My older daughter is more of an indoor girl. She (at 4 1/2) can sit with a coloring book, or stack of alphabet worksheets for hours. With a screen for, well, I've never tested this one, but I'm sure days. This has been mostly fine with me, I'm the type who WANTS to want to go outside, but, inertia is a bitch and I'm afraid my awesome hiking boots don't get the love they deserve.
Then, along came our younger daughter, she's the type of toddler who will go find her shoes, put them on, then plant herself at the door in nothing but a t-shirt and a pair of Pedoodles (Great shoes! Look them up!) saying "At syde" over and over again. This has been good for us all in the long run, but if any of you have an indoor kid like I do, then you are familiar with the 5 stages of Going Outside.
I have learned, through much trial and error to give Big Sis lots of
warning before a shift of activity, so I usually warn her ahead of time.
I give her the standard, "we're going out in 5 minutes kiddo" type
warning, receive the absentminded reply of the art-engrossed
preschooler, and proceed to gird my loins for the inevitable battle
ahead.
Stage 1: Denial
After 5 (or 7, or 10, or heck, maybe 13) whole minutes has passed in relative peace, it's time to get this crazy train a-rollin'. Loins sufficiently girded, I inform Big Sis that it's time to get shoes on (and inform Little Sis that she needs pants to go with her shoes) so we can head outside. Big Sis embarks on her litany of reasons why she can't go outside because she NEEDS to _____ (the thing she needs to do isn't nearly as important as the fact that she needs to do it). I explain that she had a warning and it's time to go outside while it's still warm (or light, or cool, or rainy, or whatever). This conversation proceeds immediately to stage 2.
Stage 2: Anger
She's 4 1/2, if you have kids this age or older, you know what this looks like. If your kids are younger than 4, I assure you, they will never misbehave, throw tantrums, or otherwise break your brain with their insanity. If you don't have kids, ooooh, that must be nice!
Stage 3: Bargaining
You might think this is her bargaining with me, trying to get out of the sentence I've imposed upon her. It isn't, the bargaining here is ALL me. One of the MANY things I swore I'd never do with my kids was bribing/bargaining/coaxing with rewards. HAH! I'll trade 30 minutes of Octonauts for an hour outside any day. It's called balance.
Stage 4: Acceptance
SNORT!! Hahahahahaaaaaaaahahaaahaha!!!! Sorry, I had to, lol....you didn't...*gasp* you didn't think this stage actually happened did you?....I really shouldn't laugh...but....LOL!!!
Stage 5: Fun Outside (also known as Depression)
This is the part where we go outdoors and spend 30-60 minutes playing (or in Big Sis's case, WHINING like C-3PO on Tatooine ), until they are both crying about something and I finally give up, take them inside for some Octonauts and a glass of wine (for me, not them).
There you have it, the 5 Stages of Going Outside, from an expert. So all you parents with indoor kids, stay strong, they do need Vitamin D, they do need fresh air, and it's worth it...or at least that's what I keep telling myself. To all you parents of outdoor kids....just remember the pants.
Monday, February 15, 2016
Friday, February 12, 2016
Family Vacation
Some people go on family vacations.
Some people go on family vacations that they planned as road trips, but changed to flights in the interest of spending more time with those whom they are visiting. From time to time, those families discover they are all ill prior to their flight, but can't do jack about it because 'Murican Airlines makes it prohibitively expensive to change flights, even if you are a family of 4, possibly dying of the plague and rabies (this is based on extensive googling of our symptoms).
Families in this position often go to sleep on Wednesday, hoping they will wake, magically spry and healthy on Thursday, they don't, and the baby has added PINK EYE to her list of maladies. Being responsible human beings, and wanting to avoid sharing her bacteria laden eye snot with the world, these families despair their inability to change flights (see above), and instead opt to run to the pediatrician when they open at 8:00am before they catch their 10:30 flight, then they can at least start antibiotics as soon as possible.
When these families manage to arrive at the airport by 9:30 am, they are delighted to discover that their carefully packed suitcase is 56 lbs, and they get to transfer 6 lbs of joy into their various (even more carefully packed) carryon items. These people make their flight, by 10 minutes.
Upon arrival at their destination, families of this persuasion wait for their luggage as they contemplate the 5 hour drive they are about to undertake because they thought it would be neat to see a little bit of the Land of Enchantment on their way to their final final destination. During their contemplation of said idiocy, they can't help but notice that the luggage carousel is conspicuously lacking in booster seats, which is strange, since they brought a booster seat with them, and even turned it into the custody of 'Murican Airlines.
Two hours later, these families are on the way to the pharmacy with their loaner booster seat (which is not a big deal to grownups, but LIFE ENDING to a 4 year old BTW), and an assurance that someone must have taken their own booster seat off the carousel, because THAT'S way more likely than 'Murica's baggage handlers dropping it behind a conveyor belt somewhere (don't we all troll baggage claim for pink booster seats in our spare time???). While they wait an hour for the baby's prescription, staring in horror as her eye has become a study in mucus and despair, these families might just get a call from 'Murican Airlines stating that the errant booster has been located, and the delivery guy (no he doesn't know where they found it) can either wait at the terminal for them to come back and get it, or he can **SIGH** drive all the way to their final destination and bring it to them. They return to the airport.
These families then spend the next 3 days participating in various events and hoping that tomorrow, TOMORROW, they will feel better, but they don't. On Monday, after a particularly touristy and awesome day, they decide to seek help. Urgent care tells these families that, "No, Kahn hasn't dropped a parasite into the 4 year old's ear, and no, the mother's sinuses aren't actually filled with tiny creatures obsessed with inflating party balloons even though there isn't any room in there!!!." However, the baby (who has recovered from Pink Eye and seems to be in perfect spirits) has a double ear infection. These families go to the pharmacy, again, and get a prescription, again.
Typically, people who go on these types of family vacations, wake up on the morning of their departure to a baby with hives, Yay! Penicillin allergy!!
These families do their best to tidy up their vacation rental, but end up leaving it looking like a murder scene because they spent 20 minutes trying to shoo a bird out, as he systematically bludgeoned his head on the ceiling in what can only be described as a morse code of gore.
After their 5 hour drive, and 2 flights (with only the minor complication of 'Murican Airlines losing their plane and sending them back and forth between two terminals for the duration of their hour layover in Dallas. As well as the Mama's "not a sinus infection" causing her eye to literally bulge from her face like an overripe grape during cabin pressure changes. ) these families finally arrive at home, relieved and seemingly no worse for the wear. When they see their pediatrician, they discover that the baby didn't even have an ear infection...at all.
Now, one might be critical of people like this, who choose a family vacation with so many, shall we say, intricacies. However, these families know something you don't, they know that the universe simply couldn't contain the astronomical AWESOMENESS of this kind of trip sans hiccups. See, these families have so much fun with their friends, in such an unbelievably beautiful place, that, had the trip gone off without a hitch, the multiverse would have collapsed in on itself due to the gravity of unadulterated raditude centered on them. They don't want to snuff out trillions of lifeforms in an instant, so....they get pink eye. You're welcome.
Some people go on family vacations that they planned as road trips, but changed to flights in the interest of spending more time with those whom they are visiting. From time to time, those families discover they are all ill prior to their flight, but can't do jack about it because 'Murican Airlines makes it prohibitively expensive to change flights, even if you are a family of 4, possibly dying of the plague and rabies (this is based on extensive googling of our symptoms).
Families in this position often go to sleep on Wednesday, hoping they will wake, magically spry and healthy on Thursday, they don't, and the baby has added PINK EYE to her list of maladies. Being responsible human beings, and wanting to avoid sharing her bacteria laden eye snot with the world, these families despair their inability to change flights (see above), and instead opt to run to the pediatrician when they open at 8:00am before they catch their 10:30 flight, then they can at least start antibiotics as soon as possible.
When these families manage to arrive at the airport by 9:30 am, they are delighted to discover that their carefully packed suitcase is 56 lbs, and they get to transfer 6 lbs of joy into their various (even more carefully packed) carryon items. These people make their flight, by 10 minutes.
Upon arrival at their destination, families of this persuasion wait for their luggage as they contemplate the 5 hour drive they are about to undertake because they thought it would be neat to see a little bit of the Land of Enchantment on their way to their final final destination. During their contemplation of said idiocy, they can't help but notice that the luggage carousel is conspicuously lacking in booster seats, which is strange, since they brought a booster seat with them, and even turned it into the custody of 'Murican Airlines.
Two hours later, these families are on the way to the pharmacy with their loaner booster seat (which is not a big deal to grownups, but LIFE ENDING to a 4 year old BTW), and an assurance that someone must have taken their own booster seat off the carousel, because THAT'S way more likely than 'Murica's baggage handlers dropping it behind a conveyor belt somewhere (don't we all troll baggage claim for pink booster seats in our spare time???). While they wait an hour for the baby's prescription, staring in horror as her eye has become a study in mucus and despair, these families might just get a call from 'Murican Airlines stating that the errant booster has been located, and the delivery guy (no he doesn't know where they found it) can either wait at the terminal for them to come back and get it, or he can **SIGH** drive all the way to their final destination and bring it to them. They return to the airport.
These families then spend the next 3 days participating in various events and hoping that tomorrow, TOMORROW, they will feel better, but they don't. On Monday, after a particularly touristy and awesome day, they decide to seek help. Urgent care tells these families that, "No, Kahn hasn't dropped a parasite into the 4 year old's ear, and no, the mother's sinuses aren't actually filled with tiny creatures obsessed with inflating party balloons even though there isn't any room in there!!!." However, the baby (who has recovered from Pink Eye and seems to be in perfect spirits) has a double ear infection. These families go to the pharmacy, again, and get a prescription, again.
Typically, people who go on these types of family vacations, wake up on the morning of their departure to a baby with hives, Yay! Penicillin allergy!!
These families do their best to tidy up their vacation rental, but end up leaving it looking like a murder scene because they spent 20 minutes trying to shoo a bird out, as he systematically bludgeoned his head on the ceiling in what can only be described as a morse code of gore.
After their 5 hour drive, and 2 flights (with only the minor complication of 'Murican Airlines losing their plane and sending them back and forth between two terminals for the duration of their hour layover in Dallas. As well as the Mama's "not a sinus infection" causing her eye to literally bulge from her face like an overripe grape during cabin pressure changes. ) these families finally arrive at home, relieved and seemingly no worse for the wear. When they see their pediatrician, they discover that the baby didn't even have an ear infection...at all.
Now, one might be critical of people like this, who choose a family vacation with so many, shall we say, intricacies. However, these families know something you don't, they know that the universe simply couldn't contain the astronomical AWESOMENESS of this kind of trip sans hiccups. See, these families have so much fun with their friends, in such an unbelievably beautiful place, that, had the trip gone off without a hitch, the multiverse would have collapsed in on itself due to the gravity of unadulterated raditude centered on them. They don't want to snuff out trillions of lifeforms in an instant, so....they get pink eye. You're welcome.
Thursday, March 26, 2015
Normal
Did you know that I used to be normal? That I used to not yell, "Stop licking the step stool!!" That I used to choose clothes based on how they looked (well, let's be honest, how comfortable they were), not on how accessible my lactating mammaries were? Did you know that my husband and I used to not argue about where the Brita pitcher belongs on the counter, or him readjusting the G.D. strap on the diaperbag EVERY STINKING TIME he used it!! For God's sake man, just pick it up and carry it, stop screwing with the strap!!!........*ehem* As I was saying...I used to be...normal.
This is the part where I'm supposed to say, "Yes, I'm a raving lunatic obsessed with raisins and poop, but my life is full and happy, I have small human beings who love me more than anything...blah, blah, blah..." All of that is true, but...when Big Girl is splashing gallons of water out of her bath while Little Girl is getting her adrenaline fix because I forgot to buckle her into the highchair (again!), I just want to send them both to a new family, and be normal again.
I want to put on makeup and some heels (I know there are some buried in my closet somewhere). I want to make a QUICK run to the store (any store....just so I can experience the rush of getting out of my car and walking into a building in under 7 minutes). I want to drink a fresh HOT cup of coffee, sing to the songs on my favorite CDs (Big Girl doesn't like it when I sing with the radio, it fills me with a deep and abiding sadness), and for the love of all that is holy, I want to experience solo bathroom time!!
So yes, blah blah blah, I love my kids, they are great, I can't wait to see who they become as they grow, but sometimes (ok, one might even say often), I can't WAIT for them to fly the nest so hubby and I can get to know each other again, and I can get to know myself again. As much as I want to see who they become, I want to see who I become over the next 17 odd years! Will I still have the uncontrollable urge to pack a variety of tidy, finger foods everywhere I go? Will I still have pockets full of hankies and stray barbie shoes? Will I feel naked without a Mary Poppins bag containing EVERYTHING I could possibly need for EVERY emergency, except the one that we're currently experiencing? Will I still lie awake at night, after the house is quiet, reliving every moment of the day, cursing myself for not knowing the right way to handle each insane scenario cooked up by these little versions of me? Probably that last one...yeah...definitely, that one, because, this is my new normal.
I am no longer that "normal" me, I'm this mom-me (get it, Mommy???). I do obsess over bodily functions and the day's sticky substance. I do want to neck punch the office manager who offered my 3 year old a blasted lollypop at 5pm....FIVE PM!!! And even though, I miss all of those "normal" things, I signed up for this, and it's my job to help my daughters find their normal, and try my hardest to show them what a healthy normal is.
This is the part where I'm supposed to say, "Yes, I'm a raving lunatic obsessed with raisins and poop, but my life is full and happy, I have small human beings who love me more than anything...blah, blah, blah..." All of that is true, but...when Big Girl is splashing gallons of water out of her bath while Little Girl is getting her adrenaline fix because I forgot to buckle her into the highchair (again!), I just want to send them both to a new family, and be normal again.
I want to put on makeup and some heels (I know there are some buried in my closet somewhere). I want to make a QUICK run to the store (any store....just so I can experience the rush of getting out of my car and walking into a building in under 7 minutes). I want to drink a fresh HOT cup of coffee, sing to the songs on my favorite CDs (Big Girl doesn't like it when I sing with the radio, it fills me with a deep and abiding sadness), and for the love of all that is holy, I want to experience solo bathroom time!!
So yes, blah blah blah, I love my kids, they are great, I can't wait to see who they become as they grow, but sometimes (ok, one might even say often), I can't WAIT for them to fly the nest so hubby and I can get to know each other again, and I can get to know myself again. As much as I want to see who they become, I want to see who I become over the next 17 odd years! Will I still have the uncontrollable urge to pack a variety of tidy, finger foods everywhere I go? Will I still have pockets full of hankies and stray barbie shoes? Will I feel naked without a Mary Poppins bag containing EVERYTHING I could possibly need for EVERY emergency, except the one that we're currently experiencing? Will I still lie awake at night, after the house is quiet, reliving every moment of the day, cursing myself for not knowing the right way to handle each insane scenario cooked up by these little versions of me? Probably that last one...yeah...definitely, that one, because, this is my new normal.
I am no longer that "normal" me, I'm this mom-me (get it, Mommy???). I do obsess over bodily functions and the day's sticky substance. I do want to neck punch the office manager who offered my 3 year old a blasted lollypop at 5pm....FIVE PM!!! And even though, I miss all of those "normal" things, I signed up for this, and it's my job to help my daughters find their normal, and try my hardest to show them what a healthy normal is.
Monday, March 16, 2015
Baggage
I'm back...to sum up the last 15 months or so, we had a baby, sold a house, sold about half of what we owned, moved across the country, endured a Minnesota winter (brrrr...) and are JUST starting to slow down, which means it's time to start looking for a new house so we can move out of our apartment.
So, what spurred me to rejoin the world of the mom-blogger? One word...baggage. Here's what happened.
It's spring(ish) in Minnesota, which means that any day that is over 45 degrees F calls for outdoor activities. So on Sunday, as the mercury soared over 53, we packed the girls up in our bike trailer, slapped on our helmets, and pedaled our little loves over to the park. What a delight to see a gaggle of little 4 and 5 year old pink-doused girlywigs careening around the playground! It's always great to have windfall playmates!
Big Girl immediately leaped from her nest in the trailer and dashed across the wood chips to join her insta-pals in all their screeching glory. Dada and I installed Little Girl in her favorite baby-swing and settled in to watch the miracle of a 3 year old making friends with strangers. Then it happened, the moment every parent truly dreads, the first perceived peer-rejection, this wasn't the standard 2 or 3 year old's "NO!" when asked to play, or share, and it was certainly not an intentional rebuff, but as the slightly older girls all mounted their bikes and started racing around the walking path, I saw what was coming.
"Take her..." I said to Dada, absently handing Little Girl to him, my Big Girl needed me.
I started walking across the playground towards Big Girl, as she stood watching her friends race away.
"Please let her not care, please let her not care, please let her not care..." I chanted in my head, hoping that her little brain hadn't yet developed whatever medulla, or cortex holds the rejection-processing center.
Then she turned and I watched her sweet, round, still-baby, face crumple in total and complete heartbreak. I scooped her up as she wailed, "Theeey leeeeeft meeee!!!"
"They didn't baby" I said, "They didn't know you wanted to go" I explained, "I'm sorry we didn't bring your bike" I bemoaned, and on she sobbed.
How do you explain to a 3 year old that 4 and 5 year olds aren't grownups, that they aren't much further along in learning to consider others' feelings, and the consequences of actions? How do you deflect the hurt that inevitably bombards a little heart that can't conceive of NOT being the center of another person's consciousness? I did the only thing I could. The only thing any parent can when a bandaid won't help, I cuddled her and held her while she cried and tried to help her understand.
The girls returned, dropping bikes in favor of slides and swings, and I cajoled Big Girl to rejoin the fun, "Go play baby, they're back" I said, "They don't know you want to play" I explained, "Just ask them to play with you" I coaxed. Her "They don't even caaare" just about tore my heart from my chest. Finally another mom noticed and asked her daughter to invite Big Girl to play, which of course worked.
As I mouthed "Thank You" to her, I wondered at the utterly visceral agony I had experienced along with my girl. Not only was I empathetic towards her pain, as anyone would be, but I felt as if I'd experienced it right along with her, that's when I realized that I have. Well, not ALONG with her, but as soon as I saw the situation unfold, I was instantly transported into my own 9 year old self, as my best friend said she didn't want to be my friend anymore.
I realized that all that baggage is still there, and part of parenting is watching your child collect her own satchels and valises as she grows, knowing that they are all rights of passage.
She was fine within minutes of course, and probably won't remember the incident, but I probably always will, as I will all the heartbreaks I witness (God HELP the first boy to hurt her!!!) All I can do is try and help her drop the bags that aren't worth carrying, and help her be strong enough to carry the ones she can't let go of, because, no matter how much I wish I could, I can't carry them for her.
So, what spurred me to rejoin the world of the mom-blogger? One word...baggage. Here's what happened.
It's spring(ish) in Minnesota, which means that any day that is over 45 degrees F calls for outdoor activities. So on Sunday, as the mercury soared over 53, we packed the girls up in our bike trailer, slapped on our helmets, and pedaled our little loves over to the park. What a delight to see a gaggle of little 4 and 5 year old pink-doused girlywigs careening around the playground! It's always great to have windfall playmates!
Big Girl immediately leaped from her nest in the trailer and dashed across the wood chips to join her insta-pals in all their screeching glory. Dada and I installed Little Girl in her favorite baby-swing and settled in to watch the miracle of a 3 year old making friends with strangers. Then it happened, the moment every parent truly dreads, the first perceived peer-rejection, this wasn't the standard 2 or 3 year old's "NO!" when asked to play, or share, and it was certainly not an intentional rebuff, but as the slightly older girls all mounted their bikes and started racing around the walking path, I saw what was coming.
"Take her..." I said to Dada, absently handing Little Girl to him, my Big Girl needed me.
I started walking across the playground towards Big Girl, as she stood watching her friends race away.
"Please let her not care, please let her not care, please let her not care..." I chanted in my head, hoping that her little brain hadn't yet developed whatever medulla, or cortex holds the rejection-processing center.
Then she turned and I watched her sweet, round, still-baby, face crumple in total and complete heartbreak. I scooped her up as she wailed, "Theeey leeeeeft meeee!!!"
"They didn't baby" I said, "They didn't know you wanted to go" I explained, "I'm sorry we didn't bring your bike" I bemoaned, and on she sobbed.
How do you explain to a 3 year old that 4 and 5 year olds aren't grownups, that they aren't much further along in learning to consider others' feelings, and the consequences of actions? How do you deflect the hurt that inevitably bombards a little heart that can't conceive of NOT being the center of another person's consciousness? I did the only thing I could. The only thing any parent can when a bandaid won't help, I cuddled her and held her while she cried and tried to help her understand.
The girls returned, dropping bikes in favor of slides and swings, and I cajoled Big Girl to rejoin the fun, "Go play baby, they're back" I said, "They don't know you want to play" I explained, "Just ask them to play with you" I coaxed. Her "They don't even caaare" just about tore my heart from my chest. Finally another mom noticed and asked her daughter to invite Big Girl to play, which of course worked.
As I mouthed "Thank You" to her, I wondered at the utterly visceral agony I had experienced along with my girl. Not only was I empathetic towards her pain, as anyone would be, but I felt as if I'd experienced it right along with her, that's when I realized that I have. Well, not ALONG with her, but as soon as I saw the situation unfold, I was instantly transported into my own 9 year old self, as my best friend said she didn't want to be my friend anymore.
I realized that all that baggage is still there, and part of parenting is watching your child collect her own satchels and valises as she grows, knowing that they are all rights of passage.
She was fine within minutes of course, and probably won't remember the incident, but I probably always will, as I will all the heartbreaks I witness (God HELP the first boy to hurt her!!!) All I can do is try and help her drop the bags that aren't worth carrying, and help her be strong enough to carry the ones she can't let go of, because, no matter how much I wish I could, I can't carry them for her.
Monday, February 24, 2014
Sleep Schmeep
I'm surprised that this is my first sleep related post, since, as every parent knows, sleep and poop instantly become the two most important things in your life the moment jr. is born...oh, and the baby, he's important too. I've already written about poop, so now I guess it's time for sleep.
Darling Daughter is 33 months old (I plan on stating her age in months until she's at least 216 months old), in non-mom terms, that's floating between 2.5 and 3 years old. She spent the first 10 months of her life sleeping only when latched on, and lying next to me. That's right folks, I could put her down for a 20 minute nap by herself, or I could lie with her and nurse her through a 3 hour nap. Needless to say, during that 10 months, I read a lot of e-books, I also watched all of Grey's Anatomy, Glee, 1/2 a season of Lost (really couldn't get that into Lost...why was that show so popular?...it was weird), the first season of Downton Abbey, and an untold number of movies on my phone. This was exhausting in a way that only a parent (or I suppose an invalid) can understand. To be lying in a bed essentially waiting to be allowed to get up while a bajillion things are screaming to be done in (and out of) the house wears a person down to a nub, only vaguely resembling the vibrant, sexy woman she used to be (or at least liked to imagine herself being).
When that nonsense came to a stop, we had pretty smooth sailing for about 5 months. During those months, I learned how to lie next to her, nursing, until she was out, then unlatch, turn into the blob, and slither out of the bed without disturbing her or the mattress in the slightest. It was a magical time. She was still co-sleeping at night, but didn't usually wake until 6:30 or 7 am, that was positively lovely for a family that typically hit the sack no later than 8:30 pm. No really...it was magical.
Then, as she transitioned herself from our bed to her own big girl bed (self-high-five!), we were again, sitting pretty, 1-2 decent naps a day, 10-12 hours of nighttime sleep, a few nursing sessions thrown in each night, but really, she was a rockstar! (Take that! Jerks who gave us crap for co-sleeping).
But, then, I made the biggest mistake any parent can make, I got cocky. I started to feel like I knew it all, like I had figured out this sleeping thing and all those other folks who's kids were night-terrors were just doing it wrong.
Darling Daughter was quick to correct my arrogance.
She started waking, daily, between 3:45 and 4:30 am. Yes, waking!! this wasn't, "I'm awake, but still tired and needing some cuddles before I'll crash for another 90 minutes." This was full fledged, bright eyed and bushy-tailed, middle of the GD night, but late enough for the day to begin, awake. I don't have much to say about this time, as it's mostly an agonizing blur of agony on which I prefer not to dwell due to the agony. All I will say is that it lasted about 6 months, 6 horrible months that I will never get back.
Now we're in a pretty good place. The kind of place where you absolutely cannot rock the boat (we learned this the hard way by trying to get her out of pullups at night...baaaaddd idea). I've learned to schedule her almost to the minute, and she now naps reliably, and sleeps at least 9-11 hours a night. We do have the occasional 5:30 am wake up, but it typically precedes a decent nap. Which leads me to my one complaint, naps.
Now, she goes down great, usually only sings/plays/chants/chats to herself for 30 minutes or so, then she's out. Great, but, I have absolutely no way of knowing when she will wake up. This makes it nearly impossible to employ the nap in any sort of profitable way. Sometimes she'll be up, perky and sparkling after just 90 minutes, other times I'm sitting staring at the monitor after 4+ hours, trying to see if she's still breathing. And isn't that just the catch? Either she's soundly sleeping and any disturbance would instantly wake her in the crankiest of states, or something has gone horribly awry, either way, if I walk into that room, my day is ruined. So instead of finally taking on the bathroom grout, or sewing all the cloth wipes I need to sew before Darling Daughter 2.0 arrives, I end up watching 6 episodes of Toddlers in Tiaras because I'd rather have to turn that off when she wakes up, than stow some huge, uncompleted, project.
I'm sure when she stops napping altogether, things will be much easier....n't
As a side sleep-note, if you don't have a video monitor on your child, get one! These things are awesome, and you learn a lot. Turns out, DD wasn't actually falling asleep at 7:15 every night, she was just lying quietly in bed playing with her stuffed orca, or picking her nose. This little stinker doesn't ever fall asleep before 8 or 8:30...and we're often out before her. The more you know!
Darling Daughter is 33 months old (I plan on stating her age in months until she's at least 216 months old), in non-mom terms, that's floating between 2.5 and 3 years old. She spent the first 10 months of her life sleeping only when latched on, and lying next to me. That's right folks, I could put her down for a 20 minute nap by herself, or I could lie with her and nurse her through a 3 hour nap. Needless to say, during that 10 months, I read a lot of e-books, I also watched all of Grey's Anatomy, Glee, 1/2 a season of Lost (really couldn't get that into Lost...why was that show so popular?...it was weird), the first season of Downton Abbey, and an untold number of movies on my phone. This was exhausting in a way that only a parent (or I suppose an invalid) can understand. To be lying in a bed essentially waiting to be allowed to get up while a bajillion things are screaming to be done in (and out of) the house wears a person down to a nub, only vaguely resembling the vibrant, sexy woman she used to be (or at least liked to imagine herself being).
When that nonsense came to a stop, we had pretty smooth sailing for about 5 months. During those months, I learned how to lie next to her, nursing, until she was out, then unlatch, turn into the blob, and slither out of the bed without disturbing her or the mattress in the slightest. It was a magical time. She was still co-sleeping at night, but didn't usually wake until 6:30 or 7 am, that was positively lovely for a family that typically hit the sack no later than 8:30 pm. No really...it was magical.
Then, as she transitioned herself from our bed to her own big girl bed (self-high-five!), we were again, sitting pretty, 1-2 decent naps a day, 10-12 hours of nighttime sleep, a few nursing sessions thrown in each night, but really, she was a rockstar! (Take that! Jerks who gave us crap for co-sleeping).
But, then, I made the biggest mistake any parent can make, I got cocky. I started to feel like I knew it all, like I had figured out this sleeping thing and all those other folks who's kids were night-terrors were just doing it wrong.
Darling Daughter was quick to correct my arrogance.
She started waking, daily, between 3:45 and 4:30 am. Yes, waking!! this wasn't, "I'm awake, but still tired and needing some cuddles before I'll crash for another 90 minutes." This was full fledged, bright eyed and bushy-tailed, middle of the GD night, but late enough for the day to begin, awake. I don't have much to say about this time, as it's mostly an agonizing blur of agony on which I prefer not to dwell due to the agony. All I will say is that it lasted about 6 months, 6 horrible months that I will never get back.
Now we're in a pretty good place. The kind of place where you absolutely cannot rock the boat (we learned this the hard way by trying to get her out of pullups at night...baaaaddd idea). I've learned to schedule her almost to the minute, and she now naps reliably, and sleeps at least 9-11 hours a night. We do have the occasional 5:30 am wake up, but it typically precedes a decent nap. Which leads me to my one complaint, naps.
Now, she goes down great, usually only sings/plays/chants/chats to herself for 30 minutes or so, then she's out. Great, but, I have absolutely no way of knowing when she will wake up. This makes it nearly impossible to employ the nap in any sort of profitable way. Sometimes she'll be up, perky and sparkling after just 90 minutes, other times I'm sitting staring at the monitor after 4+ hours, trying to see if she's still breathing. And isn't that just the catch? Either she's soundly sleeping and any disturbance would instantly wake her in the crankiest of states, or something has gone horribly awry, either way, if I walk into that room, my day is ruined. So instead of finally taking on the bathroom grout, or sewing all the cloth wipes I need to sew before Darling Daughter 2.0 arrives, I end up watching 6 episodes of Toddlers in Tiaras because I'd rather have to turn that off when she wakes up, than stow some huge, uncompleted, project.
I'm sure when she stops napping altogether, things will be much easier....n't
As a side sleep-note, if you don't have a video monitor on your child, get one! These things are awesome, and you learn a lot. Turns out, DD wasn't actually falling asleep at 7:15 every night, she was just lying quietly in bed playing with her stuffed orca, or picking her nose. This little stinker doesn't ever fall asleep before 8 or 8:30...and we're often out before her. The more you know!
Monday, February 17, 2014
Toddler Physics
We all know that toddlers come with their own set of rules for how the world works.
- It is ok to dip melon in ketchup and ranch before eating
- It is ok to say, "I don't like you." to anyone who has displeased you, or just breathed wrong
- It is ok to wake up before 6 am
- It is ok to wake up before 5 am
- It is ok to wake up before any normal human being should ever voluntarily wake
- The Law of Gravity explains the attractive force between a pair of masses.
- The Toddler Law of Gravity states: There is none, until it kicks your ass. Toddlers can climb, jump, scale, or teeter, across, along, or up anything until they can't, then they can't....hard!
- The Law of Conservation of Energy states: The total energy in a closed or isolated system is constant, no matter what happens.
- The Toddler Law of Energy Conservation states: The total energy in a toddler system will exponentially increase until something breaks, or he has a melt down, then the energy will exhibit a sudden and precipitous drop.
- The Law of Conservation of Momentum states: The total momentum in a closed or isolated system remains constant.
- See the Toddler law of energy conservation above.
- The Law of Conservation of Mass states: The mass in an isolated system is constant.
- The Toddler Law of Conservation of Mass states: Toddlers have the uncanny (and mildly disturbing) ability to significantly, and instantly, increase their own mass.
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
I Meed Pants!
So, I'm 7 months pregnant, which has a whole slew of hilarious stories to go along with it, but today, we're going to talk about pants. Specifically, my desperate need for, and inability to acquire, pants. Here's the deal...
If you have kids, you know that buying new clothes for yourself is not a priority. For me, that means my extremely limited wardrobe consists primarily of t-shirts I bought at Costco, four different colors of the same shirt I found at Kohl's, a sequined tank top I bought for a party once, a single 6-year-old dress for the occasional night out, a half dozen pairs of high heals that I haven't even touched since 2010, a pair of Chuck Taylors, and a pair of rubber boots (we do live in the country, in Washington state, the boots are unavoidable). I also have 3 pairs of jeans, and a drawer full of paint-spattered t-shirts and novelty t's (from that muddy 5K I ran last year) that are exclusively used for working outdoors or sleeping.
When I'm pregnant, this modest trousseau gets even sadder, I now have 6 maternity shirts (mostly donated by friends who actually bought maternity clothes), 4 gorgeous dresses that I will never wear (I say this is because they are summer dresses, but really it's because the friends I got them from are tiny, even when pregnant, and tiny is not a claim I can make, so they make my thighs look like I'm smuggling a couple of roasts out of Safeway), and the two pairs of pants I acquired during my first pregnancy. One of these is a pair of jeans, the other is a pair of corduroys that are about 2 inches too short and fall down all the damn time!!!
I'm content with this collection, as I have never been one to turn up my nose at donated duds, and I am, by no means, a fashion maven, so really, it's cool, except, two pairs of pants, just isn't enough. Especially if there's a particularly messy preschool day, or the Little Girl has a potty accident in my lap. If anything like that happens, and it's more than 2 days until laundry day, I'm screwed. Luckily, one of my friends had a baby 4 months ago, and she's been promising me her maternity stash since then!
Saweet!! There's got to be at least one or two pairs of pants in there, I can hold out!
(I know some of you are thinking, "why doesn't she just go buy some new pants??" I'm getting to that part)
So, my friend and I get together for a visit and she gives me a HUGE bag of clothes (this friend is a model, no, for reals, so I always assume that at least 30% of what she gives me is either way too small, or way too cool for me). In the bag is one precious pair of jeans, they're skinny jeans, and that makes me almost immediately break out in hives, but beggars can't be choosers and shit...right? I want to try them on right away (I'm wearing the crappy cords that day) but I wait until I get home (thank god!!). After getting Little Girl down for her nap, I waddle upstairs as fast as I can and whip out my new fancy preggo pants!
As I slip my legs in, I think,
"Dang, these are a little snug."
But they don't seem much worse than any pair of jeans fresh out of the dryer, so I soldier on, as I get them over my roasts...er...thighs, it becomes apparent that they are pretty darn snug, but I'm an optimist, so I press forward, then it happens. As I'm doing the squat (you know the, these jeans are a little tight, but I know they fit so let me just squat and pull to get them over the rump squat?) I hear the sound of a thousand 20 year old me's crying out in agony, the sound of all the "just a few" chocolate chips, the sound every woman dreads, but few actually hear...the RIP! That's right friends, I split the jeans. Not just a little "oops, I can sew that up in a jiffy" hole, we're talking an 8" whopper of a gaping maw right along the inside of my right thigh.
:-|
When my husband gets home, I hand him Little Girl, and a can of soup for dinner. I grab the keys, and head out the door. Time for some new pants. I avoided this up until now because I loathe spending money on clothes I'm literally going to wear for 6-8 weeks of my life...it pisses me off, but, desperate times.
First I hit Kohl's. (I love Kohl's, and never get to go because I'm a mom and I don't shop for myself) After walking around the store for a good 10 minutes, I finally ask where the maternity department is.
"I'm sorry, we got rid of the maternity department."
"You're kidding me."
"No, sorry, but we have that kiosk over there, you could order something online"
"But then I can't try it on."
"No, you can't, but you can return it here if it doesn't fit."
"..."
"..."
"..."
"..."
"Thanks."
Ok, fine, Kohl's doesn't want my big-bellied-business, that's just fine, I'll try Fred Meyer.
Same damn story!!!!
Apparently, all the pregnant women have clothes now, so stores don't need to carry them. And no, ordering online is not an option, because things never look the same when you get them, and I have long legs and simply must try things on and damnit!!!.......
I walk around Fred Meyer crying for 10 minutes before I finally give up and drive home. (Give me a break, my brain is steeped in hormones and my pants keep falling down, you'd cry too)
Ok, that's fine, I can survive with two pairs of pants, it's only 6-8 more weeks, I can totally do this. Except, because I have to keep pulling the damn cords up, in the last week they have developed a "tug" hole right below the waist band, so if I'm not careful, my underwear (which I refuse to replace until after the baby is born) shows. So....one pair of pants is enough right??
I wonder if people would look at me funny if I just wore my husbands pajama pants everywhere.
If you have kids, you know that buying new clothes for yourself is not a priority. For me, that means my extremely limited wardrobe consists primarily of t-shirts I bought at Costco, four different colors of the same shirt I found at Kohl's, a sequined tank top I bought for a party once, a single 6-year-old dress for the occasional night out, a half dozen pairs of high heals that I haven't even touched since 2010, a pair of Chuck Taylors, and a pair of rubber boots (we do live in the country, in Washington state, the boots are unavoidable). I also have 3 pairs of jeans, and a drawer full of paint-spattered t-shirts and novelty t's (from that muddy 5K I ran last year) that are exclusively used for working outdoors or sleeping.
When I'm pregnant, this modest trousseau gets even sadder, I now have 6 maternity shirts (mostly donated by friends who actually bought maternity clothes), 4 gorgeous dresses that I will never wear (I say this is because they are summer dresses, but really it's because the friends I got them from are tiny, even when pregnant, and tiny is not a claim I can make, so they make my thighs look like I'm smuggling a couple of roasts out of Safeway), and the two pairs of pants I acquired during my first pregnancy. One of these is a pair of jeans, the other is a pair of corduroys that are about 2 inches too short and fall down all the damn time!!!
I'm content with this collection, as I have never been one to turn up my nose at donated duds, and I am, by no means, a fashion maven, so really, it's cool, except, two pairs of pants, just isn't enough. Especially if there's a particularly messy preschool day, or the Little Girl has a potty accident in my lap. If anything like that happens, and it's more than 2 days until laundry day, I'm screwed. Luckily, one of my friends had a baby 4 months ago, and she's been promising me her maternity stash since then!
Saweet!! There's got to be at least one or two pairs of pants in there, I can hold out!
(I know some of you are thinking, "why doesn't she just go buy some new pants??" I'm getting to that part)
So, my friend and I get together for a visit and she gives me a HUGE bag of clothes (this friend is a model, no, for reals, so I always assume that at least 30% of what she gives me is either way too small, or way too cool for me). In the bag is one precious pair of jeans, they're skinny jeans, and that makes me almost immediately break out in hives, but beggars can't be choosers and shit...right? I want to try them on right away (I'm wearing the crappy cords that day) but I wait until I get home (thank god!!). After getting Little Girl down for her nap, I waddle upstairs as fast as I can and whip out my new fancy preggo pants!
As I slip my legs in, I think,
"Dang, these are a little snug."
But they don't seem much worse than any pair of jeans fresh out of the dryer, so I soldier on, as I get them over my roasts...er...thighs, it becomes apparent that they are pretty darn snug, but I'm an optimist, so I press forward, then it happens. As I'm doing the squat (you know the, these jeans are a little tight, but I know they fit so let me just squat and pull to get them over the rump squat?) I hear the sound of a thousand 20 year old me's crying out in agony, the sound of all the "just a few" chocolate chips, the sound every woman dreads, but few actually hear...the RIP! That's right friends, I split the jeans. Not just a little "oops, I can sew that up in a jiffy" hole, we're talking an 8" whopper of a gaping maw right along the inside of my right thigh.
:-|
When my husband gets home, I hand him Little Girl, and a can of soup for dinner. I grab the keys, and head out the door. Time for some new pants. I avoided this up until now because I loathe spending money on clothes I'm literally going to wear for 6-8 weeks of my life...it pisses me off, but, desperate times.
First I hit Kohl's. (I love Kohl's, and never get to go because I'm a mom and I don't shop for myself) After walking around the store for a good 10 minutes, I finally ask where the maternity department is.
"I'm sorry, we got rid of the maternity department."
"You're kidding me."
"No, sorry, but we have that kiosk over there, you could order something online"
"But then I can't try it on."
"No, you can't, but you can return it here if it doesn't fit."
"..."
"..."
"..."
"..."
"Thanks."
Ok, fine, Kohl's doesn't want my big-bellied-business, that's just fine, I'll try Fred Meyer.
Same damn story!!!!
Apparently, all the pregnant women have clothes now, so stores don't need to carry them. And no, ordering online is not an option, because things never look the same when you get them, and I have long legs and simply must try things on and damnit!!!.......
I walk around Fred Meyer crying for 10 minutes before I finally give up and drive home. (Give me a break, my brain is steeped in hormones and my pants keep falling down, you'd cry too)
Ok, that's fine, I can survive with two pairs of pants, it's only 6-8 more weeks, I can totally do this. Except, because I have to keep pulling the damn cords up, in the last week they have developed a "tug" hole right below the waist band, so if I'm not careful, my underwear (which I refuse to replace until after the baby is born) shows. So....one pair of pants is enough right??
I wonder if people would look at me funny if I just wore my husbands pajama pants everywhere.
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