The Mommies' Diaries…Parenting, One Blog at a Time.

I walked into the local grocery store last week and was suddenly face to face with… Halloween.   Of course the Halloween display was at the beginning of September.  Last year the same grocery store had the Thanksgiving display up a week before Halloween and the Christmas display all set to go before I had even ordered my free-range, organic turkey.

At any rate, there it was — dancing skeletons, sparkly fake rats covered in glitter, pointy witches hats and all kinds of things in the shape of a ghost.  Halloween is not my favorite holiday for many reasons, but that is a post for another day.  As I strolled through the grocery aisles, I started to think about what really scares me, and it’s not zombies, mummies and vampires.  What I truly find scary can often be summed up in 5 words or less.

“The sitter is sick.”

“It’s just a virus.”

“The cafeteria needs volunteers.”

“It’s an iCarly marathon!”

“It’s due today.”

“Can flash drives get wet.”

“Play-Dough + glitter glue + sharpie + scissors” (in any order or combination)

“You’re invited to Chuck E. Cheese.”

“What’s that smell?” (no matter what the answer)

“License and registration”

“Can we keep him?”

“We’re out of milk.” (may substitute coffee or wine)

“I changed my mind.”

“We lost your reservation.”

“Don’t come in here Mom”

“I left a bag of Hershey’s in the car.” (OK, that’s nine, but scary nonetheless)

“Lice was found in class…”

“LAST CALL”

(Disclaimer: I am a worrier by nature, and presently, a hormonal mess.  You’ve been warned).

I’m laying next to my little sleeping beauty as she naps.  This has become a daily habit of ours for the past several weeks (past 6 weeks to be exact).  Ever since the exhaustion of pregnancy set in, I cherish DJ’s sleep time, and usually catch some Z’s myself.  This afternoon, though, I can’t seem to shut my mind off.

I’m obsessing over how I’m already messing up my unborn child.  While it might sound like  cracking the quintessential joke about putting aside money for their therapy later in life – the truth is, I’m actually really worried.

When I was pregnant with DJ – I lived and breathed the pregnancy.  Each quiet moment that I had was spent rubbing my belly, talking with her and daydreaming about life with her.  I even made a mixed CD of songs that made me think of her, and I played it almost nightly while I sat in the rocker in her room, caressing my baby bump as we listened to 62 minutes of music.  My husband and I would lay in bed talking to her, about her, with her.  He’d pat my tummy and say hello to her, and tell her how much he already loved her.  I am certain that we began putting her nursery together some time within my first trimester.  Even working on her baby book became a part of my daily routine.  Our lives revolved around the baby we had yet to meet.

This time around, everything is different.  Outside of pulling the sexy elastic band of my maternity jeans over my already protruding stomach (I am 12 weeks pregnant), there are some days when the only times I think about our newest edition are the times when my head is in the toilet, puking.  Even my husband admitted over breakfast the other morning, “there are moments when I forget.” Yeah, me too – and it feels awful.

I have talked with plenty mothers of multiple children to understand that I’m not alone.  It’s very difficult, if not seemingly impossible, to focus on anything other than your toddler if you have one.  DJ has just turned two – and she’s a little firecracker.  She has an opinion about everything, has non-stop energy, and while she wants to do absolutely everything on her own – I still must be present to chaperone her every move.  There is no break to pat my belly.

Even though I am reassured that this is normal – the second pregnancy being nothing like the first in it’s level of intimacy, I can’t help but lay awake wondering if my fetus already feels abandoned?  Is she (we don’t know the sex yet, but I refuse to call it an “it,” and my gut says girl) feeling totally alone in there?  Is she longing for a bedtime story directed only to her?  Is she wondering if the heartbeat that guides the very rhythm of her life, even attached to someone who promises to love her forever?  Is she confident that we want her, that we already love her, that we can’t wait to meet her?  Gosh, I hope so.

And then, I look at my DJ.  She’s been my best buddy for the past 24 months.  We do everything together (seriously, right down to peeing). She’s been my sidekick, the center of my universe, my sole concentration.  Not only do I struggle with wondering how she will adjust, but I struggle in worrying that she will feel less loved once I am dividing my attention – and that breaks my heart.  At the same time, it kind of breaks my heart that our second baby will never ever have the undivided time with us that DJ has had – and that is true of any child that comes after the first.

Before getting pregnant with our second, I was having wine with some girlfriends.  One of the women, who has two children, and I were talking and I had mentioned my fear of DJ feeling slighted by introducing another child into the mix.  She reassured me that she had once had that same fear, but that then she realized that everything she’d want her first child to learn about being a wonderful person, would inevitably come from having a sibling.  Lessons like sharing, having patience, practicing equality yet celebrating individuality, learning to compromise, the value of team work, unity, trust, etc.  Whenever I begin to wonder if I should get a bigger coin jar for DJ’s therapy bills, I think back on that conversation and realize that having a brother or sister will only enrich DJ’s life – in ways that I have yet to discover…and I’m excited about that.  I’m excited to see her not only as a daughter, a grand daughter, a cousin and friend – but as a big sister.  She’s going to be wonderful, I really know that.

When I truly put things into perspective, I can (kind of) stop worrying that the life growing inside of me feels all alone in that great big womb . DJ and I pray for her nightly, for her health, her entrance into this world, her future.  We set aside time every night to share our hopes and dreams for her with God.  And while I don’t have the “time” to get lost in obsessive thoughts of the color of her bedding – the moments I do spend thinking about her are deliberate and sincere.

What I do know, and trust above all else, is that I will inevitably feel the abundant, instant and unconditional love for her the moment I first meet her, that I did when DJ was first placed against my chest.  My heart will expand, and there’ll be room for two.  I have total faith that in that very moment, I will know that life was not complete until she joined us – and that somehow, someway – through the jealousy and territorial wars, it will all work out.  It just will.

And it will be beautiful.

Lately, my life feels like a scene right out of the 1983 classic “A Christmas Story.”   You know, the one with Ralphie and the Red Ryder BB Gun?  Anyhow, there’s a dinner scene where Ralphie’s mom gets up from the table a dozen times – serving second helpings, getting milk, remembering silverware, etc.  As she’s bustling around the kitchen while her family eats, the narrator says, “My mother had not had a hot meal FOR HERSELF in 15 years.”

I think that life with a two year old is just a composition of scenes from different movies.  Some days, it feels like a tragedy, others like a thriller – but mostly, like a classic comedy.  Sure, there are days when the developing vocabulary of my kid is enough to turn my face red – but, when it really comes down to it, it’s fun to watch her budding wit spew from her otherwise sweet lips.

Let’s take last week, for example.  We were in the craft store and DJ wiggled free from my arms and began running away from me – just far enough in front of me that I couldn’t grab her (and just fast enough that I actually had to run after her).  All the while we’re playing this game of chase, I am saying things like “STOP,” “NO,” “LISTEN TO ME,” “DO NOT MOVE.”  I am, of course, barking these orders sternly yet very, very quietly as we’re in public.  After a full lap around the aisles, I finally catch her – at the very front of the store by the registers, no less.  I pick her up, and before I can utter a single word, DJ waves her tiny index finger in my face, and says “No Mommy, people watching you.”  I died laughing, and yet another vignette was written in our book of toddler antics.

I try really hard to be a step ahead of DJ.  I try to anticipate what her mood is, what her wants and needs will be, what she might think is funny, or cool, or scary.  I try to be prepared.  And, as a result, my car looks like a looted toy store (a hodgepodge of random things thrown together in total disarray), and my energy level is close to nil.

This is true at every.single.meal time.  I will think that I am totally prepared…plate of warm food, check.  Napkin, check.  Fork, check. Sparkly cup full of water, check.  And, just like clockwork – DJ will inevitably want the lasagna cut into smaller pieces (as she now says, “teeny tiny baby pieces”), she will want a “big one,” when referring to the choose-your-own-size paper towel, she will prefer the pink fork over the red one, and will request ice cubes in her water.  Like a puppet, there I will be jumping up and down half a dozen times to keep the peace and ensure our otherwise birdish eater, actually eats.  Once I finally sit down, I will likely realize that I never brought my husband a knife, or got myself something to drink.

That’s life as a mom.  Even the movies say so.

I haven’t officially announced this through my blog yet, but I’m pregnant!  Yahoo!!!  I’m 11 weeks closer to the finish line of that 40-week marathon.  We are totally thrilled – and scared, and anxious, and excited.  In fact, I probably should dedicate an entire blog to this topic, as it’s pretty loaded!  But, for now, what I’ll say is that I am exhausted.  Like, crazy exhausted.  Oh, and I have been puking at least twice a day for the past five weeks – which is divine.  Anyhow, all that is to say that I cherish the moments when I get to put my feet up.  But, they are in fact, just moments.  As soon as I get comfy and elevate my little (sometimes swollen) piggies, without fail, DJ pulls herself up onto the couch to get in my face with some grand idea – like “Outside, Mommy!”

But sometimes, when I’m really lucky, she climbs up to my lap and plants a gentle kiss right on my shoulder and snuggles in close.  Those are the moments that make the daily aerobics of our parenting lives totally worth the sweat (and on some occasions, blood and tears).

The one benefit of being the child of a hoarder is that your mother will often bring over  little gems like this one pictured at the left.  Note my improper use of “your” not once, but twice!  Ah!

I got my braces off two weeks before I started high school.  In junior high I was the nerdy girl.  I got one grade that wasn’t an A during my three years at Central Middle School, I received a B in PE.  I played the flute in the band, was a member of the 4-H club and I didn’t own a pair of Keds.  Back in 1985, those were all key traits of a geek.  I wanted a fresh start in high school.  I quit 4-H, put my flute in the closet and got myself a plaid mini-skirt and some Keds.

I begged my mom and my orthodontist to take my braces off.  I never, ever wore my neck-gear or rubber bands and I didn’t care if my teeth were straight.  I just wanted to start 9th grade with white teeth, not silver.  My mom finally relented.  I’m sure she was angry and kept thinking of all the time and money we spent at the orthodontist.  I never did put the braces back on and I don’t regret it.  My teeth are not perfect, but they are relatively straight.  Besides perfection is overrated.

My mom was also not happy about my giving up the flute, but she relented because at least I was still taking piano lessons.  Eventually though, I gave up the piano too, much to my mother’s dismay.  She was a single mom raising two teenage daughters and I know she must have sacrificed to buy that piano and pay for the lessons for me and my sister.  Neither one of us stuck with it for more than three years.

I don’t long to play the flute, but to this day I wish my mom had forced me to stick with the piano.  I can still read music and play some simple songs, but I would love to be able to really play.  I also wish she had not let me quit the private French lessons I actually really enjoyed.  I don’t even remember why I wanted to quit, probably so I could spend more time cruising the mall with my friends.  In college I had the opportunity to study in France for one month.  My mother did everything short of begging me to go.  She knew I would love it, and what was one month?  But I was terrified.  I missed out because I was too scared to spend one little month in a foreign country by  myself.

My nine year old daughters have been in all kinds of activities over the years.  I’ve tried to expose them to a variety of things and I have never forced them to stick with any of them.   They both were in ballet from the time they were three years old.  Just last year, Macy started to complain when it was time to leave.  When I picked them up from class, she was visibly upset but wouldn’t tell me why.  One day all the girls were let out of class except for my two.  After a few minutes, the teacher opened the door, barely looked at me and shut it right behind them as they left.  Macy started crying.  The teacher was clearly annoyed and Macy said she had been upset that she wasn’t picking up the dance quick enough and made both of them go over it a few more times after class. That was the end of the ballet.  The look of relief on my daughter’s face when I told her she didn’t have to go back made me confident in my decision.  Neither one of them ever really loved it, but it was still a little difficult for me to let it go, especially since I has just paid the non-refundable recital and costume fee (times two!).

My daughter Avery plays in a competitive club soccer league.  When she first tried out, Macy wanted to try out too since lots of their friends were also playing.   I didn’t discourage her, but I had a feeling it wasn’t going to be her thing.  Macy is a very happy AYSO player, but toward the end of the season there is quite a bit of whining about going to practice.  When I explained to her that practice for club soccer is two times a week and I would not (under any circumstances OMG!) listen to any protests about it, she decided on her own that she would stick with AYSO.  Avery on the other hand, puts her shin guards and cleats on without any protest and will even skip birthday parties to play soccer.

Two years ago I signed up both Macy and Avery for a local girls chorus.  They both enjoyed it and I loved the whole “girl power” philosophy of the program as well as the introduction to music theory it provided.  It was apparent after a few concerts though that singing really wasn’t Avery’s passion.  Macy would smile through her whole performance and I could hear her voice.  Avery on the other hand, spent the entire concert with a look of boredom and sort of mouthed the words to the songs.  She was just going through the motions.  So when it was time to sign up again the next year, I only signed up Macy.

I was a little taken aback when Macy asked if she could quit chorus too.  I brushed her off, but she kept asking.  I knew she enjoyed it and she is a good singer.  I know I am not raising the next Celine Dion, but Macy is a decent singer and she loves music.  After I dug a little deeper with her I discovered that she was nervous about attending chorus without her sister.  She likes the other girls in chorus, but none of them are her good buddies.  Macy does not like to be alone and the thought of being “alone” at chorus made her visibly anxious.  We talked through it and she stuck it out and did really well.

So here we are again one year later and girls chorus rehearsal has started up again.  Again, Macy is asking to quit.  She has been more persistent than last year and really wants to give it up.  Again, she claims she doesn’t like being there “by herself.”  She likes singing and performing, but the rehearsals make her nervous.  I am very reluctant to allow her to give it up. She really is a good singer and I love watching her.  I also happen to believe that forcing kids (and adults for that matter) into situations that make them uncomfortable causes them to learn and grow.

Unlike with ballet, where my gut told me it was time to quit, I am really not sure what to do on this one.  I don’t want to force her into something that causes her anxiety every single Tuesday.  But I also don’t want her to look back in a few years and wish she had stuck with it.   Is it me and my baggage that wants her to stick with it??   I so wish my  mom had packed my bag for me and forced to on to that airplane to France all those years ago.  How do you know when it’s time to take the braces off and they are ready to make these kinds of decisions for themselves.

No one ever said parenting was easy.