Category Archives: Parenting

Top five signs we are living among elves.

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I’ve been collecting images on my camera of evidence of little elfish behavior in our home. I suspect the results are the work of elves because I never actually see or hear the little creatures going about their tasks. Instead, I am surprised by what I find. Sometimes I am mildly annoyed by what I see. Other times I am infuriated. Most times, though, I have to shake my head and laugh out loud at my discoveries. OK. So here we go, in no particular order.

#5: Every. Single. Time. I go to put the baby in either his car seat or his bouncy rocking chair, I find that someone, or some-two more likely, have fastened the buckles together. This one drives me crazy! Like I don’t have enough going on already. I finally get the baby ready to go out the door, lay him in his seat—after many, many minutes of schlepping out bags of random shite, and the two girls—only to find that I can’t get his damn arms inside the straps, because the elves have buckled them together! Grrrrrr.

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Trying to undo Mommy’s sanity, one freaking buckle at a time. (It’s working!)

#4: No matter how many times I remove the strings or hair ties I find attached to the puzzle cabinet doorknobs—essentially preventing the doors from opening—they always seem to reappear. Could be minutes, hours, or days later. This is one that falls into both the shaking my head and mildly annoying categories.
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Maybe one of our elves will be a girl scout one day. Or a sailor.

#3: I never know what kinds of things I am going to find in the various drawers in our home when I go to look for something or put something away. The other afternoon, after I had folded the laundry, I discovered these two babies, presumably napping, when I went to put the clothing away. Sorry to have disturbed you, babies!

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#2: This one is similar to #3. I guess I should have written, I never know what kinds of things I am going to find ANYWHERE. Like when I went to retrieve the camera bag and charger to get ready for our upcoming vacation to Georgia. I finally found the bag behind the rocking chair in my bedroom (it had gone missing from its spot on the desk), and this is what I discovered inside:

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Some felt bread and cheese, paired with a piece of lettuce, one mushroom, a pink plate, and a shakable jar of chocolate sprinkles.

And then, not to be outdone by the bigger pocket, I found hidden inside the battery compartment, two little wooden cookies, waiting to be devoured by someone at some time.

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And just last night, as I was adjusting my pillow, my hand stumbled upon a crumpled up paper airplane. I swiftly removed it from its hidey spot and tossed it on the floor.

The bed is actually a favorite dumping ground for our elves. I’ve been poked in the ass so many times by princess crowns, wooden veggies, and baby doll hands, I should almost be at the point now where I’m checking under the covers nightly like Fraulein Maria looking for spiders before the thunderstorm.

And the #1 sign we are living among elves: Stuff goes missing. All the time. When in doubt, we simply check one of the girls’ purses/tote bags/backpacks/baskets etc. Or, head down to the basement, where after a week or more of unsupervised play, treasures—among trash—abound.

Just this morning, I was searching for Nora’s backpack, in which to store some playthings for our trip. Again, when I finally located it, I had to dump out its contents to make space for the stuff I wanted to put in it. Among the stash—probably used for a recent make-believe game of school—was a pile of coins, several puzzle piece cubes, a James Joyce novel, some kind of prayer booklet, a stripey-orange stuffed armadillo, one sandal, and a bathing suit. Hmmmm. Must’ve been an interesting day at school.

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Flash Update: As I was typing out this post today, I had to take a break to retrieve the baby from his bouncy seat. After I did—and I mean IMMEDIATELY after—Frances, who was getting ready to come color with me at the table, said, “Hole on, mama. I be right dere.”

And for the first time, as I glanced back over my shoulder (I almost didn’t bother to look!), I finally witnessed one of the elves at work. I strode across the room in an effort to reach the camera in time and—SNAP! Gotcha, elf! Totally busted.

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Should I be worried that my children are likely already developing compulsive behaviors???

Anxiety episode # 12: One or more of the kids fall off a jungle gym, get kicked by an aggressive child on a swing, or slide incorrectly down the slide, thus requiring urgent medical care.

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It’s summertime—or nearly, at least. And that means it’s time for parks and playgrounds and all kinds of outdoor fun, and accidents waiting to happen. At least, that’s my fear.

My husband and I took the kids to one of the local parks a few weeks ago to burn off some energy after dinner. At first, both girls stayed on the ‘toddler’ side of the playground—the side where I am able to play the role of relaxed mom—climbing up stairs and sliding down gradual, slow-moving slides. They crawled safely through tunnels and crossed a short bouncy bridge, all of which they handled nicely, considering there were no big kids running around and jostling them all about.

The big kids were all on the ‘big kid’ side of the playground (where my role shifts quickly to that of extremely uptight mom)—the side that the girls wanted to move to, of course, just moments after I had settled into an easy rhythm of bouncing the baby in the sling and joyfully watching the two of them play.

Now, I should say, that I am all about letting the girls take risks and be brave and build confidence when it comes to using and refining their gross motor skills while playing on playground equipment. It’s just that I can’t stand to actually watch them do it. It’s terrifying. I prefer to close my eyes, or simply look away, when things become too intense for me. Like, when my kid’s climbing the big rock structure, makes it all the way to the top, and then bounces around slightly with pride at her accomplishment. I, of course, just see her, in my mind, falling from the top and landing unconscious, or at the least needing stitches or even suffering from a concussion. 

Gratefully, I don’t say or even yell things at the kids, like that which I’m really thinking: “Oh sweet Jesus, get down from there this instant before you give your mother a heart attack or crack your skull on the pavement!” So, I think the kids are able to take risks and feel confident because I’m fairly good at hiding my fear. They do get quite a few Be carefuls! though. I’m working on this. I really am.

Still, when I see the girls tackling steep stairs or ladder rungs with lots of big kid bodily commotion around them, I am not able to look on fondly, watching them hold their ground; instead, I must hold my breath and count to ten and pray they don’t get pushed around and fall ass over teakettle off the jungle gym. Incidentally, why do playground designers deem it a good idea to build jungle gyms without side rails, especially on the way-up-top parts?

Another playground hazard is the running, or crossing in front of, high-swinging swingers. My kids love to do this. They either run from the swings without looking, or run toward the swings without looking, narrowly missing getting kicked in the face and knocked to the dirt every time. Although, I suppose if this were to happen, they’d likely be more careful about the placement of their wild bodies the next time they chose to dart to and fro across the mulch.

Once, about a year ago, I was at a different local park when the girls were even younger and less capable than they are now. We went to a playground where two other women were sitting on a bench while their two girls played. The girls looked to me to be about four years and eighteen months, not very much unlike the ages of my girls. The two women chatted busily away while the four-year-old and the toddler were on the jungle gym. The four-year-old spent much of the time carrying and lugging the toddler about, lifting her over obstacles and helping—well, forcing—her down the slide.

I looked on both in horror and amazement. I was horrified because at any moment the toddler could have fallen to her death and the mother—whichever one she was—seemed not to notice or care. And, I was amazed because at any moment the toddler could have fallen to her death and the mother seemed not to notice or care.

I wish—truly—that I could’ve been as trusting and unbothered by playground shenanigans as that mother was. Instead, I stayed near my toddler, helping her about when necessary, and not trusting her slightly older sister to do that for her. 

I think, if I do nothing else in my life, but can manage to relax even half as much as that mother that day in the park, I will have won at life. 

How is it that one mother can be so free from anxiety when her preschool daughter hefts her barely walking other daughter about many feet above the ground, precariously perching her on the edge many, many times, while another mother, faced with the same scenario, freaks out and only sees disaster at the end of the tunnel?

It’s a mystery to me, but I wish I could solve it, so I could apply some of its magic to rid me of my fears.

Most times I need only to remind myself of my own childhood experiences for reassurance. Like all the times I swung upside down on playground bars and then did a sort of flip-like dismount. Or the climbing of rickety old pine trees that took place behind my grandmother’s house with my cousins—which I’m sure no adults ever knew about. Or all the round off back handsprings, the diving board back flips, and the fierce games of playground dodgeball. Surely, if I didn’t break my neck from falling back then, I don’t really have all that much to worry about with my own kids, right? Right? 

That’s what I’m going to keep telling myself, like some kind of mantra, to prevent me from being a hovering helicopter parent, and to reassure myself that the kids will be all right. 

The kids will be all right. The kids will be all right. The kids will be all right!

   
 

How my four-year-old will wake up tomorrow morning with a radiant smile and hug me, just like every morning, is beyond me, a complete miraculous mystery. Why? Because I have been a horrible mother today. The worst.

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To say this afternoon-into-evening was rough is a total understatement. It was AWFUL. One for the books.

The day began well enough (apart from the headache that started brewing soon after I woke up). I managed to get a brisk walk in before Liam left for work. We got the oldest off to school and then the two youngers and I enjoyed a relaxing trip through the local market.

After that, we headed back home where I decided to pack a picnic lunch so I could take all three kids for a quick visit to my elementary school after we picked up Nora from her school. There aren’t too many days left in the school year, and I wanted my students from this past year to be able to meet and see the new baby.

That all went fine too. And everyone fell asleep on the ride home. Score! I was hopeful then I might be able to nap too, or at least close my eyes to relieve the worsening headache pain I was experiencing.

When I pulled into the driveway, though, things began to go awry. The baby woke up once the car stopped and started screaming. I took him and his seat from the car and moved him to a shady part in the driveway, where he continued to scream. 

I grabbed Frances next and carried her into bed, no problem. I came back outside, briefly picked up and air-rocked the baby’s car seat, hoping to calm him down. It didn’t work.

So, I put him back down, grabbed the sleeping Nora and carried her inside. Of course, she woke up. She doesn’t really nap much anymore, so this wasn’t too surprising. I was still holding out hope, though, that she might. After guzzling down some water she asked for, she got into bed next to her younger sister and appeared to be attempting to fall asleep.

I hustled back out to the driveway to close and lock up the car, and to collect the screaming child, hoping none of the neighbors called CYA on me for being neglectful. 

I came back inside, plopped on the couch with the baby and a huge glass of water. I proceeded to try and nurse him to sleep when Nora came out of the bedroom and into the living room to announce she was skipping nap. I ordered her kindly back to the bedroom to at least try to take a rest. 

Twice more she emerged, once wearing a baby doll around her waist, attached to a Mardi Gras type beaded necklace around her neck, complete with a blanket-as-a-skirt around her lower body. The second time she was wearing no less than three headbands in her hair and twice as many barrettes. Her nap was so not happening.

I moved with the baby to the empty bedroom to lie down. He had fallen asleep. I told Nora I didn’t care what she did or played, but that she must leave me to rest so that I could try and get rid of my headache (I suffer occasionally from migraines and this one felt like it could turn into one if I didn’t try to get rid of it).

Now, yesterday, Nora skipped nap and played by herself for over two hours. She did some make-believe with her dollhouse. She drew some pictures. She played blocks. And, she dressed and undressed her baby dolls. Most days she does keep herself occupied pretty well and does not appear to be tired at all.

Today, however, she just didn’t know what to do with herself. So, she bothered me. She kept climbing up into bed, threatening to wake the baby with her insistent hugging and squeezing and kissing of his body, and in the process, completely pissing me off.

“Nora!” I whisper-screamed. “Either get under the covers and rest your head on the pillow, or get out of here and play something quietly.”

She left for a spell to do something in another room, only to return over and over again. My heart just about broke when she came in for the last time and said, “I’m tired of playing by myself mommy.”

She woke the baby when she said this, so then all three of us were grouchy. Ummm…make that four. Frances woke up soon after, and that kid is always a whiny mess after a nap. 

From 4:30 until 5:30, I attempted to cook dinner. I was interrupted nearly 437 times. Most of these interruptions had to deal with the girls screaming at each other over something ridiculous. Frances told Nora she was not allowed to sing. Nora pushed Frances. Frances threw chalk all over Nora’s drawing. All of this stuff was alleged, since I witnessed none of it. 

Essentially, since Nora hadn’t napped, she decided she was going to bug the shit out of her younger sister and push all of her buttons. And, younger sister decided she was just going to holler ‘No, Nora, no!’ over and over again at the top of her lungs. Meanwhile, I was going absolutely crazy having to listen to it all while trying to cook a meal and move the baby from swing to mat to shoulder to keep him from adding to the ruckus.

After I made a complete disatrous mess of the kitchen, we four sat down to eat together, the baby sprawled, belly down, across my lap (Liam’s been working late all week, making it home between 7:30 and 8, so I knew he wouldn’t be joining us for dinner). 

The girls took one look at their plates and decided they weren’t going to eat the meal I prepared.

“Me no like it,” Frances whined.

At that point, I could’ve cared less. I gave them both a bowlful of fruit while I enjoyed the baked tilapia and sundried tomato pasta salad with asparagus and spinach.

Nora continued to misbehave at and away from the table before I blurted out that she was being completely unhelpful and made me feel like I wanted to leave.

Well, those lovely words caused her to burst into tears and ask, “You mean, like move to another house?”

“No.” I reassured her, feeling full of shame and guilt. “I’m your mommy and I would never leave you, no matter how angry or frustrated I got. I only feel like leaving.”

“Mommy. You shouldn’t say that. I thought you were going to leave and that hurt my feelings. I would be sad and miss you.”

I apologized and told her she was right, that I shouldn’t have said it. That people sometimes say hurtful things when they get upset.

And then I put her and her sister into the bathtub because I was at my wit’s end. I tried to sneak in a quick nursing rest break in bed with the baby, but five minutes into the tubby, the girls were at it again. 

After a few lengthy screaming sessions, I yanked them both out, did teeth and pjs, and attempted to get Nora to sleep. At the early hour of 7:00. 

Somehow, laying next to me, with the baby crawling all over my chest, and her sister acting a silly fool, speaking gibberish and climbing all about the bed, Nora fell asleep. Hard. She was out in under ten minutes. Gifriend sure needed that nap today. Her mama should have had one too.

After that, I kept things together just long enough until I burst into tears the moment Liam walked in the door. 

“I’m just out of coping skills!” I told him. “It’s all too much! I hate that I keep yelling at the kids, Nora in particular, when all she wants is just a little attention from me.”

We tried to problem solve ways to make life easier. Like maybe not feeling the need to cook baked tilapia and sundried tomato pasta salad with asparagus and spinach. Maybe we should hire a nanny. Or win the lottery. Or have Liam just quit his job.

Today at school a lot of my colleague-friends asked how we are all doing. “How’s life with three?” they said.

I said, “It’s really freaking hard. I wish I could say it’s all beautiful and amazing. There are those moments, for sure, when things are completely wonderful. But mostly, it’s just hard.”

I know that lack of sleep, lack of ‘me time’, lack of husband from dinner through bath and bed, plus headache, and three needy kids is a recipe for madness, but I feel like I should be better at this somehow. Like I’m totally failing as a mom right now.

I don’t want my kids to remember their early childhood with a stern, bitchy, asshole dictator for a mother. I want them to recall times of peace, joy, and fun. I remember my mom being patient and kind nearly always, although she assures me this was not the case. I’m grateful my kids seem to easily forget the bad days and bad moments. 

Which is why I’ll be thanking God tomorrow for second chances and do-overs, and for the love from a little girl, who will have forgotten just how awful her mother was the day before. 

Anxiety episode #11: I’m driving to the store, or preschool, or library story hour, or any place really, when I turn around to glance at the baby in the rear view mirror and see he’s not there. Why? Because I’ve left him at home, all alone.

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Recently, Liam shared with me a fear he has when he’s driving someplace, and thinks he’s left the baby at home. I confessed to having the same fear, on repeat, many times a week.

In addition to being irritable and cranky these days, my brain is also very forgetful, cluttered, and generally in a state of constant, frenzied activity.

Since I’ve been on leave from work, I’ve been unable to recall what day of the week it is, never mind the actual date. Early May, right? To me, every day feels like a Saturday. But not necessarily the kind of Saturday you long for and look forward to. Instead, it’s more like a Bill Murray’s Groundhog Day kind of Saturday that’s on repeat, over and over again, where I wake up wondering, OK, how in the hell are we going to make it through today? kind of Saturday.

I can’t ever find anything I’m looking for when I want or need it. The brown baby carrier? One of the purple hairbrushes? (We have three; it should be easy enough to fine one!). Matches for missing socks? Frances’s brown shoe? This stuff has been missing for days. It will turn up soon, I know, as it is likely covered under mounds of laundry.

Speaking of laundry, does it ever end? We’ve only added a baby to the family, not an entire soccer team. So, I’m not really sure why or how laundry has increased twentyfold. I’m starting to feel like we could really use a nanny around here to do ‘light housework’ in addition to cooking and taking care of the kids. This mom needs a break!

OK. Back on topic. Let’s talk about leaving the house for an errand or a trip to the park. A plan is made, preparation begins, and then, forty-five minutes later, we are ready to go. Seriously. That’s how long it takes us to get ready to leave the house. Forty. Five. Minutes.

There’s the packing of diapers and covers for two kids. The packing of snacks and drinks. And blankets and baby carriers. A purse. Maybe a stroller. There’s the nursing of the baby, because of course, he always wants to do that right before its time to go. And then so does his sister, just because. What else? I don’t even know. But there’s always more. 

Now, back to the leaving of the baby. His car seat travels with him at this age, both in and out of the house. And, he’s usually the last thing from the house to get loaded into the car (I make about a hundred trips back and forth, give or take a few). You can see how it would be easy to forget him, right? To leave him behind in the heat of the moment, sleeping peacefully in his seat on the couch?

It’s really a wonder we haven’t done it yet. These minivan engineers should make some kind of sensor that new parents can employ to beep repeatedly when backing out of the driveway as a reminder to look in the back and make sure the baby is, in fact, where he should be—buckled safely into his car seat, and not, as I’ve feared, left carelessly behind, sitting alone on the couch.

Maybe I’ll suggest that the next time I get an online survey from Toyota requesting my feedback.

“Where me go? There me!”

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Sadly, I’m here to tell you it’s true what they say about second-born children and the lack of photographs of them. At least when compared to those of the firstborn. At least in our house.

Well, let me clarify. We have photos aplenty of our middle child, just no evidence of her on the walls of our home.

And, we love hanging shit on our walls. I just did a rough count, and discovered we have about fifty frames up in our small, small house. More than half contain photographs of family and friends. About sixteen hold photos of our eldest child. Just two are of our second girl. Well, two-and-a-half, if you count the one of our oldest kissing my very round and pregnant belly, inside of which the middle girl was living at the time.

Frances has lately been noticing and admiring all the photos on the walls, especially those hanging in the living room above the couch. And, she likes to report to us who she sees in every one.

“There Nor-nor and Daddy. Nor-nor and Grandma. Nor-nor and Grandpa. There Mommy and Daddy. There Mommy friends!”

This morning, when we woke up in what was once Nora’s bedroom, then supposed to be Nora and Frances’s shared room, but has now become Mommy and Frances and Rowan’s bedroom, Frances looked at a couple more wall photos. 

“There Nor-nor and Daddy. There Nor-nor and Tella.”

Then she paused, rightfully puzzled, and wondered aloud, “Where me go?” 

It broke my heart really. Until she glanced at a photo made on canvas, of her older sister around the same age as she is now, sitting on an ocean dock, gazing out at the sea near Liam’s dad’s house in Connecticut. 

“There me!” she exclaimed proudly and excitedly. 

I just didn’t have the heart to tell her that the little girl in the photo, who looks just like Frances, was indeed not her, but her older sister. 

Instead I beamed and said, “Yep. There’s you!”

We need to get some photos of this kid on the wall, stat. We can’t have her thinking she is a less important or valued member of the family. Especially with an important birthday celebration coming up. 

I’ll just make a mental note to do that this weekend, on top of baskets full of laundry, vacuuming, dusting, picking up toys, organizing art supplies, holding/swaddling/nursing/burping/diapering the baby, showering myself before noon. Seems like there is a petty good chance it will get done. 

Not.

How long would our cloth diaper supply last if my husband followed through on his plan to trash, and not launder, every poopy diaper the middle child makes from this point forward? And other hypothetical questions, like, will she ever eat another vegetable again that isn’t some form of a potato?

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Up until our son was born, our middle gal was a strong, healthy, and active eater. She would often eat multiple breakfasts, including most of mine and my husband’s. While our oldest girl is oftentimes skeptical of veggies, the middle one (formerly) wouldn’t think twice about gobbling up some of my eggs mixed with mushrooms, onions, greens, and asparagus. 

Although never a big fan of fruit, even as a baby—which I think is totally bizarre, by the way—she could eat her share and more of many a vegetable. She was especially fond of roasted cauliflower, broccoli, and Brussels sprouts.

I’m using the past tense because after our son was born, my breastmilk arrived. And with it, came the abandonment of vegetables for the middle child—as well as most other foods that aren’t toast, crackers, pretzels, Cheerios, or potatoes—and the arrival of the worst poopy diapers ever known to this house. And perhaps, ever known to mankind.

We’ve been cloth diapering for four years now. When we were expecting with our oldest, a friend referred me to this site, where we learned all we could about using cloth. We eventually decided to give it a go. It’s worked out pretty well for us so far.

It has definitely saved us big money. I’ve read that parents can expect to pay around $2,000 for disposable diapers per child. We’ve made less than a $1,000 investment in cloth diaper supplies that will see us through three kids, though we still buy and use disposables when we travel, and to have on hand here at the house for when the laundry just doesn’t quite get done in time.

And there’s the environmental factor, which is nice too. We don’t make as much trash as we would using disposables, although one could argue we waste a lot of water keeping up with the washing of these things.

So, what are the downsides to using cloth? I used to think it was just the high maintenance of keeping up with the three-cycle (cold wash/hot wash/cold rinse), every-other-day washings. And there can be a slight yuck factor, though you get used to it after awhile. Think ammonia smells and dumping and rinsing the occasional dirty diaper.

However, I now—we now—realize all else has paled in comparison to the recent poopy diapers that have come forth from our breastmilk drinking, white-food only eating toddler. THEY. ARE. THE. WORST. 

We are talking huge portions of soft, mushy, and smelly shite. Huge! The kind of shite that you can’t simply plop off into the toilet and easily flush away, like her diapers of yesteryear. The kind of shite that brings on insta-diaper-rash it’s so nasty.

These new diapers need to be scraped by toilet-papered hand, multiple times to have any chance of being able to be used again, and to avoid ruining our washing machine on account of being totally loaded.

Which is why my husband said recently that he plans on just throwing away the diapers from here on out. Not even bothering to try and clean them. I guess he’d rather buy disposables during this phase or just replace the cloth with new cloth. 

I suppose, now that I really consider it, those choices are far superior to the scraping and dumping and holding-my-breath-so-I-don’t-throw-up option with the giganta-turds we are now seeing at least once, if not several times a day.

If only she were into potty training, this nightmare could all just go away. At least I don’t really have to worry about her nutritional intake as I’m eating well enough for both of us. She’s bound to get lots of goodness from my milk. 

I just hope we can all survive this chapter of the parenting book.

Unless you have substantial physical evidence, do not attempt to argue with your know-it-all four-year-old child. Especially if you are a know-it-all too. You will not win. And, it’s just not worth it.

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Our oldest child is in a Montessori pre-school program a few mornings a week. On Fridays, a woman comes to her classroom to teach the students some beginning Spanish. 

At first, Nora couldn’t easily remember what new Spanish words she’d learned when I asked her after school. But after several lessons (she used to not attend on Fridays), she’s able to relay more and more vocabulary. 

At lunch today, she sang us a song with the lyrics: Adios amigos, Goodbye friends! over and over again.

Then, out of the blue, many hours later, on the drive home from picking up our car from being serviced, she said to me, “Mommy, do you know what buenos días means?” 

I do, but asked her to tell me what it means. She thought for a moment and then replied, “It means hello.”

I clarified that while we do use buenos días to greet someone, it actually means good morning. 

“Nuh-uh. It means hello. How do you know, anyway?” she said.

I told her I learned Spanish when I was in school and that I speak a little Spanish with my students at my job.

She was not convinced. “No, mommy. It just means hello.”

I felt my frustration level rising, although this could have been due to the fact that the baby was screaming and the middle child was whining about wanting me to hold her, as if I could just magically stop driving the car and respond to her wishes. 

“OK, Nora,” I said. “I’m not going to argue with you. What is the point anyway, really?

Which is why moments later, after she had removed both her rain boots and  socks while sitting in her car seat, and proclaimed matter-of-factly, while covering up the sunshine with an outstretched leg, “Mommy. Do you know that my foot is bigger than the sun?” I just acquiesced and replied, “Yep. Your foot is bigger than the sun.”

Someday she’ll learn that the sun is far bigger than her foot. And that Rapunzel, though beautiful in all her animated glory, is not a real person. And that candy is not a health food, even though it is really yummy. And even that a drive to the grocery store, while seemingly endless to her, does not, in fact, take forever.

I did overhear Nora telling my husband tonight that buenos días means hello, but you say it in the morning time. A nice little compromise, I think. And, close enough to the truth, anyway. So I’ll take it.

I’ll take diapering a vagina over a penis any day of the week. Hands down. 

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As if being a new parent isn’t hard enough, we have the added bonus of having to care for and diaper a penis this time around. 

I feel like our diapering station is set up like an operating room tray, complete with sterile gauzes and other necessary instruments and tools. With girls, we never needed this. What should be a simple chore involves no less than sixty-three steps, and often, all hands on deck, or at least four hands—Liam’s and my own.

On Easter my dad scoffed in disbelief at my diapering complaints, wondering aloud why it took two of us to change the little guy’s diaper. I just looked at him and said, “Dad, you have no idea.” 

Which of course, he does. It’s just that it’s been over thirty years since he’s had to care for a newborn penis. His memory must be cloudy. Or perhaps he’s blocked it out, due to trauma, which I plan on doing several months from now.

So, I had to remind my dad. 

“Well,” I began, “one person gets the new diaper ready. Another prepares the penis pad (a gauze with Vaseline to protect the circumcision site). Another wets the wipes (our last that remain of the supply given to us by the hospital). Then, one slowly opens the diaper, careful not to disturb any slimy contents too much, lest they creep out and dirty the things around them. Another removes the old penis pad, while still another covers the penis with some kind of cloth until the wiping is complete (We missed this step a time or two, only to be rewarded with a fruitful spraying of penis pee all over the place. Now, this step is essential!). After the wiping, the new protective penis pad gets put into place, the diaper is folded down to avoid adding further injury to the umbilical cord site, and the diaper straps are fastened with a quick prayer that the process will not need to be repeated again any time soon (The boy loves to wait until we change a pee diaper, and then decides to unload his slimy poops in the next few minutes).”

So, by my count, that’s at least ten steps, or ten jobs for ten people. The boy must be wondering about our incompetence as it takes us about as many minutes to complete the task of changing his diaper.

Gratefully, the cord has fallen off and the circumcision site seems to be healing well enough not to require gauze anymore. Also, we are out of hospital wipes, which needed to be moistened with water, and can presumably resume using normal baby wipes. All of this accounts for a reduction in steps by at least five. 

Now I think the only thing we need to protect ourselves against is the wayward spraying fire hose. I can deal with this, though, after the ridiculousness of the first week of penis care. I give you moms to many sons lots and lots of credit for going through this more than once.

Like I said, give me a vagina to diaper any day of the week. Hands down.

Reflections on the birth of our son: Part two.

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Wow. What a whirlwind. The tagline of this blog has never seemed more true. I’ve had every intention of writing for days about the past week, but our minutes and hours—rightly so—have been spent caring for our three, very needy children. Turns out adding a third baby to the mix brings levels of whining, screaming, crying, and clinging to all sorts of new and extreme heights; everyone needs a little more love and hugs, as well as patience and kindness these days.

I wanted to capture a few more memories from the past week while everything is still fresh in my mind. In another week or so, there’s no trusting what will remain.

Laboring at home is far more comfortable than laboring in the hospital. This past Tuesday, the morning of Rowan’s birthday, I awoke at 4:00 with contractions. Although I remained hopeful, I wasn’t sure what to expect given my body had begun false labor already once before.

However, two hours later, after contractions started coming with increasing frequency and intensity, I made the decision to call in to work to request a sick day. This was it! I spent much of the morning pacing the house trying to think of last minute things that needed to be done. Apparently, there was nothing to be done. I got bored. Restless.

We went for a walk around the neighborhood. Frances held my hand for much of it, stopping along with me when I needed to take breathing breaks. Nora rode her tricycle and Liam pushed an empty double stroller, should one or both of the girls tire of walking. In the end, Frances made it the whole way, and Nora needed only to be towed up the steep hill while hanging onto the stroller strap as Liam pushed, a sight funny enough to bring smiles and laughter from everyone, especially when Liam’s swift, unbalanced tugging, threatened to overturn her a time or two.

When we got home, I nursed Frances, hoping to bring about more intense contractions. Success! Several times I had to employ deep breathing techniques just to get through. Although her mouth was occupied with sucking, she managed to copy the sound and intensity of my breathing, through her nose. After the contractions passed I was laughing out loud at her show of solidarity.

We later all moved down to the basement for a change of scene. Liam worked on a playlist of tunes to keep us occupied both at home and in the hospital. He later admitted that he was going to include some of Nora’s favorite Mary Poppins and Frozen songs just for fun, to see what my reaction would be. Although I’m sure it would have brought great amusement for him to hear the songs, I’m happy to report I didn’t have to suffer listening through them at the hospital. Not that I was really all that aware of music in the background anyway.

In the basement, I broke out the yoga mat and the exercise ball, deciding to labor on my hands and knees for a change. Nora did some downward dog with me and was moved too, like her sister, to be a breathing partner. Totally hilarious. But also a testament to how powerful breathing can be.

A little before noon I decided it was time for us to head in to the hospital. We called Candace, our neighborhood sitter, and savior, to come and stay with the girls.

I was disappointed to find when the midwife first checked me, at noon, that I was only two c.m. dilated (they wouldn’t admit us until I reached four c.m.). She gave us the choice to walk the hospital grounds or to go back home and return in a couple of hours. After some indecision, we decided to stay. I couldn’t shake the feeling that things were progressing, and fast. The midwife said she would be back to check me in two hours, at 2:00 p.m.

Since it was a sunny and mild day, Liam and I decided to head outside to walk. And also, because it was a little unnerving and humiliating to be having intense contractions in front of hospital visitors and employees in the halls of the hospital.

Very quickly the contractions progressed to where I had to stop walking and lean on Liam for support. I began to feel nauseous toward the end of every contraction, so we decided to head back inside. An hour had passed—it was only 1:00 p.m. I asked the triage nurse if there was any way the midwife could come back to check me early. She said no, that if I wasn’t further along, they would definitely send me home. She preferred we wait until 2:00.

So, Liam and I headed back into the very small, very uncomfortable room, where I had only the surface of a small counter to rest my head upon, or be in bed. After I threw up in the sink (take that you disbelieving hospital staff!) I climbed into bed, trying not to be sad and angry and disappointed that this was to be my laboring experience for the next hour, instead of having the privacy and space and resources (birthing ball, walking space, yoga mat, whirlpool, labor and delivery nurse) of a proper labor and delivery room.

I went into my breathing trance and waited as patiently as I could until the midwife came to check me, and found I had progressed to five c.m. This was a little after 2:00. By the time they were finally able to admit us to a room, I was a little over an hour away from when Rowan would be born. At this point, my sister, Melissa, had joined us in the room to offer support.

The charge nurse tried to start an IV in my hand (unnecessary since I did not need antibiotics and wanted to go natural), but after blowing veins in both hands, gave up. The other labor and delivery nurse (this amazing woman who was present for part of both girls’ births as well) started a whirlpool tub for me, which I would never get to use on account of the swift progress my body was making.

At eight c.m. the midwife decided to break my water. Not long after, following several more contractions and controlled pushes, I was able to hold our son in my arms. What a relief! He cried a sweet and loud little cry for almost the whole hour he was with me. He did take to nursing a few times, which was great…and quiet.

 

And then there were three. The girls love their baby brother. Nora insists she can take care of Rowan by herself. In her mind, this means she can watch him from the couch as he sleeps peacefully in his chair. She likes to snuggle him and kiss him and put stickers all over his clothing. She is fond of singing him songs and trying to calm him with her endless chatter when he cries.

Frances loves holding Rowan. She sits patiently with arms outstretched and seems amazed by his features and noises and very presence. She gets distressed when he cries, wanting to make him feel better in any way she can. She is clearly the one who is suffering the most from this transition. No longer our baby, she is learning that we can’t always respond to her every need. She wants to be held a lot and has a renewed and vigorous interest in nursing. Indeed, our tandem nursing is off to a good start. How long we will be able to keep it up remains to be seen. But, for now, we are all mostly happy and thriving.

Our patience has been tested countless times since we’ve come home from the hospital. And, things have indeed gotten quite tense here in our small house. However, our hearts are full with gratitude, and we are trying to be intentional about holding on to the effortless moments, full of warmth and love, to see us through the chaotic, trying times when we find ourselves asking: What in the hell were we thinking?

On the eve of the terrible twos.

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Our youngest will be two in just over a month, but I fear we are witnessing early moments of the dreaded terrible twos phase already. In addition to shouting “No!” to multiple family members multiple times a day to express her unhappiness about some situation, she has also taken to hitting—well, more like swatting—her sister, and throwing herself down on the floor with lots of hysterical screaming and crying when she is reprimanded or told no.

And if this weren’t bad enough, she wakes up and insists on talking in a grouchy, hateful tone to everyone about just about everything. The dragon voice usually fades at some point, but returns without warning off and on throughout the day.

Me: What do you want for breakfast, Frances? Eggs?

Frances: No! No eggs. Me no eggs! No breakfast!

As if the first response was not emphatic enough. Sheesh.

Me: OK, let’s go change your diaper then.

Frances: (with disgusted look on face) No! No biper! No wipe! Runs away and hides under the table or behind the couch.

Nora: (trying to be helpful and supportive) Come on, Frances. Let’s go into the bedroom and change your diaper. 

Frances: No, Nor-nor, no! (runs at sister and swats pathetically in her general direction, maybe connecting, maybe not, but in any case, not with enough force to actually hurt)

Nora: (runs away wimpily) Mommy! Mommy! Frances is trying to hit me!

Me: Seriously?!?!?!

Frances has also been teething, so perhaps this is part of the cause of the nastiness. I recall Liam’s brother-in-law once saying he and his wife blamed every unfortunate behavior their sons ever displayed from birth through age four on teething. I’m of the mind to do the same thing here.

Thankfully we didn’t have to deal with too many tantrums with Nora. I think this was because she was always able to express herself adequately. And, we could reason with her when she was upset. Frances lacks the verbal skills her older sister had at this age, so I’m expecting the frustration level to remain high.

On a brighter note, at church last Sunday, Frances showed a slightly more angelic side of herself when she began making the sign of the cross haphazardly, over and over again during the second reading. She looked like a confused third base coach giving signs to a runner, but Liam and I recognized her actions right away from practicing saying grace before dinner each night. Also, she accompanied me to the bathroom at one point during the middle of Mass. Upon walking back inside the church, she paused thoughtfully and genuflected on her own, entering the pew ahead of me. After several of us who witnessed the event enjoyed a chuckle at her expense, Liam leaned over and proudly exclaimed in a voice slightly above a whisper, “She’s going to become a nun.”

After observing her behavior this past week I am quite sure he has reconsidered this thought. Right now I am thinking drama queen. Major drama queen. We might be in trouble here.