Potpourri

Dudes.

It has been so long since I logged in here, my browser couldn’t even remember the address to auto-fill for me. I had a momentary blank out on my password. And then the Dashboard looked like a foreign landscape and it took me a few seconds to remember how to open up a new post.

The times, they are a-flyin’.

Fall is here, finally. We woke up to mid-50’s temps and I put on a MATERNITY SWEATER. I could just swoon. I love the look of maternity sweaters (cozy, warm, they swaddle you up and make everyone go, “Oh, look: pregnant. Not fat.”) and never got to wear them while gestating Smooch down in South Florida. After a little reminder at my last midwife appointment (“We only need 300 extra calories for the baby, dear….”) and with the date for my glucose tolerance test looming in three weeks, I got ambitious and went out for a walk in the cool morning air. It was delicious, but I still only did one lap of the neighborhood. No sense in burning out on the first day I try, right?

I’m 25-and-a-half weeks pregnant, and this Doodlebug is a funny little girl. As I type, my be-sweatered belly is thumping and rolling. Boom-digga-boom-boom-boom. Ker-thwack. She likes her private time when Smooch is out of the way… she’s most active first thing when I wake up in the wee hours, as Gruff leaves for work; and then again during Smooch’s naptime; and then late in the evening after Smooch goes to bed. It’s either early sibling avoidance, or else those are just the only times I stop moving all day and it wakes her up. One of the two.

It’s just a little more than a month until we get to vote. Gruff has the week off work (coincidentally – he didn’t plan a vacation around the election) and we’re excited to get to go to the polls together for the first time since we’ve been together. He’s a total news junkie, so he’s looking forward to staying up all night to watch the talking heads as the results roll in. Before this year, I was really clueless about politics, but -you might remember- I decided to do my very best to get educated on the candidates back during primary season, and now I’m almost as hooked on political news as my husband. It’s a little wierd that we can have an intelligent conversation about the candidates over dinner, but it’s a good thing.

And *ahem*…. have you noticed that Christmas is coming? I went to Hobby Lobby with Smooch yesterday (“Wobby Wobby”, he says, with great glee. “H-O-B-B-Y says Wobby Wobby! Yay”) and it seems like half the store is dedicated to Christmas decorations. As we turned the corner and caught sight of the green & red, Smooch lifted both hands above his head. “Kissmiss tees! I EXCITED! Kissmiss, Mommy!” Thanks, Wobby Wobby. Now I get to field that query… oh, daily… for like ten weeks. Lovely.

Also on the holiday note, I have –somewhat recklessly– decided to try to make many of our gifts for family members this year. Like I don’t have enough going on, right? I have a huge list of projects to make FOR Doodlebug, another list of projects that need to be completed around the house before she gets here, and now a list of things to make for a holiday that’s just a couple of weeks before she’s due. I’m nothing if not optimistic.

20 Weeks

Halfway there. We have the “big” ultrasound scheduled for Monday at 8:00 a.m. I can’t even express how much I’m hoping that Doodlebug cooperates and flashes us the goods — I think that if I have to wait twenty MORE weeks to find out if she’s a she or he’s a he, I’ll go nuts. And I’m already pretty loopy from hormones, so that would be a bad thing all the way around.

Every Night

We do the same thing. Toddlers like that – the routine, the consistency, it lulls him to sleep just as much as the milk does.

First we change into pajamas, and he gets to choose between two parent-selected pairs. Then we run and climb onto The Big Bed (these days he resists our help as he huffs and clambers up – “I do it, I do it, I, I, I, I do it!” he mutters, with a new stammer of impatience and frustration in his voice these last few weeks). We climb on with him, three heads in a row on fluffy pillows. One night, we switched sides as we got onto the bed around him – Gruff on the right and I on the left – and the protests! “No! Mommy this side, Daddy this side! No Daddy on Mommy’s willow! Go, go, go, go, go, you go DERE!”

Then we sing a few songs, always Smooch’s choices. “The Alphabet Song” is in the top ten. Last night we did “Five Little Monkeys” with great exuberance for the first time. This morning he was singing “Jingle Bells” for some odd reason, so I have a feeling it will make a bedtime debut soon as well. After the songs, it’s time for prayers. About four months ago, I started saying the same prayer every night, and asking Smooch to fold his hands and close his eyes along with Daddy & I. “Dear God, thank you for Daddy, and for Mommy, and for Smooch, and for the baby.” Then I open my eyes a tiny peek and ask Smooch what else he is thankful for. The answers always make me laugh later – sometimes he is thankful for his grandparents, or his friends, but just as often he prays for the ceiling fan and his pacifier. The ways of the 2 year old mind are hard to fathom.

The last move is always the kisses and hugs. One of us parents will prompt him, and he always flies into my arms first for a big bear hug and slobbery kisses. Then he cries, “Daddy’s TURN!” and flings himself across the bed against Gruff’s solid chest. He always gives Gruff a kiss and then wipes it off his own face (why, we do not know), and then he slides off the bed. “My woom!” he usually cheers, giving out instructions as we cross the hall: fan on or off, which blanket, which stuffed animal or doll he needs to find. We tuck him in and exit. It’s a lovely routine.

And then a few nights ago, it changed. Not a big, earth-shattering change. But one that makes my mama heart both happy and sad at the same time. Gruff had said to Smooch, “Give Mommy a hug and kiss,” and Smooch said, “No.”

The next words out of his mouth took my breath away.

“Baby.”

And he pulled on the hem of my T-shirt, exposing my growing belly, and flung his arms around my gravid girth. He leaned forward and placed a tiny kiss just beside my belly button, and then sat up grinning. “Mama TURN!”

Our world is changing, and I love it, but like any change it makes me wistful for the days we’re losing.

Where I’ve Been

This is how you do a vacation when your husband is a resident:

Stay at father-in-law’s house for the free room & board lovely accomodations.

Attend sister-in-law-to-be’s graduation party for the free killer barbeque and pool party familial support and memories.

Hang out in small Georgia town with mother-in-law one day to kill time and avoid a guilt trip from the “left out grandmother” and appreciate the quaint beauty in a place where time stands still.

Go back to college town and tour campus of alma mater because it’s free and Smooch likes all the dead stuffed animals in the old buildings to reminisce about where we fell in love and to introduce Smooch to the idea of college.

And finally, drive out to the middle of nowhere to the lake where father-in-law keeps his boat. Ignore the greenness of the water and pray that stepmother-in-law knows what she’s talking about when she says it’s safe. Apply SPF 70. Let the grandparents watch out for Smooch, let Gruff be in charge of snapping pictures, and relax for hours.

It was cheap. It was simple. But we all really did have a great time. Of course, now that we’re home I have a mountain of laundry to do and the cupboards are woefully bare and the tedium of getting back to normal life is a bit depressing… which just means that it really was a vacation after all, don’t you think?

This is my life. Apparently.

What do you do with a man like this?

Bless his heart. He just doesn’t get it.

Last night, I was sick.as.a.dog. (Again. I know, it’s like, just get over it. You’re pregnant; puke happens. But I was so blessed with Smooch’s pregnancy in this regard and I’m feeling rather irked with Doodlebug at the moment. Gimme a break, kid!) Gruff was very sweet about it – he fetched me water, and milk, and Tums, and when all of those failed and I upchucked anyway, a nice cool wet washcloth. Sweet guy.

A few hours later, Doodle started bopping around and I realized it was the strongest of the flutters I’d felt so far. “Hey, babe, I wonder if you can feel this yet….” He absentmindedly flopped his hand over on my belly, eyes still fixed on the laptop (where he was finishing a PowerPoint presentation for work. About shock and how to identify and treat it, in case you were wondering.) and sort of muttered that he didn’t. I repositioned his hand to where I’d actually pointed (this is why glancing over at your wife can be useful occasionally) and he said, “Oh. Yeah. I can feel movement – but I’m not sure what it is.” I laughed and told him it was a bit early to be identifying arms versus feet versus heads at this point, and then I got all ooey-gooey on him. “Awww, can you believe it? You just felt the baby for the first time! That is so sweet!” I waited for him to respond… and this is what I got:

“Yeah. It’s great. Now, I have to finish this.”

*stunned, hurt, angry silence from the other side of the bed*

“What? Don’t get mad – I’m WORKING and I have to finish this. I can feel your belly later.”

*again with the hurt and anger*

Dude, for real? I know his presentation was due this morning and he was “in the zone” and wanted to finish. I’ve felt that before, and I know it’s irritating when something pulls you away from your work. But for pete’s sake – this is one of those once-in-a-lifetime moments. You only feel your child move for the first time… the first time. Can’t we take a minute and celebrate that? Say a little prayer over this baby, thanking God for his or her health and asking for a continuing peaceful pregnancy? Daydream a little bit about what this child might look like? Something? I feel like Dr. Evil — “Throw me a frickin’ bone here!”

I told this story to a friend on the phone this morning, and she said (with a smile in her voice, but still…) “Okay, you’re going to have to start telling me some good stories about Gruff, because he’s starting to drift over toward My List.” She was joking, the way friends do, when they take up your side of things – but it made me think. The fact is that Gruff DID do this particular thing – and a few other particular things, to which my close friends and bloggy buddies are privy – but maybe I shouldn’t share the stories that cast him in a negative light. Overall, I don’t think I’m one of those women who is always complaining about men in general, her man in specific, or male-bashing at any opportunity. But I do sometimes choose to vent, here or in person, about my husband.

On one hand, I feel like it gives me a sounding board – a chance to feel heard, a chance to feel like I’m not being outrageous to expect (X, Y, Z) from Gruff, a chance to reality-check that other husbands do or don’t do (X, Y, Z). On the other hand, I wonder if I ought to stop comparing, stop having expectations, and stop venting altogether. I don’t know. What do you do, especially if you have a man like this in your life?

Doodlebump

I’ve taken to calling this baby “Doodlebug” – something about the way she (or he) skitters and scoots around in there always makes me want to ask her (or him) “What are you DOING in there…” and for some reason, the next thing out of my mouth is always, “…Doodlebug?”

Today I headed over the river and into the city to meet another of the midwives at our practice. So far I’ve hit it off just fine with both the ladies I’ve met. They are the youngest, newest-to-the-group, and seem to be very non-medical – which is exactly what I want this time around. We chatted for a while about the policies at the hospital where I’ll be delivering and I was really pleased to hear that it’s very different from South Florida, where Smooch was born.

At the end of my visit, she felt my belly (which is about 7 cm too big for my 15 weeks’ gestation, but apparently I just have a wacky, exuberant uterus) and hauled out the Doppler to listen for a heartbeat. At my last appointment, the other midwife tried but couldn’t find one – so I’ve spent the last four weeks repeating a mantra that “everything is fine, the baby was just too close to the placenta.” As she squirted that cold blue jelly on my tummy, I prayed a little prayer and tried to do a little Mommy ESP to command Doodlebug to cooperate. S/he cavorted across my belly, with the poor midwife racing the wand back and forth, trying to capture more than a beat or two in succession. Finally we got a good lock and I heard that beautiful woosh, woosh music of a strong, fast (155 bpm) heartbeat.

I left patting my doodlebump of a too-big belly with a big smile – good news about the hospital environment, good news of a healthy heartbeat, and an appointment in about 5 weeks for an anatomy scan. (I’m still feeling strong hunches that Doodle’s a girl – anyone wanna bet me?)

We’ve been learning about the potty for the last few months here at the House of Fizz. I was really thrilled when Smooch initiated the process – we had already purchased underwear and a Bjorn Little Potty and potty seats for the real toilets, and were just waiting for him to show more than a passing interest.

One evening, during our before-bed routine (wherein we lie together on Mommy & Daddy’s “big bed” to sing songs, retell what happened in our day, say a prayer, and then usher Smooch off to bed in his own room) he suddenly reached down, clutched his crotch, and said, “I pee-pee!” with a look of urgency on his face. Gruff was doubtful he knew what he was talking about & thought it was a new stall tactic, but I took him off to the bathroom anyway. And what do you know? As soon as he was seated comfortably, he did exactly what he said he had to do!

The next morning, he asked to put on his “unna-way-uh” and it was just steady progress from then on, for a few weeks. He seemed to increase the amount of time he’d spend dry in his underwear each day, still accepting diapers for naps and bedtimes and excursions. Then one day he protested as we were on our way out the door. “Unna-way-uh to liberry! I do it!” I didn’t let him – the mental image of a puddle amongst the stacks just mortified me, so I wrestled him into his diaper and off we went. Upon returning home, do you know what I discovered? A completely dry diaper. I felt horrible – he could have worn his underwear. He was fine. So I emailed a few moms who’ve been down this potty learning road with a bit of panic in my tone – what on earth should I do?

Basically, I was advised to just chuck the diapers – other than sleeping, and even then, maybe try to be sneaky (let him fall asleep in underwear and rush in and change him into a diaper after he’s zonked out) – get a few pairs of waterproof trainers, especially if I could get my hands on ImseVimses, for outings – and buy a portable potty to keep in the car and diaper bag for “emergencies” when we couldn’t find a public toilet to use. Then, just go for it. Be prepared for messes and successes and just see what he does.

So I girded up my loins. I bought the necessary equipment, plus another dozen pair of teeny-tiny boxer briefs. And then… I don’t know what happened. Maybe I seemed too eager? Maybe it became less about his interest and more about mine? Whatever it was – a cosmic shift in the universe or something – my no-accident boy turned into what feels like a willful pee-er. He stopped telling me he needed to use the potty – so I started offering and reminding. Each of my comments was met with a forceful “No! No potty!” If I insisted he sit and try, say right before leaving the house, he’d hop off in two seconds waving his hands in the air. “All done! No pee-pee!” Then, literally moments after leaving the toilet? A puddle would appear.

My frustration level is, shall we say, rising. I’m sure it doesn’t help that I’m hormonal. I know for certain that it doesn’t help that yesterday, I raised my voice and got a little bit scolding at the last accident. (It didn’t help that Daddy has had social things after work the last two days in a row and hasn’t been home to pitch in during Smooch’s waking hours since Tuesday – Mommy is fried at this point.)

We headed out to the mall yesterday and stopped in at Bear Central, where, on a whim, I decided to try a motivational technique. We chose a new T-shirt for Smooch’s previously naked pal Bobo the Panda. Then we picked out a pair of underwear for our furry friend! Back at home, Bobo got dressed in his new duds and Smooch proclaimed him a “big boy!” A few times yesterday, I remarked that both Smooch and Bobo had dry underwear – how wonderful. We were accident free for the evening, which was a real blessing for my sanity.

Laying in bed just before bedtime, Smooch cuddled his panda and recalled what we did all day. “An’… Bobo new unna-way-uh and g’een shut too!” I couldn’t help myself, and piped up,

“Yep, and his underwear is still dry! Bobo is getting so big!”

“Psssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” Smooch sound-effect-ed. “Bobo go pee-pee!”

So much for motivation.

******************
In other news, the other thing we did at the mall yesterday? “Mama hair all gone floor!”

Summer Backyard Fun

A Post Worth Coming Back For

 

I’m trying to remember a lesson I thought I learned a long time ago: I choose the hard stuff.

 

In the fall of 2001, Gruff (then my fiancé) was diagnosed with testicular cancer. Two surgeries followed in the next whirlwind month, and as he recovered in hospital after the last surgery we made a decision. All those plans for the April wedding – the sage green bridesmaids dresses, the dogwood sprays we’d carry, the delicate springy flowers I would use to decorate the church – were gone. Instead, we would marry in December; the new date was just six weeks away. Amidst the new flurry of  rearranging and downsizing the plans, and the rollercoaster of Gruff’s physical recovery and appointments and meetings with the oncologists, I had a conversation with my dad.

 

“I love him. I need to be married to him, even if it’s only for a little while. I’d marry him in his hospital bed if I had to.”

 

“He’ll be sick. Chemo will be hard.”

 

“I know. But I need to be the one who takes care of him. Even if it’s hard. It should be me.”

 

But I didn’t really know – I couldn’t. I was just twenty-one years old (and barely that. I had my birthday, then started my first “real job”, then graduated from college, and then got married – all at two week intervals at the end of that year.) and I had no idea what chemotherapy would really be like.

 

One evening, midway through his treatments, my husband stood at the sink of our tiny bathroom in our postage-stamp one-bedroom apartment. Hands braced on the countertop, his shoulders shook, and he looked fragile for the first time since I’d met him. His head was newly bald – we had shaved it when his hair began to fall out in alarming clumps – and he was so pale. I crept in behind him, put my hand on his back, tried to comfort him.

 

And suddenly, he collapsed toward me. I think I let out a little scream – I was so scared. He caught himself, braced against me, and I helped him walk the few short steps across the hall to our bedroom. I tucked him in to our bed – my double bed from my parent’s home, which seemed so big to me as a teenager, now too small for my 6’3” husband – and fetched a glass of water, a pill. He was asleep before I knew it, and I hovered at the doorway listening to his breath in the dim light of dusk.

 

Then I ran to our sofa and dialed my parent’s phone number through my tears. I’m sure I scared them, calling with that voice – sobs and hitched breaths – but I told them about what had just happened, how scared I was. What would I do if he had passed out? My young heart was trying so hard to be grown up, but faced with the very real mortality of the man I loved, I just wanted to hear my dad’s voice.

 

“You chose this, hon,” he said. “You told me that day – you wanted it to be you who took care of him. You knew this was the hard part. You are strong enough. You love him enough. You chose this.”

 

Through the years, I have clung to that conversation. My dad’s voice rings in my ears now when something painful, or difficult, or challenging comes my way. I choose the hard part.

 

Today, I lay curled awkwardly on a toddler bed, my body molded around a sweaty, sniffling toddler. When we got home from our playgroup this afternoon, Smooch had a rough time with his nap. He got out of bed over and over, throwing himself on the floor and peering under the crack in the door, calling my name. I tried to stay calm, send him back to his bed, leave the room again, and pray he’d sleep – but after the third go-round I realized he was becoming hysterical. His little body was shaking, his voice was trembling, his head was covered in sweaty curls. I held him in my arms, and I heard my father’s voice.

 

We climbed into his bed together, and within moments he was fast asleep. His breath still caught in his throat, those trembly sighs that follow a long hard cry. My inner type-A wanted to hop right up and go DO something – but I resisted. Lately, we’ve been working at cross-purposes, my little Smooch and I. Two-and-a-half has been hard. He needs more independence, more control… and I’m pregnant, hormonal, and tired, so I haven’t always met those needs very gracefully. There have been potty progresses and potty battles. There have been the first aggressive incidents with little friends. These are normal things, but they are the hard parts of this age. As I tried to bend my knees a little, finding a more comfortable way to spoon my son in his little bed, I realized that I am simply re-learning this lesson.

 

The biggest part of love, I think, is choosing to be there for the hard stuff. You don’t pass it off to someone else. You don’t let the other person bear the load alone. Whether it’s your lover or your child, you come alongside them – you throw your lot in with them – you hear their hurts, feel their pain, share their fears. It sometimes pierces your heart, it sometimes seems insane. When you come out on the other side, though, it is always worth it.

 

So I stayed in that toddler bed until his breathing was still and calm. Easing my gravid belly off of the little frame, I felt a peace unfold deep inside me.