse and worse until all you can do is Shavasana (after three failed attempts at spelling that, I googled “when you lie there at the end of yoga.”  Bingo).  Anything you do is considered an amazing physical feat and if you don’t wanna do something you just “listen to your body” and do something easier. 

            After a triangle pose and some clam legs and lots of downward dogs, we made it to some gentle hip stretches against the wall and transitioned right into the sweetest of yoga poses, Shavasana, “when you lie there at the end of yoga” and try not to fall into a deep and impenetrable sleep (or fart or cough).  The teacher offered to rub lavender oil on us and I politely declined (so allergic—later story) and tried not to hack up a lung from my sinus issue/lavender allergy/lying on an incline.  Then we sat up and put a hand on our heart and a hand on our baby (oh you, forgot about you, second child) and did a little blessing.

            And then it was over.  Class was supposed to end at 8:45 but, with all the sharing, it was now 9:15 and the Doctor had sent me a concerned text, wondering if I’d run off to join an all women commune or something.  After jealously quizzing my friend on her car (so many seats!) and driving home, I began to wonder, was it worth it?  What did I get out of yoga today?

            I don’t know.  I mean my hip hurts less, which is COOL, and I spent an hour relaxing.  An hour of relaxation that was probably completely marred by the night terror Booberry had two hours later.  She thought her pacifier was in her tummy and was thrashing around completely crazed and inconsolable for a good twenty minutes.  She might be confused about where babies come from…we can work on that later.  And I maybe started to notice this thingy that lives inside of me as more than just a parasite who is in collusion with its sister to kill me through sleep and food deprivation.  And I maybe decided I need a vehicle with three rows.  And I got to wear my cheesy maternity shirt. 

            Smudge, I love you already.  Let’s Shavasana again sometime.  

What I did Today when Booberry Was at Daycare for Four Hours

Well it finally happened!  She’s all grown up and off to school.  Well, daycare.  Well, part time daycare.  Today was her first day at the daycare I lovingly chose for her after hours and hours of research (NOTE: all research conducted by my neighbor who sent her daughter there for six months before I finally pulled the trigger since she brought home lots of cute art and never got a concussion).  I did not start teaching today but wanted to start her at the beginning of the month and week, so today was my TCB (taking care of business) day and also a buffer in case they call me to tell me she’s fear puking everywhere (IT COULD HAPPEN! It did at her 18 month appointment when they tried to measure her height).

            How I thought it would go down: Booberry sobbing and reaching for me as I abandon her in the arms of a stranger and spend four hours weeping in bed.

            How it went down: We show up right as the kids are headed out to the playground and Neighbor Toddler greets Boo.  I ask Booberry if she wants to go play on the slide and she nods, goes into the playground area, and begins playing.

That’s it.  No crisis.  No tears…from her. I cried in the car as I drove away.  SHE’S FINE!  I warned the teacher about her passionate embraces (hugs and hair pulling) and it’s been four hours and they haven’t called to expel her.  I have to go get her soon.  So here’s what I did while she was gone that I would not otherwise have done:

1.       Went to the MUTHAFOOKIN GYM WOOHOO! I asked the guy at the front desk if I should get a membership and he’s all, “Well it’s worth it if you come more than twice a week.  How often do you come now?” and I’m allllll, “LIIIIIIKE never but I’ll try to come at least twice a week.” And he smiled at me because I’m sure that’s what they all say. 

2.      Took a shower.  Yes, I do this even when Boo is at home, but this time I did it right when I got home and not several hours later when the sweat is good and dried. 

3.      Used my blender!  Booberry’s list of “not afraid of that” includes dogs, heights, cars, stairs, older children, and being injured.  Her list of “FUCK NO! SCARY!” includes the ball machine at the Children’s Museum, being measured by the nurse at the doctor’s office, me going to the bathroom without her, and the blender.  TODAY I made a GREEN smoothie and it wasn’t gross and therefore I…

4.       Ate a VEGETABLE.

5.      Ate lunch.  Yes. Lunch.  Not a bite of mac and cheese to test coolness and leftover crackers found in my car.  LUNCH.  WARM lunch.  And I ate it as soon as I was done cooking it and was very quiet while eating it and…

6.      Got to go on my phone and watch videos with the sound ON.

7.      Went grocery shopping at midday on a weekday.  And I got to go at my pace, slowly, reading the ingredients and prices of things, not just randomly throwing crackers into the cart while trying to keep Booberry from noticing the pile of pouches while leaving a trail of discarded cheerios in my wake. 

8.      Texted the Doctor a million times asking him his opinion on if she’s still alive and if she ate and if she napped and if she’s scarred for life and that I miss her and that I only have one hour left of freedom.

9.      Sat here and blogged and it’s 3pm and I’m not at the Children’s Museum (though I do love that place).

10.  Cried intermittently for four hours because I miss her and she’s SOOOOO BIIIIIIIIIG.

Shit.  I’m almost out of time.  I should get some actual work done.  (checks facebook)

The First Day that Wasn't

Today Booberry was supposed to have her First Day of School (daycare).  But she didn’t.

I used to teach all day errrrrry day and make no money but my time was mine. 

I did the math.  If I worked full time now and put Boo in full time day care…at the end of the year…I’d bring home…$6,000.  Woo.  Granted I’m not the only income…but for the sake of math we don’t count Doctor. 

Now I teach after school classes.  Only one class an afternoon.  But paying a sitter for the time I’m there and the time I’m rushing to and from there was getting difficult.  So she was to start part time day care.

But my class got cancelled today.  I’ll teach another day, sure, but this one hit me hard. 

She was dressed.  We’d taken pictures just like every other parent on facebook.  And it was cancelled.

I can barely justify spending $35 on an afternoon of daycare in which time I only make $25 (BEFORE taxes).  I can not justify spending $35 on an afternoon in which I have nothing to do.  So she will start daycare another day.  The amazing daycare is cool with it. 

I was not cool with it.

So I watched Wild and ate ice cream while Booberry napped in her own bed.

Why did I watch that movie?  It contains (SPOILER ALERT):

-          Dead horse

-          Dead mom

-          Hiking.

I hate all those things.  But it did contain:

-          Oregon

-          Feeling sorry for yourself.

I always like Oregon and, today, I liked feeling sorry for myself, too.

You may be thinking, why are you feeling sorry for yourself? You can stay home with super cute and funny Booberry and not be destitute and also watch tv and eat ice cream in the middle of day in your sweats.

But I wanted to go out and do something that looks good on paper and is also fun and requires real pants.  I know, I know, I hate real pants.  But I like being able to tell people I DO something besides sing the Elmo Song while I change diapers.  Granted, the something I do when I’m working is sing “Do Re Mi” and pretend to be flowers and stuff.  But they PAY me, so it’s WORK. 

I know, I know, I’m tutoring tonight and have a class to teach on Friday and start my next term of my Saturday gig on this Saturday.  I have WORK.

It’s just the first day of school.  Earlier today, I was crying about taking her.  I was crying picturing her crying as I left her there. I was crying picturing her not crying at all when I left her there.  I was crying imagining them telling me she can’t come back after the first day because she pulled everyone’s hair (could happen).  I wanted her to have a little school. 

And I miss my own first days of school.  I always wore blue because my mom told me blue made a good, neutral first impression.  I was always nervous.  I always knew which kids were going to be awful and I never knew which ones would be perfect because you don’t usually notice those on the first day.  I was always sweaty and uncomfortable and exhausted. 

This is better.  Little Booberry hugs are better.  Sweat pants are better…ice cream isn’t the worst.    She’ll have her real first day soon.  She didn’t know what she was missing today.  And then she’ll go to kindergarden someday and I’ll LOSE MY SHIT.  I’ll miss days like this.  

It’s beautiful outside. 

Maybe we will even go for a little hike this afternoon.  Stupid hiking.