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

So, if the purpose of a blog is to serve as a personal journal, or sort of online diary – then it should always be authentic, right?

If that’s the case, then today’s post should go a little something like this:

I’m exhausted. The end.

However, I don’t think I’d draw much readership from such a brief entry, despite how true it may be.  So, for the benefit of those reading, along with the joy of looking back on my own experiences someday – I’ll elaborate.

DJ, my precious and lovely 2 1/2 year old, went through another weekend-long nap strike.  If you’re keeping track, I’m now just over 36 weeks pregnant.  This is an important fact because it 1) explains my level of fatigue, and 2) explains my hormonal craze.

As most of you already know, sleep with DJ (or lack thereof, really) has been the bane of my existence since oh, say, September of 2009 – yep, when she was born.  I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t accepted that sleep isn’t her strong suit, because I have.  I’ve totally made peace with the fact that I haven’t slept more than four consecutive hours for over two years now.  And, I’ve even made peace with the reality that I might not ever again.  However, on days when I’m feeling really confident that we’ve finally landed in a groove, and the needle comes obnoxiously screeching off the track – I’ve been known to lose it.

Let’s take Saturday for example.

I woke up tired, which is pretty reasonable considering that was at 2:00am.  I couldn’t fall back to sleep, so was up and out of bed around 4:30am.  I did some writing, posted a recipe on my personal blog, cleaned the house and thought about what to make for breakfast once the troops awoke.

Needless to say, starting your morning in the middle of the night makes for a really long day.  So, by the time nap time rolled around, I was THRILLED.  No, honestly, I was giddy at the thought of crawling into bed, enjoying some silence and reclaiming some lost hours.  DJ, however, had plans of her own – which, for some reason, revolved around torturing me.  As usual.

Since my first trimester with this second pregnancy, I have taken to napping when DJ naps.  This has morphed into us napping together in “mommy daddy bed,” as she calls our king-sized oasis of cottony duvet goodness.  While we go down for our nap at the same time everyday, there’s just no telling how long it will take my little monkey to fall asleep.  Unfortunately, I’m a terrible sleeper, too – which really means that unless all of the stars are aligned perfectly, I’m left counting sheep, pigs, goats, horses, Benadryl left in my arsenal, or anything else that pops into mind.  In other words, I can’t fall asleep till she does and all in the house is settled and quiet.

So Saturday….we laid down at our usual 12:30 siesta time.  Since her daddy was home from work, DJ requested that he lay down with us.  While I was charmed by her sweetness (nothing warms my heart more than her loving on her daddy) and the intoxicating thought of cozy family time, the hair on the back of my neck stood up a little.

The hubs snores.  I can’t even sleep through a cat fart, let alone his snoring.  He has a C-PAP machine, but somehow I knew he wouldn’t consider strapping it on for a nap.  I also want to point out that he never ever agrees to napping because he hates how groggy he feels upon waking from them – so to have him commit to this “family nap” meant he was exhausted too.  Exhausted = extra loud snoring in my husband’s case.  I felt my blood pressure rising, but I didn’t say a word.

He fell asleep immediately, which makes me jealous and tempted to throw darts at him.  But, it’s not just him – I want to shoot a pellet gun at anyone who can sleep anywhere, any time.  It’s infuriating to me….the one who can’t even sleep on sleeping pills – but that’s sounding like a separate blog post altogether.  Anyhow, back to Saturday and the Snorasaurus Rex….so, hubs is off in dreamland and DJ is in between us making up songs.  It’s an awful symphony of chainsaws chasing the lyrics “butterfly, go away” on repeat.  SOMEONE CHANGE THE TRACK.

I’m laying there, and I’m getting more and more pissed.  I figure I’ll leave the duet behind and take up residency on the couch – except that when I leave the bedroom, DJ flips out and her yells are like a percussion hammer to hubs’ patellar tendon and he barks out “DJ, go to sleep!” Which, of course, escalates her distress and lulls him right back to sleep.  He always has my back, the sweetie pie.

So, I pee and then climb back into the oasis-turned-torture-chamber and try to Zen my way out of my I’ll-never-freakin-sleep-again funk.  DJ grabs onto my hair, which is how she soothes herself when she’s super sleepy.  I actually find it almost as annoying as I find people who can sleep, but I hang in there because it usually signals that she’s on the verge of a deep slumber.  I lay there, hair being twirled, while my husband’s primal purrs ring out. Love him!

I am feeling my level of stress rapidly increasing.  DJ is now fingering my outgrown bangs, which means she’s intermittently touching my face.  I hate having my face touched.  I roll over, facing the wall rather than my delightfully annoying child.  I give her full reign to the back of my mane, but no, she demands more.  “I WANT TO GO IN YOUR ARMS, MOMMY!” she wales.  Another blow to the patellar tendon, and my husband roars “You want a timeout?” Oh Lord, yes, yes, I do!!! Put me in solitary confinement, PLEASE.  Oh wait, he’s talking to DJ.  Ugh.  She cries harder, he snores louder.  My pulse is racing.

I turn to face her again, certain that she’s seconds away from falling asleep.  I can tolerate a few more bang twirls.  I can.  I can.  At least I think I can.  And then, I scream “DON’T TOUCH MY HAIR! NO MORE TOUCHING MY HAIR.  IF YOU TOUCH MY HAIR ONE MORE TIME, I WILL SCREAM!”

There’s something magical about screaming out threats of screaming.  Oh, sweet release.

I almost didn’t recognize the deep, gravely voice emerging from the depths of my sleep-deprived soul – but yeah, considering the look on my daughter’s face, I was left to believe that it did indeed come from me.  We both sat for a second, the snoring in the background our suspense-laden soundtrack, looking at one another in shock.  Finally, DJ breaks the ice – fearlessly, matter-of-factly, and sans tears.

“I no want to sleep mommy.  I ready to get up.” And just like that, after more than an hour of hoping, really, really hoping that we could all just get some flippin’ sleep – I (super dramatically) threw the blankets off myself, rolled my nearly immoveable body off the king-sized piece of crap and huffed daggers at my husband.  He sat straight up, a bit confused at what was happening.  I moaned “I give up.” I seriously couldn’t believe that I hadn’t frightened the energy right out of my toddler, thereby launching her into a sleep coma.  Had I lost my touch?

Within minutes, everyone was outta bed, because when Momma’s not happy – ain’t nobody happy.

I’m exhausted.  The end.

(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.