On Fixing What You Can

Zach has started this new thing where he wakes up in the middle of the night. We can't tell what is going on, because he usually falls back to sleep after a short snuggle. I mentioned it to a coworker, who is a first-time mom, and her response was to ask how we handle it.

Honestly, I never thought about it.

It just comes naturally. What do I do when my baby cries? I go and get him. Simple. I think that was her way of asking if I make him cry it out. No. Never. And I never really thought of it until now because Zach has never been a challenge in this respect.

Don't get me wrong: I was the same when Evan was a baby. It just makes sense. Babies cry because they need something, even if that "something" is just to see your face and know you are still there. And this is really easy with Zachary because he has never been a crier. And I'm not sure why this is happening now. It could be that he is about to get new teeth, or that he is eating more and more foods and is getting a bellyache. It could be that he has decided recently that he is going to boycott naps and thus his sleep/wake schedule is all jacked up. Who knows? I just know that he cries and we respond. When Evan was a baby, this was particularly hard. I can still hear the shrill, colicky screams that went on for about eight hours per day for what seemed like a parade of months. John worked nights then, and so it was just me. There was no escape. And there were moments where I knew I loved him, I knew I would never hurt him, but as terrible as it sounds, I could understand how in a split-second a loving parent could lose their cool and cross that line into abuse territory. But still, the response to his cries never dulled. My desire to fix the unknown problem never faded.

This all has got me thinking about the different schools of thought on this topic. A lot of people will tell you that a baby needs to learn to self-soothe, or that you will be spoiling a baby by responding to their cries. Yeah, whaatevs. As if sweet little Zach is secretly planning how he is going to manipulate my entire life and control me. See how ridiculous that sounds? He cries because he doesn't have the verbal abilities to say, "Yo, Mom, I'm cold/hungry/ lonely/ in pain/ bored...." Seriously.

So we go to him. We will always go to him. Just like the sound of Evan crying causes the knee-jerk reaction of me going to see what is wrong. Still. And Evan is almost a decade old.

Because whatever it is, it is my job as his mother to go and fix it. One day, there will be things I cannot fix. But for now, I will relish the ones I can fix. And I don't believe for a second that I am feeding into Zach's plot for total world domination if I do.

Of course this is all coming at a very trying time for our family. Something is not quite right with Evan. I'm still trying to get him some treatment, but if it is what I think it is, I want the best therapists, the best doctors, that money can buy. And those people come with waiting lists. This is one of those times where I cannot fix it. I'm trying, Evan. I'm trying like hell. (When I find out more, expect some venting and heart-pouring action here, folks. It's bad and John is completely in denial.)

So I respond. When my babies are hurt or sad or scared. When they're lonley or angry or have just had enough.

When something is not right, I will be there. For both boys. For as long as I am living.

Birthday Pics

Long after the party with family, the four of us settled in to celebrate Zach's big day together. Just like it was a year ago when he came into the world. Without the stress of party planning and associated to-do lists, we were able to just focus on soending time together. And we had a ball, though when we sang "Happy Birthday" to my precious baby boy, I was crying too much to get all the way through the song. Zach enjoyed cake and ice cream for the third time (the first for the cake smash photos with the photographer and the second being the party with my in-laws). This time, I made chocolate-butterscotch cupcakes with vanilla frosting. An it seems with each occasion, Zach has gotten even more into it. This time, he even had sprinkles in his eyelashes before it was all said and done. The chocolate ice cream made an even bigger, hilarious mess, and we all dissolved into laughter when he tried to even lick the plate.

Overall it was a great day.

Winner-Winner-Chicken-Dinner and How Legos are Taking Over My Life

Just a good cup of coffee and a quick blog post before I get back to the fascinating reading of business law and management accounting...
(Yes, that should be read in a tone that is dripping with sarcasm.)
So yesterday, we had somewere around five bucks between the two of us and John was on his way to get money from an ATM. I was awake with the boys despite the fact that I was called into work last night and had to sleep. I was a little more than perturbed that John was making me stay awake so he could do this when there really was no need. So I'm counting down until he comes home and I can go to bed when he comes barrelling into the house.
"I haven't even been to the ATM yet," he said.
Excuse me, what? I've been waiting for you and you haven't even done what you set out to do yet???
"I didn't have to. I used the two dollars that was left in my wallet and bought a scratch-off lottery ticket..."
This is where I was gearing up to let him have it! I hate the lottery. We do not have that kind of luck. It is a waste of money and time, etc.
"....AND I WON FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS!!!!!"
What? Really? The only thing we have ever won was a t-shirt as a door prize at a PTO meeting. Really.
But yes, he did. And I made him use it to pay the electric bill. One less bill for me. Yay. He used the rest to take the boys shopping. He is all extra-proud because, despite my stressing that my money is really our money, it has always been a secret blow to his male ego that a woman supports him. He isn't as progressive as he sounds in print. And so he bought some toys for the boys and is all about emphasizing that Daddy bought them. Whatevs. I won't rain on his parade.
Evan wanted a new Lego set. Which brings me to the second part of this post.
I effing hate Legos. First of all, the damned things are too expensive. And Evan is too smart. We can buy him the huge, most expensive and complex sets and he will retreat to his bedroom, closing the door to the rest of the world like a mad scientist, and will emerge with the whole set constructed within an hour or two. So they don't even buy him that much entertainment. And then they get taken apart and put together with all of the other deconstructed sets until there are what seems like a million pieces that are indistinguishable from each other. In other words, if you wanted to rebuild one of the sets, you can't because the pieces to the plane are jumbled in with the pieces to the fire station or space shuttle or whatever else is down there because I cannot keep track anymore.

And these are just the pieces that do not end up in my Kirby. Because the Kirby eats everything. I hate that damned vacuum.

And then there are the product lines Lego has: Lego City and Pharoah's Quest and Star Wars...On and on it goes. And we have meltdowns all of the time because something new came out and we no longer have the complete collection and OH-MY-GOD-HOW-CAN-I-LET-MY-KID'S-LEGO-CITY-NOT-HAVE-A-FLORIST?????? I am the worst mother of all time if I do not rush out and spend $100 on the set he lacks that he will put together in 1.5 hours and then feed to the damned vacuum.

Yes, I hate Legos.

So tomorrow, I am going to work on my idea. I am going to buy a bunch of those clear plastic shoe storage boxes and each time I buy a lego set, the directions and picture are going to be put into the bin along with the Legos that go to that set. And he will adhere to it or Mommy is going on a Lego Strike. I am declaring Lego Law in my house. Right. Now.

Well, You Can Teach Them...

First, read this. I did. And I agree with it, just like I do Fulgham's All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten. Basic principles on how to live and be polite and respectful and all of that jazz. Okay, great. And I have taught my son. (The big one, that is, as the little one is too small for these lessons.) But where the author of this left off is what in the hell a mother (or father) is to do when the child has learned these lessons, and can show through example on how he has retained the lessons, yet still has times when he refuses to exhibit the behaviors.
Evan was sent home with a behavior notice today. For spitting on someone. Gross. Grossest of gross. I could have killed him. Seriously, y'all. In fact, I am really glad I have to work tonight because I still want to kill him and work will get me out of the house and away from the temptation to follow through.

(No, I'm not really going to kill him, so put down the phone.)

But once I read this, on today of all days, I started to think about it. We assume that when we see a child acting up, it is all about the parents. The parents must be horrible people without enough self-discipline and self-respect to be examples for their children. I've done it before. I'm sure that if you think about it, you have too. You see the horrible kid out in public who acts crazy or rude and you immediately think, "oh that brat...", immediately followed by a sort of pity that he or she probably has parents who couldn't give two shits about how the kid behaves or whether they grow to be respectable adults or whether they will grow up to shoot their classmates.

Some of us parents of those brats really do care. And worry incessantly. And repeat unspoken rules of ettiquette, as seen on this list, until we think it is the only convo we are even capable of having.

I studied quantum physics. I can list all of the carbon-ring conformations of organic chemistry. I can quote Shakespeare and churn out an 18-page graduate-level paper in a few hours and get an A. But what comes out of my mouth more than anything?

"Evan, quit raising your voice inside."

"Don't stare. It's rude."

"Why would you call your classmate a name, Evan? That's mean."

"Evan! Quit picking your nose!"

"What do say? Please? Thank you!"

And now the new one on the list: "Don't SPIT on PEOPLE!!!!!"

If raising Evan has taught me anything at all, it is that appearances are not always what they seem. That kid misbehaving in the grocery store could have a horrible mother who refuses to teach him anything. She could leave him to fend for himself while she is out turning tricks for crack. Who knows? Or she could be the nice, hard-working, quasi-educated and degree-holding healthcare professional next door who is at the end of her rope and out of options, short of beating the living crap out of the kid, which is far from legal. The kid could be adorable and loveable and gifted and be using bad behavior to get the tired, educated, healthcare-professional mother to buy a toy he wants because she is too tired to stick to her guns this time and wants more than anything to avoid causing a bigger scene than the one being caused by the rude kid. (And the tired mother could be so tired that she couldn't give a damn about run-on sentences in her blog, either.)

Just because kids don't show that they have manners does not mean that the parents haven't taught them. Or that the kid doesn't know them. Just sayin'.

Teaching the Art of Mess-Making: A Pictorial

If there is one thing our Evan is good at, one area in which he is truly gifted, it is in the art of making the biggest mess you have ever seen. This afternoon, he and Zachy were playing in the baby's room, and I, completely oblivious, was doing other things while periodically peeking in on the boys. Of course a large tote of Zach's outgrown clothes (which I had been organizing and packing away) was obscuring my view. Lo and behold, when I was able, I went into the room to play with the boys. What follows is a glimpse of what I saw: Evan has taught Zach to make a mess, unbeknownst to me. And we couldn't be happy unless all of the toys were on the floor...


It starts with a few....

And just when Zach has found something he would like to play with, Evan shows him something else, to which Zach immediately crawls over to get a look...

Hmmm, there are even more toys to scatter on the floor....

I love this one. The boys playing together. And you can really get a shot of Zach's big-boy haircut. Turns out he has the same hairline in the back as Evan and I do.

This one kind of freaks me out a little bit. The flash was off on the camera. The light wasn't on in the room. It's cloudy outside. Where did this light come from? And it isn't the first time light has surrounded Zach in pictures in his room. And it doesn't happen when we photograph any other subjects.

He is really interested in this little drum. And that little elephant: that's been his favorite since he was old enough to bat at toys.

And with this one, I suddenly don't mind the mess. Zachy, looking less like a baby and more like a toddler with his new haircut, reels me in everytime with those baby blues. Suddenly it was less about the mess and more about brothers playing. Despite the huge age difference. Together.

When Mommy Has Homework

And of course Mommy waits for the last possible minute because I am busy saving lives, one set of lungs at a time, for a gazillion hours a week. And if there is one thing I have learned, it is that this program I am in is definitely not for the faint of heart. As in a paper due every two days. Really, y'all, I'm not kidding. In APA format, please. Usually I manage to spit them out like crazy since I am the master of the last minute paper. When John was in school, this enabled me to be his enabler. He would wait until the last minute and I would feel bad for him and crank out a paper for him in addition to my 24 credit hours' worth of classes. And he would always get A's on my papers, and thus the bad behavior on his part was reinforced.

But these are my papers and no one is going to rescue me like I did John. And I most decidedly waited until the last minute this time. I had until 11:59 PM Colorado time to complete the paper, and I submitted it at 11:43. Well, the paper and the 2 ads I had to design for some unknown telecommunications company in North Carolina. Ask me what I know about telecomm and I will tell you I can log my ass onto the internet and hit "talk" on the cordless phone. Seriously. And I had to market a telecomm company that manages the telecomm expenses of multi-location national companies. Seriously. It is like a sick joke. And so I had to come up with this marketing plan.

Excuse me, what? A marketing plan? WTF is that?

And so I was perched at the kitchen table for hours, looking haggard in an old pair of scrubs and some reading glasses, main-lining coffee and muttering expletives under my breath in the hope that Evan, who was awake and in the adjacent room, would not hear me. And he kept coming into the room to show me something or other, or tell me some random fact he learned in school a week ago that just came to his 9-year-old brain. And I am trying to be Good Mom and act interested. I sincerely hope the "MMMM-Hmmmmm"s I kept offering up sounded like they came from the heart. I really do. But what I really wanted to say was, "Evan, Mommy has this insanely difficult farking marketing plan to write. Do you know what a marketing plan is????" But I didn't because I love him and cannot afford the extra therapy. But I must have had APA on the brain because one of the random facts he spewed in my direction was, "Mom, palm oil is killing the rainforests!" Or some shit like that. And I responded with, "That's interesting, Evan, can you cite your sources on that information?" To which John busted out laughing, asking me if I really asked that of our 9-year-old kid. And--surprise, surprise--my little smartass came back in the room and thrust his Time for Kids issue at me, exclaiming, "Here's my source, Mother." Ugh. What was supposed to happen was Evan was supposed to be stumped and try to figure out what in the hell I was asking of him. It was supposed to buy more silence, less interruptions, and at least get me through the SWOT analysis of the paper. This is what one gets when they raise a smart kid. Because then not only was he back at the kitchen table with me, but he had the magazine and he actually wanted me to read the oh-so-interesting article of how palm oil is going to kill off all of the rainforests. Seriously. So when I looked at him and said, "Yes, Evan, but how is TeleSource going to reach a bigger market segment to compete for a bigger piece of the telecommunication dollars pie???", his eyes glazed over and he finally left me alone.

And now I realized I never got a goodnight hug. But the damned paper was in on time.

This is what I get when I say I want it all. I get just that. And something or someone always suffers just a bit.

Mama Bear

If you look at the mothers of all sorts of species, you will have no trouble finding the stories that are out there of extraordinary measures a mother animal will go to in order to rescue her young. She will become ferocious, brave, unbelievably strong. It is biology. A Mama Bear is hard-wired to protect her cub.

We humans are no different. I am included.

I can be level-headed. Rational. Intelligent when needed. I can be wise. I can be weak. I can be any array of any aspect of what it is to be human. Until you mess with one of my cubs. Then? Well, then biology takes over. I can be viscious. Mean. Ferocious. I revisited this concept today in an experience that still has me reeling.

We have had an ongoing problem with Evan and our neighbors. No, not the children. The adults, if you can believe that. I have posted before of Evan's behavioral difficulties. He has a temper. And he loses it. A lot. He will raise his voice and carry on like you would not believe. We have sought, and are undergoing, treatment for these issues. We, as parents, are trying everything we know to help him because we love him. He is still our baby, our firstborn together, the glue that held us together in the lean years. He's our Evan. And we are working on this issue he has each and everyday not only for the sake of harmony in the house, but for the sake of Evan and his need to learn to effectively navigate the world in which he lives. What we do not need is advice to beat him from old ladies in grocery stores or negative comments from people who are uninvolved. I believe that it sometimes takes a village, and so I am open to suggestions from people who have dealt with the same. I'm not speaking on that. But anyhow...

Our neighbors (trashy, nasty, ghetto, uneducated, rotted-teeth-having, dirty, house-stinking-of-dirty-dog-everytime-they-open-the-door-having, skanks that they are---yeah, I said that here because I will never, ever say it in front of Ev because as an adult I woud not want him to torment their kids when they can't help any of it. But I can say it here You won't judge me.)....Anyhow, our neighbors decided a while back that because of Evan's tendency to yell and be disrespectful to us, they do not want their (dirty, skanky, trashy) children to play with him. It really isn't their business, so long as Evan does not act that way in front of them, which I assure you he does not. He doesn't lose his temper or raise his voice to them. He isn't aggressive toward them. But Lesson Number One in the world of getting along with your neighbors is that not eveyone is going to like you, no matter what you do or do not do. And so I let it slide. It is, after all, their prerogative. I just explained to Evan that they do not like the way he treats us and therefore he should just ignore them when he is outside playing. And John and I have continued to be civil to them. We share a duplex, for crying out loud. Evan does as he is told. For the most part, they spread their backwoods dysfunction across the backyard and we pretty much keep to the front lawn other than to park the vehicles, which is to the rear of the house. Until today.

Evan was riding his bike when I woke to eat a quick lunch. I had the full intention of going back to bed before work tonight. Until Evan came in with tears streaming down his little cheeks. He had gone to the back end of the driveway to turn around on his bike when their (dirty, toothless) children decided to talk to him. Evan said he ignored them like I told him to do since the parents didn't want their kids to play with him. The (white trash, likely inbred) father was out back whittling yet another tacky lawn ornament to litter the backyard and heard the boys talk to Evan. And he shouted at them in a way that Evan was sure to hear (and yes, I verified with other adults who were outside and heard it), "Don't talk to It. IT doesn't know how to speak. IT is a monster. Stay away from IT."

IT is my nine-year-old son. My oldest baby. The kid who almost didn't make it into the world. The kid who is gifted and bright. The little boy who has given away his toys to neighbors in need without being asked. The kid who once witnessed a metally-disabled little boy on the playground as he was being tormented by other children, and subsequently took the little boy by the hand and played with him away from the mean kids. The kid who cries at the sight of a homeless man and insists we stop to offer help. The kid who is so gentle and loving to the little brother he never asked for but got anyway. The kid who smiled when his world turned upside down on him.

He is my cub. And he gets a little taller each year, but no amount of time or height can change that.

I know I should be rational and go and speak to the neighbors. I also know I should do so with a level head and steady voice. But I am the type who cries when I get angry enough to go into a rage. And quite honestly, this rage will not stop. I have tried everything. I could handle it if the children said something to Evan. But this was a grown man. Older than either John or I. And if I start a confrontation right now, I swear I will go to jail today.

I cannot help it. I am a Mama Bear. I am hard-wired for it. And biology is a powerful thing.

11 Months

Here we are. The last month of Zach's first year. It's hard to imagine that in just a year, we went from the wrinkly preemie who would occasionally forget to breathe to the chubby, robust baby who cruises and babbles. Mama. Dada. Bababa. I love hearing him "talk" in his lilting little voice. It truly is music to my ears. And the teeth have finally come, as well. He has 2 now, both on the bottom. They aren't even all the way in, but two tiny little buds of teeth that show only when he gives us the biggest of Zachy smiles. This week, we are going to be making the trip to see John's parents, and Zach is going to celebrate his first birthday with family. We'll come home and celebrate his actual birthday here, with just the four of us. The way it all started a year ago. It seems appropriate. Fitting. After all, when we were going through the hell of his pregnancy, it was just John, Evan, and I, clinging to each other, just trying to get through. And after all of it, it will be Zachary with the 3 of us, celebrating his presence here in our lives.

I still swear he is an angel.

As far as Zach this month goes, he loves being outside. He loves the sun and the trees. It really is his first spring, and he is starting to absorb all that is around him. The chirp of a bird. The breeze on his cheek. 2 days ago, he went outside and we actually let him go in the yard, with close supervision of course. It was so fun to see him explore and learn. I didn't even care about the dirty knees. I even sat down in the grass with him, watching him go.

He's really starting to enjoy toys as well, and it is hilarious to hear him giggle at a noise one makes. His favorite is the baby laptop we bought him when he insisted on trying to get at mine everytime I would attempt homework.

On the food front: we went ahead and, after the last drop of my milk was gone, made the switch to cow's milk this past week. He is doing great with it. No problems whatsoever. He feeds himself more and more. I only spoon-feed him the really messy stuff: yogurt, applesauce. He handles the rest. Most of the time, he eats in the buff because he has decided he hates all bibs except for the Bebe auLait reversible bib. If they have a velcro closure, they are coming off, and that is that as far as he is concerned.

He laughs and coos at Evan to no end.

He steals our hearts again every day.

He's everything.

Dental Woes

Evan. Evan Evan Evan.

So I am working the busy ER when my husband calls me to tell me that my beloved eldest child is complaining of a toothache and bracing the right side of his face in agony. I immediately feel horrible because I realize that in the blur of the year of pregnancy and bedrest and new Zach, we have neglected to take the big one to the dentist for his annual cleaning. In this busy house, the squeakiest wheel gets the oil. And so Evan's teeth decided it was their turn to squeak. So I told John to give him some ibuprofen and send him to bed, that we would get him in with a dentist the following morning. John responded with a call back to the ER to tell me that in my shining example of motherhood, I managed to stock adult ibuprofen and infants' ibuprofen, but nothing in between. In steps my trusty ER Nurse friends to save the day: Evan is old enough, give him 2 adult ones with a small meal to avoid stomach upset.

So it takes 2 days to get Ev in with a dentist. We chose one that does orthodontics as well, since we already know we are heading there. And John takes him while I sleep off 5 12's in a row and a couple of marketing papers. And he comes home, frantically waking me to tell me the verdict: Evan has 8 cavities. Eight!

I immediately blame the pig stage we are in. I mean, I make the kid brush his teeth. He emerges from the bathroom with toothpaste breath. I assume he has brushed. And he may have been all along. But apparently not well. One tooth is so bad that it is all the way down to the nerve and needs a pulpotomy. Seriously, Evan?

So yesterday, we got our care plan for the dentist. Pulpotomy first. If he handles that well, they will do the rest of the work in the office. If not, it is off to Cincinnati Children's, where they will do all of the remaining work under general anesthesia. And the ballpark figure of my expense for all of this after insurance? Only the bargain price of $1600. I mean, it isn't like it matters, right? The kiddo needs it and the kiddo will get it. But this whole experience requires some research on my part.

As in how in the blue hell did my 9-year-old son come up with 8 cavities?

So I declare it a new day. No more sugar. No soft drinks (not like he drank a lot to begin with...). No more brushing twice a day. Nope, not for Evan. He brushes after he eats anything from now on. But still...8????

And then I find it out. That John has been giving in while I am at work and allowing Evan to take snacks to bed. Cookies. Ice cream. Candy. Ahhhh, we are such great parents. Turns out it was easier for John to do this than to deal with Ev's meltdowns. So $1600 it is.

Hey John! Remember that backrest you wanted for the Harley? The backseat? The saddle bags? The stuff we were planning to do to the motorcycle this summer? I know exactly where you can find them. They'll all be in Evan's mouth.

Freezing Time

Over the course of last evening and today, I have managed to book the photographer for the boys for next week. We were originally going to do this for the whole family, but I know I am going to be crying, so I don't want to be in pictures that are supposed to be happy.

Zachary's birthday photos.

I cannot believe it is just right around the corner. In 2 weeks, we are making the trip to John's mom's to celebrate with them, and I need the proofs of the photos for them to select the ones they want. I'm a little nervous because I did this completely differently than I normally do. Instead of taking them to a cheesy portrait studio, I booked a private photographer to meet us on location at a local park to capture what it is that I want to have for years to come. And I am thinking of the expense. I remember when Evan was a baby, and he was so photogenic. We lived in a small town, and the only place to get photos done was Wal-Mart. Home of the $5 Portrait Package. Even then, I managed to spend $600, and John was aghast that I could do that at such a cheap place. So you can imagine how a professional, private photography session could spin us into the spiral of bankruptcy. Whatever, I don't care. I need this.

Of course the photographer is going to think I'm crazy and weird and anything else you can think of, but I want her to know. I want her to understand when I cry. To know that this baby is a true miracle. That for someone who never should have made it into the world, he has brought so much joy to all he has touched. That watching him grow has been the most amazing journey this past year. Is a photograph truly worth a thousand words? And if so, will these be the words spoken? When she snaps photos of Zach and Evan together, will she get it? Will Evan's resilience he has shown as he has adapted from being an only-child to being a big brother after 9 years show through the photos? Can she capture that, frozen in time, for me to hold onto as the years pass in a blur of firsts: first days of school, first dates, first cars...?Because as the years pass, I will still be clutching these photos to my chest, remembering. The contractions, the baby giggles. Evan's innocence and his adoration for his baby brother. This. I will always remember this.

Of course I have some fun ideas up my sleeve. As in the Great First Birthday Cake Smash. I had this idea for a while now, and did some online searching to find out I am not as original as I thought and this is appparently all the rage in children's photography. Just a happy, chubby, diapered baby and a brightly-colored birthday cake. With a single candle. The first of many, yet so very precious. Because we experienced parents know how quickly those candles multiply. Just like parenthood, this is sure to be messy, unscripted, and completely joyous.

And so now I have done it: I have made myself cry in anticipation of roughly one month from now, when Zach's first year will be over. When Evan will enjoy the last summer of his first decade of life. It is like we are standing on a cliff, with all we have survived behind us. The joys, the struggles, the celebrations, the milestones. The experiences.

And we are just about to leap into the unknown.

I hope she can capture this time before we do.

10

Ten. 10 months. This week, I had to fill out my schedule request for the next 6-week schedule to come out, and I had to remember to mark myself off for the big day: Zachary's first birthday is that soon. And then, as if I wasn't already feeling that, today I got an email from the photography studio we use to recieve some discounts for his first birthday photos. And yesterday in Target, I saw all of the Birthday Boy stuff they have. And I started bawling in the middle of the store when I saw the little tee with a big blue 1 on the chest.

It was just yesterday.

It seems as if Zach's first year is flying by even quicker than Evan's did. As a matter of fact, next month, because of the way everyone's work schedule is falling, we are going to be making the trip down to John's parents' to celebrate Zach's birthday with them. There'll be cake and ice cream, and of course presents. And we'll sing "Happy Birthday" to him. And I will cry. Just like I cry every year with Evan. But Zach? This is hitting me even harder. Maybe it is because I'm getting older. Maybe it is because we always assumed Evan was to be the only child and Zach seems even more of a gift because of it. And more than anything, I don't ever want that gift to leave me. Having an older child has shown me just how quickly it all goes by. And so while this is the first birthday of many, I know that 2/3/4/5/6/7/8/9.....that they will all whirr by me in rapid succession. The tee with the blue one on it for that day and then the next day he is wearing a cap and gown, or a tux for his wedding. And even then, it will still have been just yesterday.

Just yesterday that I felt the last of those horrendous contractions and I begged the NICU staff to bring him to me. Just yesterday that the days of new babyhood flashed in a blur of home and togetherness and cuddles. Just yesterday that I held him on my chest and cried from his beauty.

So today, Zach is 10 months old. For 10 months, my very soul has existed outside of my body. For ten months, I have witnessed a miracle daily. And I won't bore you with milestones reached or new things he is doing, other than to tell you that we swear he said "Bubby" the other day, which is what we call Evan. This was the first time he made a consonant sound, and so now we know he is okay. Everything has fallen into place. He has escaped the debaucle of his pregnancy and premature birth literally unscathed, making him even more of a miracle.

2 months left of his first year...

I have loved being this little boy's mother. I cannot believe that he was not always a part of the plan. John is my heart. Evan has been my life and my breath. But Zach? Zach is my soul.

Flipping the Script

DISCLAIMER: I REALLY, REALLY, REALLY LOVE THIS KID. I DO. BUT...
This is how I found Evan outside after I woke up yesterday. After the homework was completed and he did the required changing of the clothes to get out of his school uniform. John, of course, was oblivious. The kid was clothed, so he didn't care. But now I feel I need to point out that the child has jeans that fit him well. He also has every variety of shoe one can imagine for a 9-year-old little boy. But the rule is, after replacing expensive gym shoes every 2 months, that he is not permitted to go outside and play in mud and muck in his new-ish Jordans. His solution? A pair of brown leather oxfords, sans laces, and apparently socks are optional as well. The 6-inch flash of ankle really sets them off, don't you think?

But this? This is how he was playing. Outside. Where my neighbors and passers-by could see. Everybody look at the poor child whose parents don't provide appropriately-fitting clothing. I was so embarrassed. And then I started to thinking again. I hate when I do that.



Isn't it supposed to be the other way around as Ev gets older? Isn't he supposed to reach a point where he is embarrassed by us, too cool for us? But here lately, the kid will throw on anything. Too short, too long, holes, stains, worn-out? These are of no consequence to Evan. Of course I couldn't care less in the house. But we will be getting ready to go out-- to the mall, to dinner, wherever--and I will look and see Evan in this weird combo of clothing choices and if we haven't already left the house, I have to make him change. If we happen to have left already when the discovery is made, the plans are instantly changed to drive-thru meals and a return home. Of course there have to be solutions to this. But it goes a little deeper than just what he is wearing.

Since having Zach, I've been hyper-sensitive to how things appear. I take more pics of Zach because, well, Zach's a baby and is constantly changing and doing new things. Evan? Not so much these days. Example: Zach stood the other day--really stood. And I took a pic. No pic of Evan standing because he's been doing it for about 9 years now and it isn't so new. I can assure you that I did the same with Ev when he was Zach's age. And Zach is constantly outgrowing clothes or reaching new stages where he needs different gear or the next size up in clothing, so it seems we are always going shopping for something Zach needs. And it makes me question whether I am neglecting Evan.

Of course I'm not neglecting Evan. But I'm still crazy/neurotic/worried about it. And it's little stuff like this on which my neurosis feeds. Because people see us out and Zach is adorably dressed in brand names and Evan is soiled and stained and in disrepair. So then I am thinking that other people are judging me, when in truth, Evan would be dressed just as well and look just as clean-cut if we could revert to the days when I bathed him, I dressed him, I did his hair. I miss those days. Really I do. Because aside from the horrible clothing choices, we are also in what I am choosing to call "The Pig Stage".

The Pig Stage, seriously. Where he takes these God-awful long showers and emerges with hair that smells like dirty hair instead of shampoo. Ewwwwww. And I have to fight him to go back and wash himself. When did his personal hygeine go out the window? And the bedroom. We've already gone there. It's enough to make me insane.

So, since I have never had a daughter, I am left wondering if little girls do this stuff, too. Is this phase going to pass? Or maybe it is just that I am whirling from the over-abundance of weiners in my house. I think we should add another pair of ovaries to the mix. Someone else who smells like flowers and stuff. Who bathes and actually enjoys being clean. Someone who will be able to tell the boys, while I am at work, that they really shouldn't go out in public like that.

Or maybe I just need a kid who will wear clothes that fit.

Tough Love

We've been telling him. We've told him time and time again. We meant business, and apparently he thought we were just playin'.

"Evan, if you do not clean that room, we are going to throw away anything that isn't put away."

Of course I realize that as Evan gets older, his room becomes less and less our territory and more and more his personal space. And if you talk to some parents, they will tell you to pick your battles, meaning to pick another one and just shut the damned bedroom door.

Yeah, okay.

The child of the person who said that doesn't have a room like Ev's. I call Evan's Tornado Chic. But really, it was worse than that. I imagine it may have looked comparable if a tornado, earthquake, and meteor strike all occurred simultaneously with Armageddon. It was seriously that bad.

Broken crayons, naked of their paper wrappings, which were also all over the floor. Teensy tiny Legos. Hot Wheels sans wheels. All. Over. The Floor. Books with pages ripped out mingling with empty fruit snack wrappers in cahoots with the Diet Dew cans he apparently sneaks to his room once we go to bed at night ( I'm having flashbacks of the "NO SOFT DRINKS, EVAN!" rule).... About half of my plastic drinking tumblers and cereal bowls. And his dresser drawers and closet were completely empty because the clean clothes were...All. Over. The floor. Sheets stripped off of bed.

But the clincher? The nasty dysfunction had incubated and managed to creep and crawl out of his room and all over the basement floor. And boxes of stuff from the basement--old papers, old books, old clothes that have been packed in boxes with the word "DONATE" on the side--torn open and scattered all over the basement floor. Because the kid couldn't possibly have enough stuff. Heaven forbid I donate some of his outgrown clothes to charity so they can go to a kid who has nothing.

And so he thought I was playin'.

I wasn't.

I put on my Mean Mom face and armed with a fat roll of black heavy-duty garbage bags, I headed down the stairs to his room. I put Zach in his Pack'n'Play down there and spent the entire day sitting on my butt, using a broom to pull piles of crap to me, sorting through piles of crap, and throwing crap away. Of course John was with me in all of this. And Evan casually wandered from the living room and the Disney Channel to the basement where we were doing all of this, and back again. He never protested. He never said a word about what we were doing, as a matter of fact.

All in all, we filled 20 garbage bags with junk. Enough that we have to call the trash people in the morning and arrange for a special pick up. And some of the stuff was our stuff. CD's that had been dug up and left on the concrete floor, grating against it until they were useless. Books torn up. You get the picture.

We worked until our bodies ached. Then until it was too dark out to see into every nook and cranny of the basement, and then we stopped. We headed upstairs. We all bathed and ate dinner. Watched a little tv. And then? Then it was quiet time-the time when you don't necessarily have to be in bed, but you do have to be in your room and doing something quiet because we are trying to get Zach to sleep and unwind from our day. It's the time Evan usually plays with his Legos or train tracks or Hot Wheels.

And that is when it sank in. He came upstairs with his beautiful face streaked with tears and thrust his hands at me. His hands that held 5 Hot Wheels.

"This is all I have left!" he cried.

And we had to say, "We told you so, Evan." And I stayed firm, though this is normally when I would crumple and admit that I didn't really throw his toys away and that he can get them all back if he just keeps his room reasonably clean for a week or so. I couldn't say that this time. This time was no bluff. (Mind you, that is not all he has left in total, but all of the Hot Wheels where there used to be a huge storage bin full of them. He has other toys still, though. If it was put away, it stayed.)

And he went downstairs to play quietly with the remaining five.

And then I cried.

Because it gets to me, too.

It gets to me that he is hurt. I wish he would have taken us seriously. I hate to see him cry. I wish it wouldn't have come to this.

The waste gets to me. If I would have had ample amounts of time to do this, I could have at least given those toys to charity. If you don't have boys Evan's age, then you probably have no idea, but those Lego sets alone that he plays with are about $100 a piece. We probably threw out about $2-3K in toys today. Somewhere there is a little boy who doesn't even have 5 Hot Wheels and would have given anything to have what Evan treated as garbage. But alas, I didn't have the time. And so they are in the trash.

The sentimentality gets to me. Among the things he destroyed? A children's Bible my mother had given me and I subsequently passed down to Evan. Books. Oh, the books. For each gift-giving occasion--birthdays, Easter, Christmas...--I have given Evan a hardback keepsake version of a story that has special meaning, and have written pertinent inscriptions in the covers under the dust jackets. Guess How Much I Love You for his first birthday. The Polar Express when he really started to believe in Santa. On and on for 9 years of his life.The plan was that he would have them for years. That he would have them if there ever came a day when he no longer had me.Nope. But the one that rips my guts out? I tried to start the same tradition with Ben. And for Ben's first birthday, and incidentally the only birthday of his where he was with me, there was The Giving Tree. And some simple words inside: "Happy First Birthday, Benjamin. May you always find shade under my branches. Love Mommy." I trusted Evan with it, and now it is garbage. And then the bear. The stuffed bear we made when Evan was 2 at Build-A-Bear Workshop. I had jut graduated and made my first paychck with a number in the "net pay" column that required a comma. For the first time in my life. And we went out to celebrate. And we made that bear together. It's 7 years old. And he tore it to smithereens.

So there is that, and then there is the horrid, ugly hurt. I've told the stories on here, so I don't need to go into a lot of detail, but I didn't always make the money I make now. And even now, the money I make, though decent, isn't so much when you count it is the only income for a family of 4. But the thing is that even when we were dirt poor, when we didn't have money for medicines one of us needed or new glasses when mine broke, Evan never knew it because I have always made sure he gets not only what he needs, but the majority of what he wants as well. I don't keep a running tab of all of the times I have really, truly needed something and have done without in order to get Evan the latest toy he wanted. Even in the leanest of times where an extra trip in the car would mean not enough gas to get to class, or a trip through the drive-thru would mean not enough grocery money for the week. Evan never ever ever knew it. He never felt it. Because I thought it was my job as his mother to ensure that he never did. And then, as he got older and his toys more expensive and our way of life more expensive, I would work so many hours of overtime that I would run myslef into the ground. Just so Evan got what he wanted. Those toys I threw away were not just toys. They were my sacrifices. My good intentions. My overtime hours and lack of sleep. And he didn't appreciate any of it enough.

I hope, now that we've stuck to our guns, that he will know from now on that we are serious. I hope we never have to do this again.

Of course, before you think I am completely cruel, I should explain that this is all coming on the heels of a pretty rough patch for Evan: misbehavior at home and at school, rude to John and I, throwing tantrums. I have devised a plan for Evan to get more toys. For each day he brings home no behavior notices from school, does his homework without a fuss, and keeps the remaining toys he has picked up and his room clean, I have agreed to give him $10 toward his "new toy fund". We plan on doing this for one month, giving him the opportumity to earn up to $300 to use on nothing but toys. It isn't a lot, but he needs to be appreciative and earn the replacements for what I have just handed him before. I am not including in this gifts I would normally buy him or things I deem a requirement. Example: a bike is not a luxury in this house. It is a means to get him outside and more active and is thus good for him. Books are not luxuries, but rather the more time he spends reading, the sharper his reading skills. Art supplies spark creativity. Those things don't come from the $300, but rather from me.

Let's all hope this works...

A Night Out

The fam and I headed out for a nice night out this evening before I head back to work. Well, if you consider pizza and Chuck E. Cheese a “night out”. Of course we hate the Chuckster’s pizza. We opted instead to hit up Dewey’s first. Where I swear you can find perfect pizza. Both babies behaved themselves. John insisted on letting Zach try a hint of lemon, though I tried to tell him that the citrus was too acidic for Zach. Well, I’m wondering now if babies can taste sour, because Zach wanted to eat the lemon wedge instead of making the requisite funny face and turning away. I know they can’t taste salt before a certain age, so who knows.

And then we headed to B&N, where I picked up a complete anthology of Jane Austen. It makes me feel dirty to buy her books in such a way, but I cannot wait to get lost in the vastness of all of it in one book. Now I have to make the confession that I have never read Jane Austen. Not Pride and Prejudice. Not Emma. Not  Persuasion. I know it’s awful. But I am going to fix it all starting tonight. But at least I didn’t just watch the movies and pretend I know all about her works. I never even watched the movies. That would’ve been even sluttier than cheating and buying all of her books under one cover.

And then we went to see Chuck. What more torturous experience than to hear Justin Bieber songs piped over a PA in the voice of a mouse? But Zach looked on from his stroller while Evan and John played. I did find the coolest arcade game EVER in the form of the giant Operation. Evan spent $25 in tokens to win a whopping $3 worth of prizes, but the point is to have fun and he did. I can only take that place in small doses and today was just right because hardly anyone was there. Code for not many screaming children, no long lines, and no worries that I am going to turn my head and Evan was going to go missing or something equally terrifying. Actually, the last time we were there, there was this really creepy guy sitting in a booth by himself, watching all of the kids play. Who goes there without a kid???? And so we haven’t been there in some time since then. But no Chester the Molester tonight.

So now Zach, exhausted by the stimulation of the evening, has gone to sleep before we even had a chance to fully clothe him in pj’s. Poor kid is just in his onesie. Evan is finishing up his homework and will soon be heading to a niv=ce bath and bed. John, though he doesn’t know it yet, is going to serve me a bowl of ice cream and brew me some coffee while I dive into my foot-thick book. And I may just get a back rub while I read. Life really can be good.

Delayed

Evan is recovering nicely from his recent illness, which I'm thinking was viral. Zach ran a temp between 102 and 103.5 all weekend, and although it broke Sunday morning and has not returned, his inbility to tell me what hurts had me taking him to our family doc yesterday to be sure all is well. Yay for Zach! Everything checked out fine, so it was either viral or was caused by teething. (Nope, no teeth yet). While there, with a doctor I work with repeatedly in the ICU's, we went over Zach's milestones again. He's so hard to gauge because I compare him to Evan, who did everything at the speed of light, except for speaking. And I have tried to be laid-back about the whole thing: Zach will do whatever when he's ready to do it.
The moral of the story is that the doctor is worried not about Zach's fine or gross motor development--those have a way of catching themelves up and any mild slowness has mostly been the result of prematurity or simply from baby chunk and resolves itself. But he was worried about the sensory stuff: that Zach still, at 9 months, gags on anything thicker than nectar-thick (the consistency of pudding is too thick for Zachy!), that he isn't babbling mamama/ dadada/ bababa yet. And so the first step is an appointment with an audiologist at my hospital to ensure that there is no hearing impairment. I should mention here that we don't think there is at all, but since it is the number one source of this sort of delay, it has to be ruled out. I can tell you that his newborn hearing screen was perfect, as was the more indepth one they did because he was premature. He has never had problems tracking us by the location of our voices. When we speak to him, he looks and smiles. We are both sure that his hearing is fine. It is more of formality than anything. Something we have to rule out in order to go to the next step.
So what is the next step from there? Well it could be one of two things. Given that Zach has always had green nasal drainage from birth, it is entirely possible, according to our doctor, that there is a pocket of fluid in his ears. It also is unlikely because he has never had a single ear infection, and usually babies with drainage problems will have fequent ear infections. We are really hoping this isn't the case with Zach because it will mean he will need tubes in his ears. Surgery. I don't even want to think about it.
So after both of these are ruled out, Zach will be seeing a developmental specialist at Cincinnati Children's Hospital Medical Center. I have mixed feelings about this. I hate that he has to even go there. This is where the overzealous doctor made the false allegation with Ben, for starters. It is also where Ben was treated by the team of pediatric cardiologists, and thus holds some very painful memories for me. And that place is terribly depressing. Nothing will make you appreciate your healthy children like a stroll through that place,where you are liable to see anyone from newborns to teens with these horrifying medical conditions. And then on the other hand, there is relief. Because while you never want to need them, you feel absolutely grateful that there is a facility a stone's throw from home that breaks ground daily in just about any treatment for children imaginable. They even work in collaboration with Good Sam to do surgery in utero if need be (Yes, it's called The Fetal Surgery Center of Cincinnati or something like that). (Good Sam is the OB Mecca I griped about while on bedrest if you followed my pregnancy blog. Gah! I hated going to that place!) If there is something wrong with Zach or he needs any sort of treatment or therapy, I can trust them not only to find it, but to be completely competent at treating him. And that is about the only ray of sunshine in this whole Godforsaken mess.
Because I cannot get it out of my head that this is my fault. That I should've lied about my contractions while pregnant. Because if I would have done that, there would have been no home uterine monitor. And thus no trips to the hospital. And no drugs. And no early c-section. But my God, the drugs...3 months of the Brethine pump, plus the oral form I took before the pump and the subcutaneous injections I got each time they sent me to the damned hospital. The mag sulfate--evil, evil mag sulfate. The indomethacin. The steroids to speed him up in there. The damned pain meds it took to get me through that last month, which my OB assured me were safe. And the progesterone shots. I keep wondering which one it was, knowing full and well that it is likely none of them that did this. Which brings it back to me. Which takes me back to those last months of my pregnancy and makes me contemplate whether I could've held on longer. It's so easy to speak of this now when I have had nine months with my angel and am free from that pain. But then? If I put myself back in that place, I think I can honestly say that I did the best I could. Me and my uterus of which medical mysteries are made. I have to be nicer to myself about this. I was in an active labor pattern for months--literally--and I effing functioned like that. Yes, I did the best I could. And while I am not trying to stroke my own ego here, I think I would be hard-pressed to find many others who could've endured that for as long as I did. But still...
And John's reaction! Argh! Since he dropped Zach and I off for the appointment that was supposed to be a routine check and ran errands with Ev, I had to explain all of this to him. And his response to all of this still infuriates me: " ARE YOU TELLING MY SON IS GOING TO BE RIDING THE SHORT BUS TO SCHOOL??????" Seriously. And then: "We'll have to get a 'Slow Children Playing' sign for the yard just for Zach." I know he was just trying to make me laugh, but still. I could've killed him, I swear. Completely unhelpful and inappropriate, John.
So anyway...
I have to wait. I have to hope all is well, or that his delays are so mild that minimal therapy will fix it all. I still hate that we are in this place.
The ball starts rolling on February 28th, when Zach sees the audiologist...

It's The Little Things

On today, of all days, which happens to be the most difficult day on the calendar for me, I am choosing to distract myself with the little things I am loving right now that make life grand. Here's my list:
1. It's downright spring-y out there! Which means the neighborhood stroller brigade is out in full force. And while I am working at least 4 hours a day for the next 5 days, I will be able to join them. I can also bust out the Ergo carrier and away we go. To the park. For long walks. Window-shopping downtown. Hell, I don't care. We can go. And for the first time in a year, nobody is having a million contractions an hour or recovering from a c-section while the weather is nice.


2. International Delights coffee creamer. Seriously, folks. John likes Skinny Caramel Macchiato while I am partial to Skinny Vanilla Latte flavors. Both are fat free and delicious and eliminate my need to visit Starbucks daily. Speaking of Starbucks, the last time the entire fam went in there, by the time I tipped the barista, we dropped $20 on 3 drinks. Fo' reals. So I am loving this crap. And my fridge is stocked with it.





3. Reebok RunTone shoes. Now don't get me wrong: I am most definitely not a part of this new idiotic shoe craze. I do not believe for one second that a shoe is going to melt the fat on my ass, despite the fact that just about every major athletic shoe manufacturer has come up with their own version. But these were cute. And on sale for less than $100. And I needed new gymnies for work. And I bit. And tried them on. Helll-oooooo, Fat-Feet Heaven! And so they are mine.




4. Motherlove's More Milk Plus. Whoooooot! Because after the pumping debaucle at work last week (or lack thereof) this crap brought the supply back up in about 3 days. Well, that and me pumping like a madwoman again. Actually my pumping output tripled in that amount of time. And it replaced the gazillion other supplements I take because it has them all in it. I was taking 2 Goat's Rue, 3 Fenugreek, and 3 Blessed thistle capsules 3 times daily. Now I take 2 of these babies 3 times daily. For a third of the price. Holla!

5. A while back, I fell in love with Pediped baby shoes. And bought Zach 4 pair in th 0-6 months size. And they fit so well for so long that I was sure he wouldn't need a bigger size until he started walking, and thus ordered the next size up in the "walking" versions instead of soft-soled. But they were huge on him, and I ended up ordering 4 more pair in the 6-12 months size of the soft-soled and put these on a closet shelf. Now that Zachy is getting bigger and starting to explore pulling himself up to standing, I tried these on him and they fit. I have several pair, but these are just 2 of the styles I bought for him. A-freakin'-dorable! And so I felt justified in ordering the next size up, this time in sandals and other spring/summer styles. Shopping for shoes, even if they are baby shoes, makes everything better.


6. I'm working tonight. A little 4-hour "princess shift". This time yesterday, I was off work for today. Then my boss called to tell me a coworker, who has never called in in the time I have been there, called in sick for today. And so I gave up my full day off to help out. Why would this be on this list? Well, because it is difficult to think of your woes and feel sorry for yourself when you are running to codes or trying to keep people alive. Talk about a distraction!


7. My house is full right now, even though Ben is absent. It will never make up for it, but it is good to know. I get to hear the sounds of John playing with our boys. Of Evan's laughter in the house while he is off of school today (no idea why--not a holiday or Holy Day--hmmmmmm). Of Zach's squeals of delight.


8. Zach has learned to give Eskimo kises and it is too cute for words.

9. Still-toothless baby smiles. Don't get me wrong-I want him to cut his teeth. But there is just something so innocent, so pure, so new about a flash of naked gums when a baby smiles. And I am choosing to enjoy it while I can. It won't be much longer. (Incidentally, Evan took this picture of his baby brother just minutes ago while I was typing this. I love that you can get a true glimpse of Zachy's reaction to his big brother in the pic.)





10. This. This right here. Big Brother reading to Baby Brother. Because even in Ben's absence, this house is full. Of love. Of togetherness. Because Ben is the only one who could mke this better for me. Other than that, this is as good as it gets. Life with my two miracles and the love of my life. And because I can look at the boys, with their love of books, and see myself in them. I am there. And if I am there, then Ben is too, even if none of them realize it. And that is a beautiful thing.

9 Months

Today, my Zach is 9 months old. I cannot believe we are 3/4ths of the way through his first year. Gah!
He is still working on that first tooth. Just when I think I am going to have to pay professionals to surgically help him, he shows me, once again, that he will do it all in his own time. Yesterday, when I felt his gum with my finger, it felt like it might be breaking through finally. I went to check the progress this morning and he puckered his lips and shook his head as if to say, "No way, Lady." So I have no more progress to update than that.
Speaking of "when he woke up this morning",I went into his room and gasped in horror. He was laying face down. The plan was to peek in and check on him without waking, but the position he was in freaked me out so badly that I instantly reached down and poked him to make sure he was breathing. His entire upper body was out of the swaddler and he had rolled over to get into a comfy position for him. Too bad it is a position that completely scares the crap out of me. The risk of SIDS is supposed to be virtually nonexistent after 6 months, so just when I think we are in the clear, I remind myself that Zach is almost 2 months younger than his chronologic age. So up until now, he has still been swaddled in order to sleep. This morning changed that, I think. Of course whether or not he will sleep without the swaddler remains to be seen. There may be some rough, sleep-deprived waters in our near future.
He has started to do some major catching up in the past month. Pulling himself up about three quarters of the way. Graduating to the big boy carseat. Really, truly sitting up. Transitioning from a prone position to sitting. His cognitive skills are great. When he's sitting in front of you and you clap your hands, his little face lights up and he takes over for you, using his hands to clap yours. Yesterday, John was singing the Pat-a-Cake song to him and Zach was doing all of the motions for John using John's hands. He'll pick up his binky or bottle and try to put it in my mouth, his version of sharing. If he gets ahold of my glasses, he'll try to put them on his own face, because, hey, that's where they go, right? Right now, we're working on the finer points: his ring stack; blocks; nesting cups; the concepts of in/out, over/under, etc. I bought him a set of these large soft blocks and have been working with him on how to build stacks, and he knocks them down, squeals with delight, and throws them at me. Oh, well. We'll get there. Thankfully,I bought the soft blocks...
Zach has quite the little personality. When I was at BRU buying the carseat and lightweight stroller this past month, it became apparent that I would be needing a new Floppy Seat. Ours was actually fitted to a cart with no elastic and was too complex for words. As a result, it remains on Zach's closet shelf, unused. We bought the actual brand Floppy Seat instead and since he now is out of the infant carseat, it goes with us to stores so Zach can sit in the shopping cart. And he does. He perches like a little prince and stares at everything and everyone. Shopping takes twice as long because he is way more visibile now and with his chubby, rosy cheeks, he looks like the fricken Gerber baby. So random strangers stop us over and over, and of course social Zach smiles and coos and babbles at them, and so they talk to him even longer. And in case someone doesn't notice him, he will let out a yell until they do, and then laugh and smile when they look his way, and the above process starts. Evan was like this, too. For some reason, my children have no concept of stranger anxiety and would be easy as pie for a pedophile/kidnapper/axe murderer to snatch.
He eats well, too. That's no shock if you've seen pics of him. We've yet to have any food challenges. Well, unless you count the fact that anything thicker than pudding gags him. I think this is more of a developmental thing and will pass. He doesn't like veggies though. Feeding him has gotten just a tad more difficult in that he insists on trying to help. He's also very interested in our food, our drinks. And I doubt that, no matter how creative I get with rationalizations, I can fit my Diet Mt. Dew into the all natural diet I have created for him. This is probably the greatest source of frustration because no matter how much he wants to try our stuff, he has the GI system of a 7 month old and so I know he isn't ready to handle it yet.
All-in-all, he's still an absoute joy. I keep waiting to hit a rough patch or a challenge and we never do. Teething hasn't phased him. Solid foods hasn't. Sleep never did. Where did this easy, happy baby come from? We haven't encountered an ear infection, a cold, a runny nose. He's not been sick once. Even with baby-proofing the house! I can be more laid-back with Zach because if he starts to go after something we don't want him to, all we have to do is say, "No, Zachy", and redirect him, and he is fine with it. I couldn't do any of this with Evan, who was hell on wheels.
So there you have it. The plan for the next month is to have his pics taken and start to plan for his birthday. Both are going to be big operations because last time we visited the photographer, we did pics of just Zach. I was thinking we need new pics of Evan as well this time when John informed me he also wants family portraits. Meaning I have to be in the shots, too. And I am the least photogenic person in the world, so I dread it. And for his birthday, we are thinking of going down to John's mom's to have his birthday party, which requires planning and requests for days off. His first birthday. I cannot believe it will be here that soon.
In closing, here are some pics, starting with an atrocious one of me with Zach as we slept on the living room floor after I got home from work one morning. Of course, John had to get out the camera.

Mom Extraordinairre

It seems like my days off are few and far between, but I've noticed I spend 100% of my time off being Mom Extraordinaire. Bathing Zach and splashing with him in the tub. Down on the floor, helping him reach his milestones. Interacting with Evan and helping him do whatever Evan does.



I can offer this up as evidence: I am currently baking cupcakes. Fricken cupcakes. I don't even recognize myself anymore.



I'm so far from perfect the Perfect exists on an entirely different planet from the one on which I live. And I have been giving this a lot of thought lately. We don't do soccer games and PTA meetings bcause John has no interest and I just don't have the time. I'm a member of the school's HSO, but don't do a lot of participating because of scheduling conflicts. We don't go to church. It just seems that my precious time off shoud be spent here at home, not making myself insane with shuttling Evan everywhere under the sun. And it works out perfectly because Evan has no interest in anything. Until now.



Evan's school is starting up baseball for the elementary kids and Evan wants to sign up. On one hand I want to encourage him to not be a fat couch potato and get out there and go for it. He spends large amounts of time reading books, playing on the computer, and he watches more tv than I can tolerate. The activity will be good for him. But I also have several misgivings about it. Will I have time? Which makes me feel like the worst parent of all time because I should somehow find time. Will he be good at it? Which makes me feel even worse because the point is to have fun, not foster the talents of the next baseball great. And most of all, will Evan do it? Because Evan, when not interested, has no attention span. I can see him in the dugout waiting for his turn at bat. I can picture him picking grass or watching for planes in the outfield. And with this in mind, I wish football was an option for the young kids here. Baseball just requires too much attention.



And then there's the other aspect of it. I have to go and be social with other moms. Gasp! Because in my eyes, I am Mom Extaordinairre. I do the best I can for my offspring, and they are both happy and healthy. This has to have something to do with me, right? But then I go to a function with stay-at-home moms and I realize that while I am patting myself on the back that my kids are clean, fed, and smiling, I really am inferior because the other moms manage all of that while managing 4000 sporting events and recitals a month while simultaneously baking 100 dozen cupcakes without the box and managing to have perfect hair, nails, and makeup. All with a baby on their hip and a toddler tugging at their pants leg, no doubt. And so I start to think to myself, "Self, you really do suck."



I hate feeling like I suck.



Of course I am thinking all of these things when my little free issue of Baby Talk magazine comes in the mail today, complete with an article on how moms lie. Seriously? They lie about perfect marriages and genius children. The article says they mostly do it to avoid criticism and unsolicited advice. I think they do it to keep up appearances. I'd like to find the one who started it all. The perfect Suzie Homemaker with her perfect appearance who lied about how perfect her life is and how she rocks at being a mom, which made her circle of mom friends feel inferior and precipitated their lies, which led to their friends feeling like they had to lie, and so on. I want to find her and wring her neck. Parenthood is tough business, and instead of being a competition, it should be a sisterhood. Your kiddo doesn't sleep through the night yet? Well, even though mine does, I think he is an anomaly, and instead of me gloating to you, let me instead offer words of encouragement and offer up any service I have to offer that can make your sleep-deprived life a little easier. Your kid hasn't reached a certain milestone yet? Well, instead of bragging to you how my 6-month-old is on the verge of curing cancer, let me focus on the adorable and amazing things your baby is doing.

And while I'm on the topic, I think the socially acceptable thing to do when interacting with other busy moms is to wear the appropriate Mom uniform: sweatshirt (with or without the stains), jeans, and gym shoes. If you have time to be flawless, I don't want to know about it, after all. It's not that motherhood means you have to let yourself go. It just means you should not try to out-do the rest of us. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe the rest of the motherhood world goes around in 4-inch Manolos and head-to-toe Prada, and I am infact the abnormal one who doesn't have the time for such crap. I doubt it, though. I think I'm on to something with this competition thing, because I know some pretty extraordinary moms out there who do extraordinary things. They shape young minds as teachers. They keep us safe as police officers. They serve our country in the military. And on their off time, they rock the Mom uniform along with me.

I guess I'll let Evan do the baseball thing. And in my own mind, I'll continue to be Mom Extraordinairre. And I'll try to not feel inferior. And if the competition gets too stiff for me, I can trump the perfect coifs and delicious from-scratch cupcakes and stories of childhood ingenuity with some stories of my own: last night, while they got their beauty sleep, I kept about 10 people breathing who wouldn't otherwise be doing so and was actively involved in the resuscitation of about a half a dozen more. So excuse my stained sweatshirt and faded jeans and lack of baked goods. I was just a little too tired to give a shit. Now let's watch my kid score a winning run.

Zach's New Ride, The Awesome Husband Award, and the Pot and Kettle

Zach got a new ride a few days ago. Well, Zach got a lot of new things this week. Evan too, for that matter. It all started with the car seat. We had purchased a big-boy carseat and had a "carseat tech" install it, but then when Evan tried to get in the car next to it, he didn't have room to even get a seat belt latched, and so the carseat immediately was taken out of the car and replaced with Zach's infant carseat once again. We returned it for a refund, but then had to revisit the whole issue once again. We have solved the problem because this time, Evan went with us, and we secured both boys in the car to be sure before we even left the BRU parking lot. And I was so happy because not using Zach's infant carseat meant there was no longer a reason I had to use the companion stroller.

I hated that stroller.

If you have a stroller in your car, you're a mom. And if you're a mom, you're going to need to get groceries. And that damned stroller was so big that I had to put it in the house if I planned on buying more than 2 or 3 bags of groceries. Seriously. With only 2 kids, I shoudn't need a cargo van to go to the supermarket. So Ta-Daaaaaaa! I now had an excuse to buy a new, more compact stroller. But I hate umbrella strollers. Geeez, I really am hard to please. So we found the solution: The Combi Cosmo EX stroller. Light. Folds easily. And not only does it fold flat like the other one, but once flat, it folds again in half, making it ultra compact. And it looks all cool with brushed chrome. The only con was the lack of cupholders to carry the requisite Venti Mocha that it takes to get me to do anything productive, but that was fixed with a $6 attachment. Love it. And if (or when) we have another, The Combi Shuttle infant caseat is compatible with it.

As for the Awesome Husband Award, John takes top honors. I keep thinking I'm going to find out that he shrunk a favorite sweater while doing laundry, or broke a figurine while dusting. Something must be off, and I'm sure it has nothing to do with the Super Bowl today because I will be at work when it's on and have no say in whether he watches it. But as I fell asleep after work his morning, he gave me a foot massage. When I woke up, he brewed me a fresh pot of coffee and brought me lunch here at my desk. And right now, as we speak, he is on the way to pick up a supplement for me. On the other side of Cincinnati, about 45 minutes away. And the supplement is More Milk Plus. And he is most definitely male and not lactating. Whatta guy. I must admit that it makes me chuckle to picture Sniper John of Marine Corps fame going up to someone and asking them where they keep the More Milk Plus.

And the shoes. OMG the shoes. While I was getting my eyes checked a couple of days ago, John went to a shoe store in the mall to buy Evan the new shoes. We decided it was easier to guestimate them fitting and potentially having to return them that it was to deal with Evan at the actual store. And the night before, as I was looking online at the shoes Ev wants, John walked into the room an threw an ever-loving fit. "Andrea, you are NOT going to spend that much on shoes for Evan!!!!" But they were cute. I actually was wondering if they had them in pink in my size. But even my inner Shopaholic had to admit that John had a point, so I planned on doing some sale surfing the next day at the mall. Lo and behold, John did it. That was good, since my eye exam rendered me pretty useless. But I just saw the shoes about 30 minutes ago. Purchased by the man who yelled at me over expensive shoes for Evan. Apparently I can't buy Evan expensive shoes, but John can. Because I pull the box out of the bag and immediately see the contradiction when I spy the little outline of the man in the jumpng position on the top of the box. Yep. John bought him Jordans. You know, because Jordans are so cheap and all. "But they were on sale like you wanted," says John. Yeah. Okay. Their sale price was the same as the full price of the ones I was going to buy. I can see how that makes sense, John. And besides, the last time we bought Ev Jordans, a classmate of his was jealous of them and intentionally stepped on them with mud-covered feet on the first day he wore them. I think I need to devise some sort of plan to get even with the man. Hmmmmmm. I think I need a new purse.....