That TIme I Vacuumed Under the Mattress at 11pm

Jon and Winston fell asleep on the couch. Winston got some not-great news today at the cardiologist, so I took advantage and went upstairs for a couple minutes of being alone. I lounged and read a little bit, but when I went to fluff my pillow, something moved. I wiggled the pillow again and It scuttled behind the bed.

It was a roach.

I hate roaches.

You guys, I might have a messy house in this three-kids-and-one-is-a-newborn stage, but I am NOT roach-dirty. And It was on my pillow. MY PILLOW! This is what happens when it's almost cold enough for closed windows, but not quite, and Nate learns to slide the screens up and down. Naturally, they never get slid back down all the way.

I hate roaches.

I tried to consider forgetting I had seen It, but that's ridiculous. Some things cannot be unseen. I found It hiding in between the bed frame and the mattress, so, considering my bookshelf, I picked a book that was just thin enough. It was a Bible study on the book of Daniel. You guys, I was going to KILL this spawn of satan with THE BIBLE. I needed a win today and this was it. I aimed and JAMMED God's holy word down the crevice.

Only, the book got stuck and It got away.

So I stomped downstairs, grabbed the vacuum,  hollered to Jon that there was a roach in our bed ("What? A roach? IN our bed?"... snore...), and clomped back up to take the entire bed apart. I contemplated how my husband had failed me as I pulled off the mattress and the box spring. I moved Winston's bassinet into the other room. "You have TWO JOBS, Butterfield. Paint the high spots on the walls and save me from roaches. That's ALL... nothing more do I ask of you..." I vacuumed crevices and hollows. At one point, I heard something go into the vacuum that I hadn't seen. Clearly it was the roach. I continued vacuuming to be sure. I sucked out under the nightstands and the rug, in the corners and behind the headboard. I told God that a partial win didn't count, because I didn't SEE the roach go into the vacuum, so I wasn't safe or satisfied. Maybe I could switch beds with one of the kids for the night.

I turned the vacuum off, wound the cord, replaced all the bed parts, and went to grab Winston's bassinet to put the room back together.

From the middle of the dark room, the roach winked at me. He was large and quite blatantly evil. I stared back. One more chance at that win. I grabbed a photo album and slammed it's full weight down on top of the roach, positive that I'd gotten It. It was so cathartic, that slamming. I even (not kidding) jumped up and down on the album to make sure he was good and dead. Then, I stood back, contemplating the book. What if it wasn't dead. What if (HORROR) I moved the book and something scuttled?

I moved the book.

It scuttled and I screamed, but stifled it. There is no crying in a holy war.

I was about to grab Jon's mandolin to crush it, but, thankfully for Jon, the spawn of satan scuttled away. I located it and tried to jab it with the vacuum, which was now plugged in and engaged like a heat-seeking missile. I missed. It ran. I cornered it again and, this time...

This time I sucked up that disgusting excuse for biodiversity and I watched It's hopes and dreams shrivel and die. I expected a rush of relief, but I was sure it wasn't actually dead... and now it was in my vacuum...

Now what? I left the vacuum running, so that it couldn't crawl out, but that wasn't much of a long term solution. I can't really go buying a new vacuum every time I suck up a bug, either. Therefore, I did the only rational thing. I threw the vacuum onto the front porch and informed my now-awake husband that he needed to change the bag -outside- before coming to bed.

And do you know what? He lived up to his purpose.

I love him.

Lest I Forget

My mom keeps warning me that if I don't write things down, I'll forget. She's right, of course, so amusing to people who aren't Nathan's parents or not, here it is.

We don't normally allow Nathan to stay up late enough to watch the beginning of Dancing With the Stars, but I'm not really going to defend myself on that or anything else below. If you have the time to judge, then I won't begrudge you something to do. In fact, my life would probably keep you very busy, so read on.

But late it was and he was awake and Dancing With the Stars came on. Before I shuffled him off to bed, we watched one routine, where the scantily-clad pro led whatever star she was escorting around the dance floor. Nathan stared in wide-eyed wonder and pronounced, "Mommy! I want to dream about HER tonight!"
He's three. Lord help me, I don't even know what to say to that.

~~~

The kids don't listen to a lot of kid music. I just can't take most of it. I mean, we'll sing "Twinkle Twinkle" once every month or so. They Might Be Giants has a great album called "Here Comes Science" that we like, and sometimes I remember to TRY to be age appropriate, but in general, he just listens to whatever we listen to. His current favorite songs, in order, are below:

1. She is Beautiful
2. TNT (by AC/DC)
3. Jake and the Neverland Pirates theme song (SCORE! A real kid's song!)
4. Rumour Has It
5. Anything by Louis Armstrong (Another score, because Louis is always appropriate)

Anyway. He was requesting "She is Beautiful" the other day, so we listened to it. The music video is kinda weird for a three year old, so we only ever listen, instead of watch it. Plus Andrew W. K. sticks the mic in the waistband of his jeans to make a smoothie in the middle of the video and, let's face it, Nate doesn't need any encouragement to hide things in his pants. It's already an issue in our house. Regardless, it's a good song. It's sort of how I imagine Nate will sing a love song when he's older. Super intense and full of yelling. He may never get a girlfriend, but he'll have fun trying. As the song ended, Nate informed me that when he grows up, he wants to be "Andrew double-K" (Andrew W.K.).

Ooops. We're forming role models. Time to listen to Bach. The early eighteenth century was pretty appropriate.

~~~

Coffee is an acquired taste, true. But the time it takes to acquire a taste is variable. Nathan's average is once. One sip. When he was little, he chewed on the rim of beer bottles and, therefore, Jon let him have a tiny sip (judge away, ye judgers), with the idea that, since beer is bitter, he'd stop wanting to chew on the rim if it tasted bad. Instead, he licked his lips and lunged for more. Fail. Same with coffee, which, despite his desire, he has been banned from drinking.

He ran into the room the other day from the kitchen, with a full mouth. I asked him what he was drinking and he smiled (awkwardly, because his mouth was full) with an evil twinkle in his eye. Daddy's iced coffee is what he'd been drinking. When asked why (NOTE: the only real "why" question to ask is why on earth parents of preschoolers think asking them "why" is going to come to a logical end), he answered that it was because he wanted hair on his chest and belly, like daddy... and mommy. Say WHAT?!

I set him straight. OH. I set him straight.

~~~

Some children have trouble paying attention for an entire two minutes. That's why things like this happen:

Driving home from Bible study, I asked Nathan what he learned in his class.

"God died."
"Oh... you mean Jesus died on the cross? Yeah, He did. Then what happened?"
"Oh, then we had a CRAFT!"
"Uh, yeah, but then what happened in the story? After Jesus died?"

He didn't know. He didn't pay attention that far in. There were goldfish crackers to eat. So I enlightened him and emphasized to Nietzsche Jr. that God isn't dead, he rose again and is alive and that's why we can pray to Him, etc.

The next week, when he got into the car, I asked what he'd learned and it started much the same, "Jesus died."
"Then what happened?"
"His friends couldn't find Him and some mans pushed the big rock away."
Oh! This is pretty accurate! I got excited, "Yes! His friends couldn't find Him and the angels pushed the rock away from the tomb. Why couldn't they find Him?"
"Because His stomach was missing. Somebody took His stomach and nobody could find it."

Try as I might, Nathan still never caught the end of the story, so I re-enlightened him. 

Boy, is he going to be surprised at Easter.

Nathan is Three and Nothing Has Changed

He was driving me crazy yesterday, so when he wanted to go outside in the back yard and play, I gratefully allowed it and closed the door after him to continue making dinner. I checked on him. He was sliding pieces of wood down his slide. Approved activity. I smiled at him and told him that I loved him. He needed to hear it. There had been a lot of reprimanding that afternoon. He smiled back at me and, in a love-induced bout of honesty, said, "I ate dog food."

"You went into the garage and ate the dog's food?"

"Uh huh!"

*sigh* "Don't do that. That's really gross and it will make your tummy hurt. Don't eat dog food and don't even go into the garage. You know you're not allowed to do that."

"Oh. Otay!"

I went back to making dinner. He eventually came rushing inside, "Mommy!! I want to show you what's in my bucket!"

"Okay, Sweetie. I'll come see, but let me finish putting this together and get it into the oven."

"Otay, but I want to show you what's in my bucket."

This went on for the next five minutes, while I finished dinner. Finally, after more nagging than the end of the day has patience for, I asked him, "Why don't you just TELL me what's in your bucket and I'll come and look when I'm done?"

"Sar-tole!"

"Charcoal? You put Charcoal in your bucket?"

"Yeah!"

 I wrote, "get a hysterectomy" on my to-do list and lectured him about charcoal. Which he already knows he's not allowed to touch. He's so no ready for self-supervision yet.

Frozen dinners forever.

AIDS

This morning Nathan walked into our room for the second or third time (he'd been sent back to wait in his room until 7am - it's the best rule we ever implemented - thanks, Holly!).

"Mommy, I want AIDS."

"Nathan say, "eggs""

"AIDS"

"eGGs"

"aiDs"

"Say "gggg"... Goat ... gggg... Goat"

"gggg... doat!"

This goes on for ten minutes until Jon and I give up and get out of bed. I start to strip the sheets. It's wash day. Nathan asks me, "Mommy, what are you doing?"

"I'm taking off the sheets to wash them."

"Oh," he says, and then replies with perfect pronunciation, "That's interesting."

 I give up.

I Have No Shame

I used to have a sense of propriety. Then I had kids. The end.

We were flying back home from the East Coast. This means that we had to fly on an aeroplane with two childrens.

Confession: I sort of like flying with the kids and Jon at the same time and I always find extra reserves of patience and calm, because, in addition to having help, I feel like a rock star every time he looks at me with wide, traumatized eyes and says, "How did you do this by yourself for two deployments?!" I nod, knowingly, and then I acquiesce to share snippets of my vast parenting wisdom. (I am vastly wise about parenting.)

We were in between flights and I think it goes without saying that Jon and I were absolutely exhausted to our very marrow and the children were wired and giddy. Because that is a basic law of physics. Travel causes all energy to exit parental reserves, whereupon it is transferred to their children. The equation looks like this:
 Ep = Ek x 0
 where Ep= Energy of the parent and Ek= Energy of the kids

Also, this rule applies to every single situation, ever. Not just to travel.

Back to the airport. In between flights in Denver. Jon and I were tired. Nathan had to go to the bathroom, as did I, so I took him with me. He peed, mostly into the toilet, and then it was my turn. While I used the facilities (I told you, I have no shame, so prepare yourselves), Nathan-the-indomitable decided that, since he was finished, it was time to leave. He proceeded to unlock the stall door. I stopped him from my seated position and tried to explain in an inside voice that he needed to wait for a more appropriate time. For instance, when my pants were up.

"Oh. Otay. Mommy, did you poop?" He asked me at the top of his lungs, in order to reach the ears of all 137 persons in the restroom.

I stared back at him, unsurprised, yet mildly alarmed.

"Oh! Otay. Can I see it?" continued my offspring, still yelling.

I said no, so he peered around me and, using his very best diction and highest volume, he hollered, "WOW, Mommy! That's a YOT of POOP!"

Thanks, son. And no, it wasn't a yot of poop. But it doesn't matter what actually occurred, because when we exited the stall, all anyone believed was what they had heard a not-quite-three-year-old announce to them.

And that is why I have no shame. My son stole it, along with my energy, and has been leaving pieces of it lying around the various places we have been. Like the Denver airport.

You're welcome.

When the Dog Gets to the Diapers

I went to a friend's house tonight and I stayed too late. It was a good hour past the kid's bedtime when I left.

(Bad Mom: -2 points)

I got home and realized that I'd forgotten to close the door to Evelyn's room. I realized this when I saw diapers (used, of course), torn to shreds and spilled out all over my carpet and the floor in the nursery. Henry was hiding in the back yard.

(Forgetting to close door: -1 point)

I managed make Nate pee, put his pajamas on, brush his teeth and throw him into bed in the first 5 minutes. Then I fed Evelyn. Then I put her to bed. She stayed asleep.

(Teeth brushing: +1 point)
(Kids in bed in 15 minutes flat: +2 points)

At this place in the story, I have broken even on the good/bad parent scale, point-wise.

You know how when you break open a used diaper, there are all those silicony beads inside? No? That doesn't happen to you? Your dog doesn't break open diapers and grind poop into your floors when you're gone because he started getting back at you every time you leave the house when your husband started deploying and because you forgot to close the door to the nursery and you think diaper genies are stupid, so you use a regular trash can? Oh. Well, when you break open a used diaper, there are all these beads and they're silicony. And they're impossible to pick up. And this happens to me on a regular basis, because I think diaper genies are stupid and so I use a regular trash can and I don't get sleep and there's not enough coffee, so I forget to close the door. 

But I noticed something tonight when I was picking up the torn-open diapers with my bare hands (because that's just what starts to happen when you keep having kids (mental note: stop having kids)). I noticed that where the silicony beads touched my carpet, there were light spots. The diapers kind of sucked dirt out of my carpet and so there are slightly cleaner spots where the beads had been sitting. I've cleaned my carpets with a stand-up carpet cleaner like three times in a row and they haven't gotten this clean.

(Initiating partial-carpet cleaning cycle by leaving nursery door open: +3 points)

I'm three points up. Helloooo, Cabernet!

Pictures

Being a parent of the Pinterest generation is tough. The 3% of overachieving moms ruin it for the rest of us. They really do. One of thousands of areas in which I come up short is taking pictures. I mean. I have my iphone. And it's loaded with random pictures of my kids that I snap just as they stop doing the cute thing they were just doing. So I try. But I always have grandiose ideas of holiday memories that will be forever immortalized in a frame on the wall or a scrapbook on the coffee table. Christmas outfits holding sweetly smiling children, who are peanut butter and booger -free, whose arms rest lightly around their darling siblings. Everyone is looking at the camera at the same time. Easter pictures with eggs and bunnies and pastel. Valentine's Day cards in the mail, displaying red and pink-clad offspring asking their Auntie to be their Valentine.

Quick! Take a picture! I'm going to need to remember this someday!


It just doesn't happen like that. Evelyn barfed on her little leprechaun-cute green on St. Patty's Day and I forgot to put the glittery green headband on her androgynously bald head, since green isn't exactly gender-specific. So I didn't take pictures. Even though I freakin' love St. Patty's Day and geek out on all my friends and stuff corned beef and cabbage down their throats and sing Irish drinking songs to my kids. They cheers with milk. Cow and breast. We've got all kinds.

The point is, my pinterest-dreams rarely solidify into the perfect pictures. And it is one of many things I hold over my head to force me to be a better mother.

By the way, it doesn't work. Holding things over my own head, I mean.

So I suggest this: let's give ourselves a break. Let's quit living in the "not-good-enough" mentality that makes us forget the good stuff. Let's take pictures when we can (it IS important) and then let's enjoy being with our kids instead of forcing them to pose for one more for facebook.  I'll check my phone while my kid shovels sand at the playground and you can show up to our playdate in yoga pants. I'll break out the pre-cooked, sliced chicken every now and then and you can buy art for your baby's nursery instead of making it out of marshmallows and salvaged wood. I'll frame iPhone photos and we'll cheers over the convenience of disposable diapers. And we won't judge each other.

Deal? Deal.

Quick! Take a picture of me not freaking out! I'm going to need to remember this someday!

Rules I Never Thought I'd Have to Make

1. You're not allowed to put your cow to bed in Evelyn's crib while she's asleep.

2. Do not pull the baking soda out of the cupboard to "clean" the carpets with the entire box.

3. You are not allowed to hit Henry with a butterfly net. Or your blanket. Or Thomas. Or that basket.

4. You are not to steal the phones from the purses of my childless friends and take pictures of mommy nursing the baby. If this happens, there will be no future children for you to play with.

5. If you wipe that spilled baking soda on (my friend) one more time, I will clean. it. up. Take THAT!

6. DO NOT talk about mommy's boobs, your penis or nipples in public. In fact, don't talk in public at all.

7. You are not allowed to "wash the dishes" unless I give you permission.

8. If I hear the microwave go on ONE MORE TIME when I'm nursing the baby and putting her down, I will sell you.

9. Never, ever, ever wipe your own butt after you poop. Lord help us all.

10. Once a piece of food is in the dog's bowl, you are no longer allowed to eat it.

11. No, you may not poop on the back lawn.

12. No, I do not want you to pour your pool water into my coffee. Why would you even ask?

13. Speaking of water: Do not start the bath by yourself, do not enter the bath headfirst, do not turn on ANY of the sinks unless I say it's okay, I don't care if you can - do not turn on the hose, stop pouring water on your electronic toys, don't drink the paint water, don't squirt Henry or me or Evelyn or anything with water, stop sticking your fingers in Henry's water bowl only to lick them off and DO NOT turn the temperature dial in the shower while mommy is in there.

14.  Get that orange crayon out of your nose.

15. Don't spit at people we don't know.

16. Don't spit at people we DO know.

17. Stop reorganizing the apps on my phone into folders.

18. No, you may not eat the succulents.

19. Stop feeding Henry your yogurt, under the table, with a spoon.

20. Do not stand in the window naked. The neighbors will judge.


...to be continued...

Up, Up and (if only we could get) Away

Both of my children are peacefully sleeping right now. Which makes it hard to sit down and think about The Plane Trip. There are few quiet moments in parenthood and most of them are indicators that Nathan is on top of the refrigerator, so I tend to savor the restful moments and not muddy them with dwelling on the incidents that make Chernobyl look like spilled glass of milk. But I’ve been putting it off, so here is an account of the The Plane Trip.

I had help. My dad was in town for a business trip and we wisely booked our flight to Virginia together, so that the adult to child ratio would be two-to-two. Or, if you consider the following events, two adults to one baby and one Hurricane Sandy, which is more like two-to-thirty seven. And also a baby.

I have no lack of airplane stories featuring Nate. He earned his nickname, “wolverine” on a plane trip to Utah. He sobered his “let’s have more kids” father on a pretty mild trip to Virginia. And this time, he successfully secured the voluntary sterilization of all travelers on United flight 257 from San Diego to DC. The first indication of which, they may have noted, was upon taxi toward takeoff, when Nathan wriggled out of his seatbelt, stood up in his seat and loudly announced, “I be right back, Mommy”.

Oh no you jolly well will NOT, my boy.

And thus it started. It proceeded like this:

I jolly well WILL press the call button, kick Evelyn in the head and climb over the seat in front of us with a rebel yell ... simultaneously. 

You jolly well will NOT.

King Kong meets Godzilla and neither back down. FOR THE REST OF THE FLIGHT. Apart from a couple 20 minute naps (necessitated by pure exhaustion), Godzilla screamed at the top of his lung, flailed and turned an alarming shade of red whilst King-who’s-your-momma-Kong held him in a wrestling hold to keep his flying feet from hitting the seat in front of him, Evelyn and his grandfather… simultaneously … for, pretty much, the entire flight. Upon landing four hours and forty-five minutes later, my dad (who does not exaggerate) turned to me and asked, “Do you have bruises?”

When we escaped the plane, a man who had been sitting in the very back came up to my dad and asked if it was Nate who’d been screaming that whole time. We were in row 10. Of approximately 40.

And that is how I became deaf.

That is also how I justify the statement that I am a battered woman. I will henceforth refer to Nathan as, “My Abuser”.  My dad has renamed him “The Tasmanian Devil”. Evelyn simply thinks of her brother as a noise machine.

She slept the entire time.

Today I Took a Shower While My Children Cried. A Love Letter.

Dear Jon,

We've been married for over five years, so naturally we are totally over all that romantic crap like love letters. But what the heck. I figure we can bring it back, since you're deployed and all. And because you have nice legs. So here goes. A love letter. For you.

Nate has been throwing LOTS of tantrums lately. I've called my parents yelling and/or crying more times than I want to admit to someone whose job it is to fly a 45 million-dollar helicopter through the night. Yesterday, my mom assured me, "No, Bek, he's not a psychopath... he's TWO" for a good twenty minutes while Nathan sat pantless on the toilet, screaming his face off. I wish I could give you some background as to why that tantrum happened... and why it started on the TOILET of all places, but I'm as mystified as you are, Dear. He asked me to take him to the bathroom and for help with his pants and as soon as I put him on the toilet, he started wailing like a Chicken Fil-A cow at McDonalds. Sunday I stood, shaking and ready to sell my ovaries to the highest bidder, in the parking lot at church while your son arched his back and screamed like a ... psychopath... trying to ignore the appalled glances and sympathetic smiles from passers by. It took me 15 minutes and more patience than I have to even get him buckled into his car seat. Not to mention the hauling through the parking lot to the car with him under one arm and Evelyn sleeping happily in a sling while Nate bansheed it up. Or the drive home. Or the continuance of the tantrum once we got there. Or the daily mini tantrums we have. Every night I put him to bed and pray with him  for obedience and self-control.

I also pray for him sometimes.

I keep having moments in training our strong-willed son that make me want to call all of my friends who haven't had kids yet and congratulate them on their excellent life decisions.

The truth is, though, I like our kids enough to put up with wolverine tantrums. And that's a lot of love. When there's no screaming, I'm downright in love with the little sinners. So when you get home and your family is alive and healthy, no members of which having been sold into slavery, I do believe you will understand. Not because a more patient, loving person couldn't have done this job of mine better and with grace (and without complaint on a public forum), but because it's me. You already know my crazy. And I'm showing deployment whose BOSS with the help of family and friends and Stella Artois. So this is my love letter to you. I love you so much that I love your kids. Enough to not ship them to you with my letter of resignation. Enough to consider a homecoming gift for you that doesn't start with hyster- and end in -echtomy. Enough to give you a love letter that takes the time of two back-to-back deployments to write and looks like two tiny, smiling faces when your plane lands and you see us waiting for you.

Just know that a lesser man would have gotten a screaming box (with holes punched for air and cracker crumbs falling out) in the mail months ago. But because you are kind and strong and so good to us and you love us with every single part of your being, we love you, too. And because I love you, I'm writing this letter. It's a long one, but you're worth it.

Love, your wife.

PS... I really did take a shower while they cried, but Nate was being banished to his room for a rebellious revolution of the French degree and Evelyn was soon soothed to sleep by his wails, so I felt it justified the neglect. So... you're welcome...?

And Then There Were Four

I am wearing just my wedding band as I type this. I had to take off my engagement ring before I went to the hospital for the C-Section and I left on my wedding band in hopes that they would let me wear it into surgery, so that Jon would be there with me in some small way. It's been two and a half weeks, but I keep forgetting to put my diamond back on. I've been up a lot at night.

They even didn't let me wear the ring. I make jokes when I'm nervous and having a baby cut out of me without Jon makes me nervous, so I was cracking up the whole operating room. I'm a hilarious terrified person. Truth is, C-Sections scare the crap out of me. I become convinced that something will go wrong and my precious baby won't be alright. That the room will go silent and no one will tell me why. It's not really rational, but that's what comes of the unhealthy habit of putting off fears instead of facing them when they occur. They all smother you when you can't put them off anymore and your arms are strapped to a table and your baby's life is in the hands of someone else who raises goats in his spare time. No joke. My doctor is awesome. He raises goats. I even joked about it during the surgery. (I was nervous.)

While I was trying to figure out how the smell of the alcohol swab the anesthesiologist put in my oxygen mask took my nausea away, the doctor said, "Oh! She's breech! When did that happen?" Then, over the sheet he asked me, "She wasn't breech, was she?" and I tried to figure out if that's bad in a C-Section, but it was followed by, "It's okay, Just grab her behind the knees like this..." and a few moments later, the most beautiful sound in the world - a healthy (angry) baby wail - filled the operating room. Everything - the stress of finishing my stupid degree before this moment, the pain of not having my husband to hold my hand, the fear that something would go wrong - it all dissipated, showing its weight by its absence and tears of relief and joy rolled down my face, because she was okay. I could have bled out on the table right then for all I cared, but she was okay and the tech said she's so long and look at those feet and I couldn't see her, but it didn't matter, because she was okay. They brought her over and I managed to turn my head enough to kiss the face I could only really half see but already loved more than I could ever speak. She's okay. She's perfect.

Evelyn Kate Butterfield. 8 pounds, 5 ounces. 21 1/2 inches long. Born at 9:10 am on Tuesday, November 13th. And perfect.

Jon called his mom from the ship. She was waiting in recovery with Evelyn while I was still in the operating room, and he got to hear his little girl cry. The same cry that told me everything was okay reassured her daddy as well.

Phone calls can be disappointing during a deployment. What I want is to snuggle into Jon's voice and stay there in its comfort the way I would put on a cozy sweater and curl up on the couch. In reality, phone calls are like trying a sweater on in the store. You can feel how comfortable it is, but you can't receive the full measure of comfort from it, because it's borrowed. It isn't yours yet. It just fuels the longing to really, truly own it.

But this phone call with the newborn, healthy cry was different. It relieved all the pent up worry that something would go wrong and he wouldn't be there to hold my hand. It answered the countless prayers he'd sent up throughout his days flying and studying and eating crappy ship food that God would watch out for his family when he couldn't be there to see how tiny she was. And it reassured him that we were okay. It didn't matter that he'd been up late night after night and it wasn't so bad that he couldn't be there in this moment, because we were okay. I got to talk to him half an hour later, ring back on my finger, and we shared relief and thanks to a good God. It's hard doing things like that over the phone, but in that moment, there was mostly joy.

Evelyn Kate, you are so deeply loved. And we are so intensely grateful for you. "Evelyn" means "life" and Kate means, "pure". You are pure life, sweet girl, from your healthy cries to your wide, observant eyes, you represent the joy of life to us. Welcome.

Sasquatch Wears Makeup

Obviously when Jon is gone there are beauty routines that just don't get much attention. Saturdays are the only days I don't have to wear makeup, so unless we have somewhere to go, I usually slub around, barefaced, in work-out clothes that never get to participate in actual exercise.

Poor things. They probably had high hopes of being owned by my sister, who is totally in shape and adorable whenever she works out. But instead, they got me. Fatty McPreggers with not an ounce of energy to even inspire a visit to the gym.

Anyway, I don't shave my legs as often as I do when the husband is home and with cooler weather coming (I'm keeping my fingers crossed), and with my belly obscuring my view of my legs more and more each day, pretty soon I won't have to shave much at all. When you think about it, I'm growing rounder and larger everyday and with my legs becoming less and less ... groomed... there may be reports of Sasquatch sightings in San Diego in the upcoming months.

But today I had church and a baby shower, so I was in the process of applying my war paint when Nate walked in to the bathroom. He steals deodorant, make-up, hair brushes, etc., so when I am getting ready, I have to keep all the supplies pushed as far back on the counter as possible and run interference with my hips. He had grabbed something - deodorant I think - which has not turned out well in the past. (Our only poison-control call concerned a small child consuming a stick of deodorant). So I traded him for a tiny tube of clear mascara, assuming that he wouldn't be able to open it. In addition to larger and hairier, I appear to be getting stupider. Yet another Sasquatch qualification.

He left the bathroom, talking to himself, pleased with his contraband and I continued to put on my face, listening to his happy jabbering, "Henry!"... "Henry... Eyes!" As I was musing on how nice it is to listen to contented toddler talk, it occurred to me that 'Henry' and 'Eyes' in the same sentence might necessitate a quick check. I peeked my head out to see Nathan with mascara in one hand and the applicator in the other, poking at Henry's reluctant eyelashes. "What a smart and observant child to know precisely what to do with a mascara wand," I mused as I lunged at him, hollering, "NO!" He squealed with delight at the commencement of a chase and ran, wand and tube held high over his head, into the living room, chortling. I prayed, as I often do during a "give-that-back-to-me--no-I-will-not" race, that he wouldn't fall and get a wand-full of mascara/fork/stiletto to the eye. He did not, thank God.

As a side note, when I get to heaven and God pulls out the list of my most frequent prayers, my number one will not, as you might suspect, be, "Please, oh please, let there be chocolate cake at this function," but, instead, "Please make that child go to sleep" and "Don't let him get hurt doing that!" in no particular order. But the latter will mostly be in all caps.

I caught him and took the mascara back. To his credit, there was little to no fussing. But episodes like this make me wonder. If he's SO observant and brilliant at noticing the precise way I do certain things - like apply makeup - why does he never take notice and emulate the things I WANT him to do? Like *not* hitting the coffee table repeatedly with a spoon and *not* jumping off the coffee table onto my pregnant, couch-ridden belly and *not* applying yogurt to Henry's ears, to name a few examples.

I'm going to start pulling out my makeup and, when he's present, saying to myself, "No, I will not touch this, I'm going to put it back in the drawer and then go and thank Mommy for being such a terrific parent."

I don't have very high hopes for the results, but it's worth a try.

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.

Here it Goes Again

Blah... I hate it when Jon leaves. It's just a little pre-deployment workup and he's only gone for a couple weeks, but when I drop him off again and watch him say goodbye to our son, who holds his hands up in his car seat and says, "Up!", it just train wrecks my composure. It doesn't help that all the way back in the car, Nate incessantly asks for his Daddy. Knife twist.

So I had corn dogs for lunch and a guilt-induced salad for dinner. With banana pudding. Because, you know, I had a salad. So it's okay.

All those, "He's gone, he's gone and he's never coming back" feelings resurface. Depression rings my doorbell and asks to come inside. He wants banana pudding, too. He likes helping me eat dessert. We're kind of buddies that way. Except he never gets fat. So we can't be friends. I consider letting him in, but make him wait at the door. I share banana pudding with him anyway before I tell him to go away. He's ugly and stupid and I'm not being friends with him this time. Besides, I ate all the pudding.

I hate deployments. I hate the need for composure that goes hand in hand with the need to not stuff my feelings, because then I'll explode. Because I will. It's not pretty. It's uglier than depression-induced banana pudding binges. Well... almost. But I never balance at a happy medium between the two. I either break down and pout or I straighten my back and go on with life in a "Screw you, Navy! You don't ruin MY life" kind of emotionless coma. It's all a bit ridiculous. It leaves me exhausted and I crawl onto the couch at night and, entirely humbled by my inability to act like what I think grown-ups are supposed to act like, I ask God, again, to show me, again, how the Gospel is still saving me. From my self pity, from my fear and from my childish heart. And then there is peace.

Peace and also cocoa puffs, because I finished the banana pudding.