Snippets

Every night before I go to bed, Henry and I have the exact same routine. I don't want him to wake me up at 3am to let him out, but he's not super willing to leave Jon's pillow, where he is inevitably sleeping peacefully, and walk all the way outside, so I say, "Henry! What is it? Who is it? Go see!" and because he thinks someone is attacking the house, he jumps up with a rumbling growl and races out the open back door to bark like the world is ending. When he's done, he uses the facilities. This happens every single night and Henry has not once caught on that there is never actually a cause for alarm. He must think that burglars are particularly OCD about timing, but by barking his furry face off, he keeps them away.

Good boy, Henry. I support you.

~

Nathan is obviously the funniest kid yet born. He is, perhaps, one of the most hyperactive and rotten kids, yes, but also the funniest. Lately, when I ask him what he wants to do or where he wants to go, he gets super serious, crosses his arms over his chest like a disappointed boss and says, "Umm.... Elmo." Every time. Even when he's half asleep. It cracks me up. Sometimes he says, "Ummm.... eat" when I ask him what he wants to do, but "Elmo" is always where he wants to go. Life is so much simpler as a toddler. You don't have to make sense and people love it.

~

I have a friend with whom I haven't spoken in a good number of years who is getting married. I was not invited (I mean, we haven't spoken in years, so I'm not upset or anything. Now I don't have to buy a gift.) She keeps posting on facebook for people to send in their RSVPs and I have a nearly insatiable desire to comment, "Yes! I'll be there! And I'm bringing my toddler and my mom. We'd all like the filet mignon. Thanks! Can't wait! It's going to be so much fun!" I have up to this point resisted, but only because I can talk about it here. As awkward and hilarious (to me) as that comment would be, how much more awkward (if not slightly less hilarious) would it be if she reads my blog?

~

It is impossible to look professional while pregnant. Lord knows, I have tried. But the put-together bookends of styled hair and high heels are totally undone by an I-just-swallowed-a-watermelon-seed-and-what-they-say-is-true shaped belly.  Plus it's so personal. It's advertising to the world that A) you and your husband are making a family, which is not exactly career-building stuff or B) you guys are kind of irresponsible about protection. Irresponsibility also reflects poorly on an employee. Either way, it's like carrying around your personal information on display with a belly-button on top. And if you're lucky enough to appear tailored and professional, it will be at that moment that the tiny person living inside your uterus decides to perform water aerobics and your belly will start jolting around like there's a platypus trying to escape in the middle of a conversation with your bosses' boss. Which, you know, isn't very put-together of you. Don't bother to apply for the position. We're giving it to someone with control over their abdomen.

The One Where the Navy Writes Me a Letter

When deployment begins, so does chaos. It always seems that nothing goes wrong until after the ship pulls out and the big strong man is gone. Monday my computer broke. Tuesday the tire that needed a patch turned into four tires and a pressure monitor that needed all-out replacing. Wednesday my adviser had an issue with my internship (two weeks after he'd approved it) that, if left unresolved, would mean my internship didn't count and well over $2000 for this semester alone would be down the drain. He ended the conversation with, "Work harder". I hung up and ended the conversation with some choice words of my own, thankyouverrymuch. It got fixed on Friday, though. Saturday Nate and I spent a wonderful time with my cousin and her family that ended with Nathan pooping on their carpet. Which he hasn't done in a really really long time. And somehow it managed to escape his underpants AND his shorts. I suspect it had something to do with the funny, leg-shake, wiggle dance he did right before it popped out and rolled onto the carpet. I was good and embarrassed, especially because I'd just finished telling my cousin's husband, "Yeah, well we're still having issues with pooping. I mean. He doesn't poop on the FLOOR or anything, he just always asks for a diaper."

Yeah. Nathan totally heard that. "You think you have me trained?"

Oooh... Braxton Hicks. Hello, 30 weeks of pregnancy!

So last night Nate wouldn't sleep. He's been having issues with being willing to go down since he started part-time daycare a couple weeks ago, but since Jon's left, it's gotten a lot worse and he sobs when I leave the room. Last night was BAD. He was basically up most of the night. I gave up at 3 am and just laid in there with him. I also noticed that he seemed a little congested. Which turned into full-fledged coughing, sneezing and nose-running with a fever today. So that makes, what? Thing number five that's gone awry since the Man left a week ago... if you count a stray turd on my cousin's carpet as an awry thing. If not, then only four things have gone wrong.

Either way, today I got a piece of mail from the Navy. Up until now, I'd been answering incredulous comments of, "Surely the Navy will send your husband home for the baby's delivery!" with "The Navy don't care." But I was wrong. All this time I thought The Navy hadn't considered me at all and now here they are sending me a letter. It said something to the effect of, "We are willing to provide you with services pertaining to in-home consultations about the care of your new child." Which means, "We're concerned that you're going to start shaking your baby because your husband is deployed. This doesn't reflect well on us, so we're going to send people to teach you not to take out your angst on your child. Sincerely, The Navy, bringing PTSD to the home-front since 2010 "

Aww, gee, The Navy, thanks! You thought about me! But really, instead of that back-handed insult, I'd like to suggest something else. I don't need you to teach me not to beat my kids. If I was going to shake my children out of deployment-induced angst, I would have done so during this last deployment. The one that ended this past spring. Which is one summer ago. Have you forgotten so quickly? My request is this: I would greatly appreciate it if the admiral in charge of sending my husband away again could merely be present at the birth of my baby. In place of my husband, you know? It's not much to ask. Just a morale call, if you will. By the time Jon gets home from this deployment, he will have been gone 16 out of the preceding 20 months. It's a darn good thing he's worth waiting for. Since YOU, The Navy, don't really care about him being gone, at least show your support by letting an admiral catch the placenta. It really would mean a lot to me. In a cathartic kind of way.

Navy wives, bringing PTSD to Admirals since... well a girl can dream, can't she?

Once More Unto the Breach

This is how I feel about this deployment. Naturally, Shakespeare writes it better than I can and he totally doesn't feel sorry for himself like I do, so I'll let him do the talking. When depression gets you nowhere, "stiffen up the sinews" and take yet-another deployment like Henry V would (slightly *improved* by yours truly.) Also, say this aloud, vehemently and with a Scottish accent. Henry V may have said it with a proper English accent, but we're Americans. We improve on Shakespeare if we darn well please. Plus anything is convincing if said with vehemence and a Scottish accent.

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a [woman]
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled rock
O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spiritTo his full height. On, on, you noblest [Navy Wives].
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!
Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument:
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest
That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman,
Whose limbs were made in [America], show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swearThat you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry 'God for [all the women left behind]!'

To My Son, Whom I Love

Dear Nathan,

Today you threw a tantrum. This happens about 3 times a week, with some half-tantrums thrown in here and there. I don't know if it's is true, but I'm telling myself that this is normal for toddlers. It helps me cope.

Grammy made you some Thomas the Train pajamas and you love them. This is why you threw a tantrum: I dared to take them off and attempt to put you in clothes and you went all Mr. Hyde on me. But I want to explain something. It's not as though I was trying to put clothes on you so that I could take you to a Communist Torture Daycare and go get myself a luxurious pani/pedi. We need to go to the store, so that I can feed you and Daddy and your Poppa dinner. You turned into an evil alter ego of yourself because I want to make you a healthy, delicious dinner.

The French took theirs too far, but I wouldn't complain if you wanted to throw yourself a revolution for the glory of Reason every once in a while.

During your rage, I considered my options. I could commit a crime, then plant evidence in your diaper. Some jail time would probably make you realize how good you have it here. Plus I'd get to sleep and go to the bathroom in peace for a few days. I could also take you to Yellowstone and work out some of your energy by renting you out to hikers who want grizzly-bear protection (Grizzlies, like most mammals, are terrified of you). But the option I settled on is to sneak off to Russia and sell them a "weapon of mass destruction" in the form of a perfectly genetically-engineered, innocuous-seeming child, whom they could raise and use as a Jason Bourne-meets-Hulk agent. They'd totally buy into it and I'd get millions and also Patriot Points, because I (and the U.S. Government) secretly know that you're uncontrollable and you'd show all kinds of promise, only to rip open your tuxedo jacket and reveal an American flag t-shirt in the middle of your most critical mission that now ends with the destruction of the Russian spy network. Added bonuses are your future multi-linguility and a plane trip to Moscow for Mom every once in a while. Oh. And I'd totally get to play Spy, like I've always wanted to, during the negotiations. Everyone wins.

Except the Russian spy network.

Good thing they don't read my blog.

The entire purpose of this post isn't actually for you, though. I intend on reviewing it when you're heading off to Kindergarten and I'm crying at home, missing you. You're wonderful 70% of the time, but there will be times where I need to be reminded, my son, of the toddler years.

You are still the sweetest boy in the world,

Love, Мать (that's "mother" in Russian)

The One Where She Talks About Strippers

This weekend, we've been prepping the house for a new baby girl. Nate has officially moved into his big-boy-bed in the guest room that is now his room. His old room has been ransacked and repainted the loveliest shade of light dove grey (I like to spell grey with an "e" instead of spelling it, "gray", which looks ratty. I prefer British spellings of things, too, like "honour" and "colour" and "splendour" and "procrastinatour". It has the tiniest bit of snobbishness and I'm all about that.)

Part of Nate's new room set-up will be a cedar chest that I procured in middle school from a garage sale with homeschooler dreams of making a hope chest. I grew up and the chest has remained half-sanded and unfinished for the last ridiculous number of years. But there must be a thing in the boy room room for toy corralling, so today I sanded it down. When Jon and I attempted to sand the thick paint on the back, however, it gunked up the sandpaper and we realized we were going to need some paint stripper. Off to the hardware store.

We did stop at Costco, where I ate every single sample. I'm pregnant.

At Lowes, we walked up to the paint counter Jon addressed the paint guy, "Hi. I need some advice about strippers."

Paint Guy: "Uh..."

I walked away.

When I found the strippers, Jon and I proceeded to disagree about which formula to get. He wanted the one with skulls and warning labels. I'm growing a human being, so I can't be breathin' in fumes. Strippers are toxic. I don't want to be smelling strippers right now.

Jon asked a sales associate who quickly grew uncomfortable:

Jon:"The stronger stripper is better, right?"
Me: "Well, I'm pregnant. I need the non-toxic stripper."
 Jon: "Well, I'm the one doing the stripping."
Me: "If it's outside, I can do the stripping. It's well-ventilated."

The sales person walked away with a polite, albeit awkward smile.

Jon: "I think we should get this one and I'll do the stripping. You don't want to be there, anyway."

Jon won. Nathan and I played inside while Jon stripped in the backyard.

The cedar chest turned out great. I'm kind of excited about it. Totally worth paying for the stripper.

I'll post a picture later.


Of the chest. Not the stripper.

How to Stay Positive

It's easier to focus on the crazy things about parenting, especially here, since it's funny to read about someone's kid pooping on the floor, but sappy to read about the way the same kid says, "Hee-yo" for "Helicopter", no matter how adorable the parent thinks it is. (But it IS adorable.) This post is dedicated to Brett, who is as sick of hearing bad advice as I was when I was pregnant with Nate.

Parenting comes with lots of great moments that get memorialized in Hallmark commercials and lots of not-so-glamorous moments that get memorialized on my blog. This post is me leveling with the world and admitting that my kid is not worse than yours (except for the fact that he eats cockroaches and poops on my floor) and that I do enjoy being his mom (except for when he's squirting drool at cashiers).

I hated it when people told my first-time-pregnant self to, "Appreciate it now, you'll wish the kid was back inside in a couple weeks!" I mean... I get it now - why they said that. And it makes me laugh a little now. But it's not even remotely helpful. And it's true, what the nice ones say, that no matter how awful your kids may act, they're totally worth it. It's the most rewarding job I've ever had. It's just really hard to explain sometimes, WHY.

My son is in his crib right now saying, "Mommy" 54 times a minute instead of taking his nap. It's obnoxious, but endearing. And that doesn't make sense to people who don't have kids.

So this is a how-to. The bad times will come, my friends. There will be times when it occurs to you why people shake their babies. It is, of course, a terrible idea, but you know, these things occur to you at 3 am when you're boobs are leaking the milk that your sweet baby is screaming for but just. won't. EAT. And the good times are SO good that they make leaky boobs seem like a minor misunderstanding. Nothing is sweeter than a spontaneous toddler hug. I'd leak oceans for those hugs.

How to Deal With the Times that Make Parents Cynical and Obnoxious without Becoming Cynical and Obnoxious, Yourself:
1) Whiskey. It's not just for baby gums anymore.

2) Walking away. You don't have to hold the child that shall.not.stop.screaming. You can put his butt in his crib and walk away and punch the pillow. NOT your sleeping husband. Only the pillow. This is an important distinction.

3) Looking at your husband, wide-eyed, and shaking your head slowly. He gets it. He'll do the same. And in that moment it's you and him against the baby. Which, as awful as it may sound, is healthy. Jon and I rarely have experienced the alienation parents talk about from having kids, because we continually affirm that it's never one of us and the baby. It's always the two of us against the kid. Kids can't tantrum against a force like that... for more than an hour or so.

4) Keeping in mind that the baby will eventually fall asleep. I promise that babies can cry WAY longer than you think is possible, but they DO fall asleep and when they do, you should stuff a brownie in your face and follow suit. Don't forget the brownie.

5) This one is hard for me, but don't use the good, sweet times to get stuff done. Just because he's happy playing with his toys doesn't mean you should busy yourself. Stare at his fat little fingers. Admire the 23 folds on her right leg. Ignore the fact that he just swallowed a guitar pick and focus instead on the perfection of his nose. I could spend hours admiring the perfection of a baby nose.

6) When all else fails, and the person you and your husband created falls asleep and you have no reserves of energy or patience or happiness left, drink some water, wash your face, thank God for your child and find your husband to suggest whiskey tonics. Dads are always down for whiskey.

My child is now reading a book out loud in his crib, with the light on, instead of napping. That's not even obnoxious. It's really really cute. I love being his mom.

The One About Toddler Poop

It comes as no surprise to you that we sometimes have rough days here in the neighborhood. You already know whose fault it is, too. We've been trying to potty train Nathan. Yes, he's only 20 months and yes, that's really young and no, it's not because I'm an over-ambitious mom, desperate to drive her child to succeed. It's because Nate sneaks in the bathroom whenever Jon is peeing and stares and tries to touch the stream and Jon finally had enough and said, "That's it! He's getting his OWN potty!" So that's what happened. And he likes to pee in it. A lot. Sometimes I have to drag him away, explaining, "You've already peed three times in two minutes and you don't have any left, Son." He doesn't like being dragged away, no matter my sound reasoning.

Anyway, so peeing in the pot is going well. He did pee on my friend's couch the other day (FAIL). But mostly, he's good on the bladder control. Pooping, however, is TOTALLY another matter. As soon as he started peeing in the potty, he became terrified of pooping altogether. Now that he's naked or in undies all day, he's realizing for the first time that something comes OUT of him when he poops. He realized this when he pooped on the floor. Twice. And the patio. He freaked. Not. Okay. With. Nathan. In fact, he's pretty terrified and screams and wails when he feels it coming and even freaks out when I help him with his issues by putting a diaper on him. Not. Okay. With. Mommy.

Hilarious. I know. Laugh it up. Your kids will poop on your floor, too, one day. Then I will laugh.

Yesterday went like this: We had a nice morning and during his nap I prayed that I would start actually being patient with my son and stop acting like every bad thing he does is meant as a personal insult toward his mother. My job is to teach, not to react. But I suck at it, so thus the prayers. Fast forward to noonish - we're playing outside in the kiddie pool and Nathan starts kinda whining and bending at the waist and knees. He squints his eyes, "Poo!"
"Nathan, do you need to go poop on the potty?"
"Noooo" he whines and holds it in, quickly picking up a toy and pretending to be really busy playing.
*time passes and we go through this a couple more times*
Nate's dance gets a little more desperate. He starts shifting from one leg to the other, whining. He reached around and grabs at his clenched butt cheeks, "poo!"
"Do you need to go poop in the potty?"
*whine*

I try to lead him in. Resistance! So I bring the potty outside. He pees in it and leaves. He gets the urge again, dances, whines and tries to drag the potty back inside, where it won't haunt him with it's incessant need for poo. So much panic.

"Nathan, do you want a diaper?"
"NOOOOO!!!"
"You have to poop in the toilet or in a diaper. Those are your only options."
"noooo nooo noooo!"
He starts to cry. I bring him inside. He starts to scream. I force a diaper onto his butt. He cries and tries to take it off. I force pants over the diaper, so he won't take it off. He whines and poops. I change him to intense screams of anguish, kicking and flailing. He kicks me in the throat and I make a mental note to bring that up at his wedding. I manage to diaper him. Now he's having a tantrum/panic attack/scream fest. I offer to pick him up and he hits me. I calmly ignore him and he poops again, so again, I change the butt to kicking and screaming and tears. He knows I'm the bad guy and that Daddy is out of town, so he starts to wail, "Heeeennry! Heeeeennnreeeeee!". Henry is unsympathetic and hides under the kitchen table.

We call my mom, because I have no husband at hand and I need someone who doesn't hate me to say something nice. She is shocked and positive that he must be in intense pain. No. He does this. He just hates poop. He screams for Grammy and finally poops again.... he loads that nappy up. Three dirty diapers in 30 minutes. Who says potty training saves diapers? I change him and put another diaper on, because, even though he's probably done, I don't want to even look at the toilet for the rest of the day. Good. He doesn't either. He gets happy. He is content to pee in the diaper for the rest of the day. I've maintained a semblance of composure and been patient throughout the tantrum.

One o'clock. Six more hours until bedtime.