Author Archives: powerskirstin

A post a day in May?

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Sounds catchy, right? So let’s try it. What have I got to lose? Even if I don’t make the every day goal, my renewed effort has got to result in something far better than one lousy post in all of April. 

And, since I’ve boldly gone and put it out here, I’ll now have to be accountable. Oh, the pressure! I can’t promise what I have to say will be anything of value, but the writing practice is slipping big time, and that makes me feel sad. Not my best self.

So, stay tuned for more in the coming days!

P.S. I’d give more of an effort tonight, but we’ve just returned from a weekend in Woodstock, NY visiting family. And, I’ve got a just-turned three-year-old asleep on my belly. It’s time to close my eyes, rest my travel-weary self, listen to the rhythmic breathing of a peaceful—finally!—child, and count my blessings.

Weaning Frances

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After nearly three years—1,074 days, to be exact—my middle gal is no longer nursing. I wasn’t sure it was going to happen. There were times I wondered if she’d be going into kindergarten in two years still nursing and wearing diapers. At least now I only have to concern myself with potty training—a feat I’m not looking forward to on account of the fact that girlfriend in TERRIFIED of sitting on the toilet. Always has been.

Anyway, two weeks ago I had to drive back to Pennsylvania for my sister’s last-minute wedding. Since we had just been back for Easter weekend, I didn’t really want to make a second quick trip with ALL of the kids in tow. I thought I’d just take Rowan with me and have Liam stay behind with the girls. It seemed like the perfect opportunity to wean.

Up until that point, Frances had only been nursing one time before bed each evening. It was something she VERY much looked forward to. Often, she tried to tell me she was ready for bed at 7:30, even though she’d napped and likely wouldn’t be ready to fall asleep before 9. Most times I indulged her, because the look about her was pure joy—bright smile, wide eyes, excited limbs.

We’d go upstairs to nurse in bed, she’d do her thing, and then she’d proclaim in the most awake voice, “I’m not ready for bed, mama. I wanna go back downstairs.”  Uh-huh. Just as I suspected. A fake-out just to get her nursing on.

When I contemplated weaning, I wavered back and forth about whether or not it was time. She’s only doing it once a day. That’s not so bad. I mean, I could keep going. She loves it so much. And it’s still such an important connecting time for us given she’s such an attached and emotionally needy child, not to mention the continued health benefits.

But then, there’d be an evening when she wouldn’t fall asleep nursing. And I’d have to unlatch and disconnect her because I was done nursing. Then she would whine and yell and have her little tantrum, and I’d be all: OK. We need to be done. Like, yesterday.

The decision was made. I needed to be resolute. I talked to Frances the entire week before I left for PA. I explained what was going to happen when I went away and then after. She definitely understood. Some days she seemed to share in my excitement about her becoming a ‘big girl’; other days she went into Cranky Franky mode and exclaimed she was still a baby, and was NOT going to give up nursing, ever again.

I was a little emotional the night before my trip—the last night Frances nursed. She and I had been connected in this relationship for so long. However, any sadness I felt was NOTHING compared to the grief I felt when I nursed Nora for the last time at 20 months of age—a sure sign I wasn’t truly ready. However, I’d been four-and-a-half months pregnant with Frances and nursing was painful. I also hadn’t had the benefit of watching a fellow mama nurse throughout her pregnancy and then tandem breastfeed both her infant and toddler like I did when I was expecting Frances and had Candace (our old babysitter) in our lives. Had I an opportunity to do it all over again, I would have suffered through the pain to get to the other side.

Frances did great the weekend I was away. She didn’t ask to nurse once. (I’m assuming it’s because she knew there was no supply available from her father, despite the fact that he’s jokingly offered to nurse her many times in my place over the years. She never once took him up on his offer. Wise girl, that Frances). Liam did mention, however, that she was very clingy and wanted to be held the whole weekend. Likewise, I did fine in Pennsylvania. I had no residual sadness. Only fond memories. And relief, I might add, to just be nursing one child instead of two.

Since I’ve been back—almost two weeks now—Frances still has not asked to nurse or mentioned one time anything about our past experiences breastfeeding. She is very clingy and whiny though. More so than usual. And a little extra cranky, especially around bedtime. Now that we don’t have that special nighttime routine, she has small fits with me when I’m the one to put her to bed. She insists on lying on top of me in order to fall asleep. When Liam does bedtime, things go better for him. I imagine it will take some time for Frances to settle emotionally, even though she’s not vocalizing what she’s working through. I’m trying to be patient and extra sensitive—giving lots of hugs and cuddle time. I know this is what she needs, and not a neck-wringing like I’d sometimes like to do when the whining and tantrumming push me to a breaking point.

Our middle gal will be three in eight days. The last birthday of our birthday season. She may not be ready for little girl undies any time soon, but she reached her weaning milestone no problem. Go, you big brave girl, go!

 

 

And so it begins: dabbling in untruths.

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This past Tuesday I took a much needed family sick day to be home with the kids. They all came down with colds and fevers which turned into coughs that have been lingering for over a week. We enjoyed a lazy morning together, reading books and watching episodes of Daniel Tiger and Wishenpoof—the kids’ latest discovery on Amazon Prime. I admit—regrettably— that my oldest knows her way around the three-remote control streaming system far better than I do. She’s a very capable child. Which is why, at nap time, I decided she could play by herself downstairs while the baby, toddler, and I attempted to get some rest.

After I had gotten the little two to fall asleep, I drifted off for a spell. I was awakened by a loud crash from downstairs. I picked my head up off the pillow and strained to listen for more noise. I heard none. Was this a good sign or a bad sign? I was tempted to fall back to sleep, dazed as I was, trusting that all was okay.

Instead, my parenting judgment got the best of me, and I grumpily padded down the stairs to see what the ruckus had been. I found my oldest girl singing quietly to herself in the kitchen, crouched down, and hunched over the snack basket, which usually resides on the top of the fridge. I made little noise, and so she hadn’t yet spotted me from my position in the doorway. She was too busy rustling through the bags of chips, pretzels, goldfish, veggie sticks, and who knows what else.

I quietly observed that one of the little pink wooden chairs from the art table in the living room had been pushed against the side of the refrigerator. I didn’t need a detective to tell me that she had carried the chair there and placed it just so to try and reach the basket on top of the fridge.

Still, even standing at her full height on the chair, she wouldn’t have been able to reach the basket. She must have used some kind of stick-like object, or at least gotten hold of one of the basket strings, to push or pull the basket from its resting place.

Without trying to startle her too badly, I said, “Nora, honey. What are you doing?”

Once she recovered from the intrusion, she said—without missing a beat—“I was just trying to reach a magnet on the top of the fridge, and then this whole basket came falling down.”

Right, I thought. That’s exactly what you were doing.

I couldn’t even call her out on the blatant lie. I was trying too hard to keep myself from laughing about the whole situation. Like I said, she’s a very capable child.

So, I helped her to open a snack bag, gave her a handful of veggie sticks, and then attempted to go back to sleep.

Of course, the baby woke up five minutes later.

 

 

Back to school, back to school. To prove to Dad that I’m not a fool.

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If you get the title reference, you are either an Adam Sandler fan, or you were a college-ish-age kid—like me—circa 1996-1997. At least that’s when I remember binge-watching all of those silly flicks.

Anyway, the point is: I am starting a new job. Tomorrow. What?!

That’s right. Sometime over the past month and a half I managed to get my resume out to some schools, land an interview, and secure a full time job teaching ESL to grades 3-5 at a local elementary school (very similar to my last teaching job in PA).

I have mixed feelings about it all. I’m looking forward to having some more time to myself—like enjoying the fifteen minute ride between work and home to listen once again to NPR. Or just the sound of silence. I’m also looking forward to making some connections with other adults. And, can’t say I’m troubled by the fact that we’ll once again be a two-income family.

However, leaving behind my three little buddies will be very hard. I feel like maybe—just maybe—I finally got the hang of this stay-at-home mom thing. Sure, those little nuts drive me bonkers every day. But I’ve been in a real place of peace with them lately. And I’ll miss our weekly trips to the library, the beach playground, and the seaport in Mystic. I will NOT, however, miss the grocery trips with all of them in tow.

I’ll rest easy, though, because we’ve found someone AMAZING—again, with the help of the Internet—to care for the kids. We’re batting four for four here with our sitter success stories. We’ve hung out with our new friend a handful of times already, and even my clingiest Frances approves. In fact, Nora today told me that she just wants me to go back to work already so she can get on with the business of hanging out with the sitter. Ha!

At least I know we’ve chosen well. Wish me luck this week!

 

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My three littles at the local St. Patrick’s Day parade this afternoon. They are all tired and sunny-eyed!

 

Kids playing at trickery. And failing hilariously.

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Liam has been trying to teach the girls some jokes lately. I think Nora kind of gets the humor, but not really. She has a good memory, though, so she’s able to retell them flawlessly. Frances, on the other hand, has just about no clue, but realizes I will laugh at whatever she says regardless, so she just throws it all on the table. 

From earlier today…

Nora: “Mom. Wanna hear a joke?”

Me: “Sure do!”

Nora: “Where did the pencil go on vacation?”

Me: “I don’t know. Where?”

Nora: “Pencil-vania!”

Me: “Hahahaha! That’s a good one!”

Frances: (not to be outdone-ever) “I’ve got a joke.”

Me: “OK. Let’s hear it.”

Frances: (looks at ground for inspiration and—apparently—finds it) “Where did the dirt go on vacation?”

Me: (looks at Nora and winks because recognizes this is going nowhere fast) “I don’t know. Where?”

Frances: “To Pennsylvania! And Mr. Dirt was driving!”

Me: (erupts into genuine laughter)

The fact that she felt the need to add that last bit about Mr. Dirt driving is hysterical. Just brilliant.

Then later, trying on the knock-knock joke for size.

Frances: “Mama—knock-knock.”

Me: “Who’s there?”

Frances: “Don’t worry. Papa Bear is here to give you a hug.”

Me: Okaaaay. “Hahahaha!”

Frances: (smiles proudly)

I wasn’t worried. But perhaps I should be!

                   ————-

We’ve gotten into a routine of doing a nightly talent show after dinner, thanks to my sister-in-law, Clare. She had the kids and their cousins performing in the living room a few weeks ago and it just stuck.

Usually, the kids choose to dance or sing. Liam, however, has been performing rusty magic tricks for the kids (think marble behind the ear type stuff). 

Tonight Nora decided to perform a trick. She vanished into the playroom for a time and then reappeared wearing a red Melissa and Doug dress up fire hat. Also, she had a metal play kitchen ladle that was doubling as a wand.

She told us she was going to make some magic things come out of her hat. Only—the second she removed the red plastic hat from her head, everything she planned on making magically appear fell out onto the carpet. 

The next few seconds were priceless. She was embarrassed and humiliated—at least asuch as any near five-year-old might be. She wasn’t sure how to proceed, or even if she could still perform, having given away her trick. Liam and I were dying trying to control our hysterics. Dying.

Luckily Liam jumped right in saying, “We didn’t see anything. Quick! Start over! Start over!”

Gratefully, Nora settled her shaking lip, took the bait to save face, and shoved everything back inside the hat. Meanwhile, we were still trying so hard to keep a straight face.

Then she said: “For my first trick, I am going to pull a robe out of my hat. Abracadabra!”

We oohed and ahhed for effect.

However, as she was struggling to apparently separate the clothing she’d shoved inside the hat, Nora pulled out the wrong item. “Oops!” she muttered aloud, looking up to see if we’d noticed. We played it off like we hadn’t. Again—dying!

She recovered nicely and pulled out the robe. We erupted into applause and oohed and ahhed some more. She then proceeded to pull out all the correct clothing—thanks be—and ended with a bow.

When she left to return her ‘props ‘ to the playroom, Liam and I finally allowed ourselves the freedom to crack up. What a moment. A talent show performance for the ages, really. I only wish we had thought to get it on video.

These kids playing at being older than they actually are—it’s just so dang FUNNY.

Talent show performance circa last week.

How dressing and diapering my son is akin to wrestling with and roping a wild hog.

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Why does my child HATE having his clothing and diaper changed? 

For a little guy who’s super peaceful and pleasant much of the time, the frequent changes—filled with fitful movement, and at times, rage—bring out a very different side of his little personhood.

I suppose it doesn’t help that we’ve developed a habit of playing a game of chase on all of the beds—the sites of many a changing—whereupon the moment he’s placed on the bed, Rowan takes off crawling in the opposite direction with a playful, devilish look in his eye, avoiding capture as much as possible.

It’s all fun and games when Mommy’s yelling: “I’m gonna get you!” 

Except for when it’s not. 

Like when it’s diaper-changing time. Or PJ-putting-on time. Then it’s a real drag to be chasing down a wriggly worm. Trying to hold him in place to fasten sticky tabs, making sure excrement doesn’t get flung to the far corners of the room, and trying to button at least one of the three snaps on any given onesie.

Tonight, when I brought the little dude upstairs, he lunged out of my arms once he spotted the bed, fully aware of the fun he imagined was soon to be had. I don’t suppose it’s worth mentioning I nearly dropped him on his head in the process.

Then, as predicted, he took off like a shot to the middle of the mattress, just out of reach. I played a few obligatory rounds of “I’m gonna get you!” And then I tried to rein him in.

“Come here,” I said sternly. The boy just smiled, like I was some kind of clown, and proceeded to do downward dog type roly-poly flippy-dos on the bed covers. 

Once I wrangled him in and managed to get his daytime clothes off, I held him firmly in place to change his diaper. He wriggled this way and that—made worse by his tired state—and eluded my hold. 

I grabbed hold of his feet with one hand and the diaper with the other, and placed it just so, under his bottom. When I went to fasten the straps, Rowan pushed down hard with his feet on the bed, shifting his body backward and causing the diaper to fall out of alignment. This happened no less than five times, at which point I nearly called in the hubs to offer reinforcement. 

Usually, during times such as these, I can be heard muttering aloud through gritted teeth my oft-quoted phrase: “What are you doing? This is not rocket science!”

I mean, man-child has been having his diaper changed since the dawn of time. Or at the very least, since the dawn of—well, diapers.

I finally applied enough pressure to hold the child in place (I may have used forearms, elbows and knees), and the diaper was on. That left the jammies. Which was like trying to shove a bunch of crumbled up sausage back inside the casing. No easy task. Needless to say, I was sweating when all was said and done. And to think, this is a multi-daily ritual. 

The boy just cannot be bothered to deal with trivial matters such as these. He has lots of busy and wild work that needs doing.

If anyone has any advice to make diaper-changing less like a rodeo event and more like the docile chore it should be, I’m all ears. Please post your success stories in the comments.

Oh, and just a heads up: distraction with a toy? It’s a nice suggestion. Really. But…it doesn’t work. Rowan usually drops objects straightaway or chucks them someplace hard just so he can focus on the task of resuming the struggle, as usual. 

Who would’ve thought wrestling skills would come in handy with a near one-year-old? Not this mom!

Heard around the house: a tattling and whining edition.

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As I predicted, the magic from Monday disappeared sometime in the middle of the night. In its place, normalcy has returned. And so, as promised, here is a post about tattling and whining. I’ve decided to keep a running record throughout the day of all the tells made to Mommy. 

Shall we begin?

7:45 a.m.

Frances: “Nora took the smoothie that has the blue straw. And blue’s my favorite color!”

Nora: “Fine. Here. Take it.”

Frances: “No. I want the red straw.”

This is typical fickle Frances. Such a pain in the arse.

8:30 a.m.

Nora: “Mama! I want to color and Frances is sitting in my seat!”

Frances: “No I’m not!” (She was.)

Me: “Well, Nora. Did you ask her kindly to move?”

My go-to tattling response is to ask the girls to first try to work it out themselves. Unfortunately, when one of the players is a stubborn, grouchy two-year-old, this doesn’t always work.

10:50 a.m.

Frances: (comes running into kitchen) “Mommy, Mommy! Nora not wearing her socks, so I’m not going to either!”

Nora: “Yes I am, Frances. (Takes off boot). See?”

Frances: (grumpily) “Then I’m gonna wear ’em too.”

Fine. Problem solved.

10:55 a.m. 

Nora: “Mama, Frances said she’s going to beat me into the car, but I told her it’s not a race.”

Frances: “Yes it is a race, Nora!”

Nora: “Mommy!”

Me: (says nothing, but thinks about running away to Mexico)

Sometimes silence is golden. And sometimes not. Sometimes ignoring the tattling just brings on more whining and arguing.

11:00 a.m.-2:00 p.m.

No tattling or whining! We went to the park for an hour and enjoyed playing in the sunshine, followed by lunch at home and some reading of library books (read: the key to halting tattling—keeping kids engaged; sadly, this is not always possible).

2:05 p.m.

Frances: “Mommy. Nora had a date and I didn’t have one.”

Me: “That’s because Nora finished her carrot.”

Frances: “I not gonna eat my carrot. Ever!”

Me: “OK.”

Frances: “And I’m gonna knock these letters off the fridge.” (Proceeds to knock magnetic letters of fridge and onto floor.)

Nora: “Mama! Frances just threw the letters onto the floor!”

As if I hadn’t just witnessed the spectacle for myself and needed the play-by-play. So annoying!

4:30 p.m. 

Nora: “Mom. I was building a tower and then Frances wrecked it. And she did it on purpose. And I told her not to, and then she hit me!”

Me: “Frances, we don’t hit.” 

Incidentally, if I had a dime for all the times I’ve said these words to this child, I’d have enough dough to buy a week’s worth of groceries. Clearly, something is not working. 

Frances’s consequence in these situations is to be left alone. I want her to see that if she behaves in this way, she won’t have any friends. Time out doesn’t work for her and I won’t hit her myself, much as I’m tempted to. Only the leaving her alone doesn’t work all the time either, as the little sprite will often try to follow us around the house into different rooms as we try and make our point. What’s a mother to do, I ask?

6:30 p.m. (Getting ready for bed)

Frances: “Mommy, Nora’s not sleeping on the dust pillow!”

Oh, for heaven’s sake!

Nora’s been having difficulty hearing due to fluid buildup in her ears. The doctors suspect allergies, so before they recommend tubes, they want us to try to alleviate Nora’s symptoms by using hypoallergenic bedding. So, she’s supposed to sleep on one of two blue pillows that have dust-proof covers. Although they are meant to keep dust away, the girls have dubbed them dust pillows, and Frances is always eager to point out when Nora is not sleeping on hers.

For the love!

So, if anyone has any advice for dealing with these annoying behaviors, I’d love to hear it. I know that tiredness, boredom, too much time spent together, and sibling rivalry contribute to the tattling/whining mess, not to mention the girls’ sense of justice and fairness, mixed with a two-year-old’s limitations. 

But I wonder: Am I overinvolved? Not involved enough? Saying or doing the right things? 

Hopefully it’s all just a phase, and once the younger gets older, it’ll all stop. Or at least, lessen. If not, I feel  for the future teachers and peers of these two, not to mention their parents!

If it keeps up much longer I fear I’ll be calling out soon for my own MOMMY! to save me from it all! 😉

A magical Monday.

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For some reason—maybe because it’s the day after the hustle and bustle of the weekend, or because two parents for two days is just too much—the girls seem to really delight in each other’s company on Mondays.

Today was no different. The girls woke up happy. They ate a great breakfast and proceeded to play well together all morning. It was amazing.

Instead of bickering, I heard snippets like: “Hey Nora. I have a great idea! Let’s play dollhouse. You can be all the girls and I’ll be all the boys!”

And then later: “Frances. Do you want to go upstairs and have a picnic in the crack?” (We have two beds pushed together in one room, and the girls love to wedge their feet in between them both in order to push them apart.) Playing in the crack is a real treat. Fishing wooden play food out from under the sheets at bedtime, or waking up with a felt mushroom under your shirt is not.

There was no whining. No hitting. No tattling. No screaming. It was so refreshing. We even enjoyed a pre-lunch walk to the beach since it was such a sunny, mild day.

In fact, things were going so well, I let Frances skip her nap. This way, I didn’t have to necessarily be an afternoon playmate for Nora. Instead, I got to read for fun and whip up a yummy and nutritious dinner.

To top off this day of great luck, the girls played for over an hour outside before Liam got home, digging in the dirt and making a ‘nest’ full of bush berries, grass, stones, and shells.

Can I get a celebratory whoop-whoop for all the peace we enjoyed today?

Tomorrow, I’m sure the girls will have tired of one another. Probably they’ll wake up grumpy and the first thing I’ll hear from Nora after breakfast will be: “Mom! I was just coloring and I asked Frances if I could help her and she hit me!”

And Frances will counter: “No I didn’t! And I’m not gonna color ever again. And I’m walking away. Because you are not kind.”

Or something along those lines. But that’s OK. Because today’s harmony will help see us through to another Magical Monday.

 

The kids among their driftwood forest.

 

Gluten-free seed bread!

 

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Happily crafting a nest for the birds.

Lent is for fasting from gluten, writing, doing the laundry, and parenting at the top of my game, which—let’s face it—was never really tops to begin with.

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It’s been A MONTH since I last posted. What?! How can this be?

I wish I could say it’s because I’ve been killing it at this parenting thing. You know—forgoing all else but the kids and putting their needs first.

But no. Sadly, this has not been the case. Take for example, the following scene from the living room last week, and you will have some sense of where my head has been lately:

The girls and I were sitting on the couch happily enjoying some screen time. Rowan was crawling about on the floor, playing with some toys. I was utterly absorbed by the content I was consuming on my iPhone, when Nora—disturbed by some movement in her peripheral vision—interrupted the melodious chorus of one of Daniel Tiger’s well meaning life lessons, and announced rather suddenly, “Mama! Look at Rowan! He moved the fireplace screen and he’s playing in the ashes!”

And here’s how I’m POSITIVE I haven’t been killing it as a mom. My first reaction was to say, “Nora! Go get him!” Followed soon after by the thought: Nora, how could you let this happen? (She’s been doing some minor minding of the baby occasionally).

As if my very mature and responsible almost five-year-old was to blame for my lack of watchful patenting. Ashamed at my reactions, I quickly got up, cleaned up my son, and shelved the phone for a long, long time thereafter. Like, at least thirty minutes.

Besides my parenting skills, writing has also taken a back seat, apparently. As well as laundry, cleaning, organizing, and laundry. Wait, did I already mention laundry? It’s piling up in mounds—both clean and unclean—around the house. The kids haven’t worn laundered or matching socks in days and days.

So if I am failing at all of this, to what have I been giving attention?

Me!

About time, right?

Part of the reason I’ve been away for so long has to do with some minor health issues I started having soon after we moved to Connecticut. In early December, after we’d been living in our new place for a little over a month, I started feeling nauseous off and on every few days. Of course, like you, I suspected I might have become ill with child. Thankfully, that was not the case.

Dizziness followed as well as frequent migraines. Then came some minor indigestion. What was going on? All of a sudden, relatively healthy me seemed to be in some kind of distress.

I went to the doctor and had some blood work done. The results came back normal. A return visit to the same doctor ended with him concluding I had IBS caused by the stress of the move and being home with three kids. He gave me two medicines he claimed were safe for breastfeeding. He seemed to discount my symptoms of nausea and migraines, while completely inventing others (One of the meds was for reflux, which I told him really wasn’t bothering me, after which he asked, “Is it worse at night?” Hello?? Did you not just hear me say that it really isn’t an issue?).

And so, I left feeling very discouraged. I figured I might try at least one of the meds because I was tired of not feeling well. I had already planned on NOT taking the med for reflux, you know, since I really didn’t have it. I googled the other drug just to make sure it was safe for breastfeeding, and of course, it wasn’t. I can’t say that I was really that surprised given that lame excuse for a doctor’s visit.

In near despair, I started scouring the Internet for resources to help myself while also trying to find alternative doctors.

I ended up putting myself on an elimination diet because I really felt like I had suddenly developed some food intolerances as a result of whatever was happening inside my body, and I wanted to see if I could pinpoint what was causing my distress.

I also found a superdoctor. She is an M.D. with a Ph.D. in Natural Medicine and a Master’s in Mental Health Counseling. What?! She’s perfect for me. And, I love her. I can’t believe it’s taken me almost thirty-eight years to fine her, but now I have. I will never leave her.

We’ve only met twice, for an hour each time. But she listened to me. With really good ears. She told me to continue my elimination diet and be aware of symptoms when reintroducing foods. Also, she put me on a pretty beefy vitamin and supplement regimen. 

Her conclusion, which I happen to value so much more than the guy with just the one M.D., was that stress, combined with an uptake in caffeine consumption along with lots of processed, sugary foods (hey, it was the holidays!), combined with lack of sleep (tandem nursing two at night), combined with malnutrition (not only was I eating crap food, I wasn’t taking any vitamins), led to adrenal fatigue and overall havoc on my systems.

Sadly, I’ve had to cut coffee out of the daily routine. It’s the thing I miss most. I’m also gluten-free, sugar-free, and mostly dairy-free at the moment. 

And…I feel great. I have tons of energy and almost all of my bothersome symptoms are gone. No more headaches, nausea, dizziness. Nada. And I’ve lost about ten pounds. Not that I needed to or was trying to. But still. With summer almost around the corner…

Want to know the side effect I didn’t expect? My stress and anxiety levels are SO. MUCH. LOWER. Crazy how food can be both culprit and cure.

So when evening rolls around these days and I wonder about whether I should write on the blog, I’m like, “Eh. I’d so much rather read a book. Or take a bath. Or just go to bed.” 

So, I’ve been taking care of me. And reading lots of recipe sites for nutritious and yummy food I can eat (which is why I missed the whole seeing the kid in the fireplace thing). 

My bottom line here: if you are someone who is struggling with any kind of chronic anything, get thee to a naturopath! Immediately. You won’t regret it.

Coming soon: How to get your kids to stop tattling. (I’m not going to tell you. Rather, I’ll be solicitating advice. So thanks in advance.)

Everyone told me so.

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A year or so ago, two of Liam’s buddies came to Pennsylvania for a weekend in the summer to play some golf. Both guys are fathers of young boys, and I can remember their astonishment when—after spending several hours with us at our house—they remarked about our daughters’ dispositions. 

“You mean, they just sit here and play like this all the time?”

Yep. (Well, at least mostly.)

“You don’t have to chase them around and keep them from harming themselves?”

Nope.

Well, ever since we found out we were having a boy, parents of sons everywhere have been warning us to be prepared for the difference. ‘Just you wait and see’ they all said.

Let me just say one word about this: Truth.

Those parents were right.

I spend my days these days either holding onto my son, strapping him into a chair, or trailing about behind him and cleaning up in the wake of his destruction, or else making sure he doesn’t accidentally injure himself doing something foolish.

He’s just recently upped his game too. It’s like he’s grown an inch taller just this past week, and so now—even though he’s not yet walking—he can pull up to standing and knock down child-sized glasses full of water stored on window ledges and small tables, something he never thought to do before. Those surfaces had once been safe. No more.

And everything, EVERYTHING goes in the mouth. I know, that’s how babies explore the things around them. We rarely had problems with the girls putting small pieces in their mouths. I can remember playing with marbles with Nora before she was two. And small beads. 

Not this kid. He is especially fond of tasting plant leaves, small wooden dollhouse parts, stickers, dried up food scraps mommy hasn’t cleaned off the floor, paper (paper towels, tissues, receipts, etc.), and dust bunnies. And oh, he’s not above dumping over the trash and trying to sample a dirty diaper or two. 

I will give him credit though. When he sees me coming or hears me yell, he will jump a mile—or maybe just an inch—and wildly toss whatever is in his grubby little hand, like he knows he’s been caught, but is trying to get rid of the evidence. It’s hysterical. 

The boy is into climbing stairs too, so we have to be vigilant about putting up the gate. A couple of weeks ago we forgot. I thought Liam had been keeping an eye on Rowan, and he thought the same of me. All of a sudden I sensed things were a little too quiet.

“Where’s the baby?” I asked aloud, to no one in particular. 

“I thought he was with you,” Liam said.

“No. He’s not with me,” I said, sounding slightly alarmed. 

We frantically looked all over the downstairs, including the front hall bathroom where a week prior I had caught him splashing about happily in the toilet water. No baby.

Then it hit me. The stairs! I found him playing merrily on the landing after he had scaled the first eleven steps, resting presumably, until he was ready to tackle the last three. That stealthy ninja! He was so proud of himself, too. 

I can’t help but love his squishy round face. He is just delightful. The happiest baby. But when he upends the girls’ set of 48 markers and sends them scattering all over the dining room floor, or rips every last book off the bottom bookshelf when I’m not looking, or keeps going back to the TV and Internet wires and cables behind the chair in the living room over and over and over again, no matter how many times I remove him and firmly say ‘no,’ he has a tendency to make me a little batty, you know?

And let’s not even get started about cleaning up after him at meal times. I think he secretly enjoys flinging grains of rice off the side of his tray, and rubbing yogurt into his hair. It’s like some kind of a challenge for him to out-soil his clothing, his face and hair, and every surface within a three-foot radius with food matter every time we eat. It’s just disgusting. 

To all of you moms out there with multiple boys—I tip my hats to you. One is enough for me. 

 

Love this little guy!

  

Practicing his soon-to-destruct mode whereupon everything on the table will vanish lest someone remove him from the scene.

  

Sneaky boy.