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

I was totally inspired by this blog post I read last week: http://honesttoddler.wordpress.com/2012/06/06/im-sorry/#more-191

It’s an entry written from a toddler’s perspective, and it’s hilarious. It got me thinking….what would DJ say if she was given an open platform to share her candid thoughts? Here’s my best guess:
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Bedtime was pretty rough last night. Mom and Dad are learning my tactics and they’re cracking the whip – its starting to piss me off, actually. So, I gotta step it up a bit, dig deep into my bag of tricks.

When I sensed we were nearing the end of dinner, I decide to ask for a second helping of chicken. Mom fell right into my trap when she snapped, “No, you haven’t even touched the chicken on your plate.” BINGO. Not only will I use this point to my advantage a little later, but I’ve got her right where I want her. We’re arguing – and I’m buying a few more minutes of “awake time.” But, out of nowhere, Dad threatened that I’d get sent straight to bed if I didn’t stop defying Mom. Ugh, I hadn’t counted on that one.

We finished dinner and I had to ask permission to leave the table. With my sweetest voice and that warm grin that gets them every time, I coyly asked, “May I please be excused?”  They said yes, and I broke for freedom. Made a bee-line for the couch and within seconds had thrown all the cushions off and jumped the length of the couch with tiny hops. It was a race against time, but I gave it all I had. Within seconds, Mom and Dad boomed, “STOP JUMPING!” so, I feigned an injury.  “Owie Owie Owie!” I cried. I blinked out a few fake tears and put my pouty face on.  Earned a few more minutes by way of sympathy hugs. Yes!

Alright, time to head into my bedroom for story time. First, PJ’s.  Mom pulled some jammies out of my drawer while Dad instructed me to choose three books.  I grabbed the biggest three books off my shelf – HA! Dad started in on the negotiations….”You can either have one of those big books, or three small ones.” BLAH, Blah, blah….I took the opportunity to glance over at what Mom had laid out. It was all wrong.  “NO, NO, NO!  I want The Little Mermaid ones, not the Cinderella ones!” Man, I’m good – another fight with Mom = more time outta bed. I gotta say, Mom’s so entertaining when she’s exhausted and frustrated.  Her hair falling out of her ponytail as she rocks my baby sister in one arm while throwing pajamas around with the other.  I try not to laugh as I delight in my evil, but I’m still trying to contend with Dad, too.

I’m not quite sure how I lost my power, but in one fell swoop, I ended up being stuffed into a Little Mermaid top with Cinderella bottoms, and three small (and totally boring) books.  I was under my covers and my lights were dimmed. Ugh, story time was upon me.

I listened intently as Dad read my stories.  Just kidding! I didn’t listen to a single word…..I was too busy revising my plan as I hadn’t intended to be in bed just yet. So, yeah, anyway.  Dad finished the books.  Mom told me she loved me and out she went.  Dad tucked me in, and followed Mom out.

Think fast, DJ. Think fast.

“MOMMY! DADDY! I need to go pee pee.” Nothing.  They’re ignoring me? Seriously? The nerve.  Really? “I need to go pee pee!!!!” Again, nothing. This is absurd.  I gotta step it up.

“I’m too hot!!!!!” Silence.  They’re seriously gonna let me roast?

“I need some water!!!!!!” I’m parched. Kinda.  Ok, not really. But, I mean, for all they know my tongue has turned to sandpaper.  How can they let me dehydrate? They’re letting me dehydrate. I can’t believe this…..

“TUCK ME IN.  I need my paci.  I need Lovey. I NEED YOU!”

Wow. Ignored. Ignored. Ignored. Time to make them regret playing this game with me.  “I went poo poo!!!!”  How ya like me now, suckas!?

As I heard Dad’s quick steps approaching my bedroom, I had a brief moment of regret – but then I thought “What could he really do?  I mean, it was their fault, after all, for letting things go this far.” I decided to throw in a tantrum for added drama…thrashing around in bed so as to throw Dad off his game when he entered my room.

I’m guessing that was a bad plan because Dad was PISSED that all my rolling around smeared my poop all over my butt and my back.  I tried not to laugh as he gagged while cleaning me up. But SCORE. I got The Little Mermaid shorts that I had originally requested. Damn, I’m good.

“Goodnight, DJ.  Do not call us again. We will not come back.  It’s bedtime.  I love you.” Dad is such a softie sometimes….awwwww, so sweet.  It’s a good time to make another plea.

“Mommy! I’m still hungry. I didn’t eat all my chicken!!!!”

Needless to say, no one came running in with a tray of cold dinner. You can’t blame a girl for trying – and with the entire night ahead of me, I was able to plan out how to sabotage breakfast.

Rock on with my bad self.

Scenario 1

We’re getting ready to leave the house. I finally have both girls dressed, fed and motivated to head out the front door.  Z is in her car-seat, crying (which she’ll do until the car starts moving) and I am struggling to carry it with one hand while my other arm is weighted down with an over-stuffed diaper bag, a few random snack containers, a water canteen and jackets for all of us.  The only things standing between me and the open road (most likely leading to Target) are turning the lights and TV off before locking the front door behind us.  With both hands, arms and shoulders full, I quickly pass through the house and with my only free finger, turn off the  TV.

Like a flip of the switch, DJ’s temper is detonated. She explodes. I am totally caught off guard.  Did our dog steal her sandwich – the one she’d never eat anyway? Did our cat pee on her Princess rain boots – the staple of her wardrobe? Did her imaginary friend pull her uncombed hair? I whip my kid-accessory-adorned body around only to see DJ charging at me with a red face and angry tears. She is screaming (and I mean, SCREAMING), “I do it! I do it! I do it!”

“YOU DO WHAT?  Stop freaking out! YOU DO WHAT?!” I shout back.  “I turn off the TV!” she demands. “DJ, I’m sorry.  I didn’t know you wanted to turn it off.  It’s already off now, and we’re late, so LET’S GO!” I feel like I’m being fairly reasonable, but she breaks into a head banging, fist throwing, hair pulling tantrum.

I retaliate with a time-out.

Z is wailing. Her car-seat now sits in the middle of the living room floor – where I dropped it to free a hand so I could drag lead DJ to her bedroom.  The diaper bag is still dangling from my shoulder and I am fumbling to swing it out of the way so I can set DJ’s timer for 3 minutes (her standard time-out duration).

Now we’re really late, and I’m really mad. And DJ is really mad.  And Z is really mad.

The three minutes tick by excruciatingly slowly.  I enter the dungeon when the timer dings, and ask a very unreasonable toddler if she knows why she got a timeout.  She responds with something about me being mean.  I take a deep breath and excuse myself to finally remove Z from her car-seat.  On my way back into DJ’s room, with a very distraught (and now hungry) newborn, I decide to change my approach.

Breathe in. Breathe out. “DJ, do you need a hug?” “Yeah, I need a cuddle.” So, I lay down next to DJ in her bed and I plug Z onto my breast while DJ and I reconnect.  The next 15 minutes proceed with a conversation about how DJ wanted to turn off the TV, but that freaking out was not an acceptable response, followed by confirmation of my love for her and how we’ll do things differently next time.  And, before I know it – she is putting clips in my hair and calling me Ariel. Z finishes eating – and now, it’s lunch time and we’ve run out of time to go wherever it was that we were going.

Pure awesomeness.

Scenario 2

Repeat all of the above, except add my husband and take a few things out of my hands and off my shoulders.  Everything is the same, even up to the “I do it! I do it! I do it!” part. DJ is screaming and my husband whips his body around to see an unraveling toddler.

He immediately drops to his hands and knees and charges toward DJ making doggy sounds, pretending he’s going to lick her.  She quickly goes from crying to laughing hysterically.  He picks her up, tickles her belly and carries her out the front door upside down.

The two giggle all the way to the car, and the game continues till we arrive at our destination.

A total non-event.

Once again, my husband, The Master of Diversion, is able to distract DJ and redirect her attention.  He’s a total genius at this, and, get this – it comes so naturally to him.  Every single time he pulls this off successfully, I think “Darnit! There he goes again.  Handling things better than I can.”

Why can’t I seem to remember this tactic?  I’d like to blame it on the fact that I’m too tired to be creative, too exhausted to think spontaneously – but, the truth is, my husband and I have different personalities.  He’s a total joker (which can be utterly frustrating at times), and he’s someone who wants to deal with conflict in the moment.  I, on the other hand, am the more serious and contemplative one.  I’m also the one who typically flees from conflict. He doesn’t need to think about it – it’s just who he is to shout “I see kitties!” just as DJ starts kicking the back side of the passenger seat in an attempt to express her disdain about who-knows-what.  Within seconds, her tantrum subsides as she’s distracted and lured into thinking about something else.  Works like a gem every time.

I guess that what makes me and the hubs such a great pair.  And, what reminds me that I have so much to learn about this thing called Motherhood. There are so many things about being a mom that come so naturally to me, and still others that are such foreign concepts – but totally necessary for reaching my kid in the way that speaks to her.  It really does take a village, or at least a really funny daddy.

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.

Chocolate cake, or homemade peanut butter cookies, or candy canes, or gummy worms…..whatever, really.  Whatever stops the crying, gives me a moment of peace, and makes DJ like me, rather than revolt against me with her entire being.  I’m talking about breakfast, and my worn out gauge on what’s appropriate. I’m talking about feeling like a failing mother. I’m talking about being exhausted.

Two weeks ago, I was totally down for the count.  I was the most sick that I can remember being.  I had a double dose of the blahs – sinusitis and either tonsillitis or strep throat.  Because I had already started taking antibiotics when I went in for a throat culture, the lab couldn’t get an accurate reading.  The diagnosis isn’t nearly as important though as the impact that this had on my life.  For one week, I had to depend on others.  For one week, DJ’s schedule went completely out the window.  For one week, I couldn’t bring myself to cook for my family – to do laundry or dishes or even vacuum.

And then, one week turned into two weeks.

As I began feeling better, I lost another week of life just catching up on the life that I had lost the week before.  I spent all of last week catching up on emails, paying bills, doing piles upon piles of laundry and cooking things like steamed swiss chard to try to make up for the many meals of string cheese, strawberries and crackers that I served to DJ while I was sick.  Well into last week, I realized that I was still just trying to keep the peace in our home, and I was pressing the “Easy Button,” over and over and over again.

I don’t know about your toddler, but mine is a creature of habit.  She thrives on routine – right down to the order of the four books we read every single night.  Having mommy in bed for a week totally threw her off.  She was bored, frustrated and I’m certain – disappointed in me.  It was hard enough that I had gone from an aspiring Super Mom with fun outings and activities planned daily, to pregnant mom – exhausted and, well, exhausted.  But now, now I was exhausted pregnant and sick mom.  I am sure she hardly recognized the woman who was making daily promises to turn it all around soon.  She began acting out.  And I began acting lazy.

What will make you happy this morning?  One of the homemade cookies we baked last night?  For breakfast?  Sure, why not.  You’d like to watch Tangled five times today?  Of course we can do that.  Oh, what’s that?  You’d like to open one of your Christmas presents a few weeks early?  Alright.

Yuck – I feel so dirty just admitting to all of that.  But, I have always vowed to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth through my blog.  And, the truth is – I probably pretty fairly earned the “Bad Mom” award these past two weeks.  However, in my quest to get back on track and analyze just how everything went so wrong – I am also going to cut myself a little slack.  I was trying to survive.

A really dear friend was kind enough to text me pretty regularly while I was sick.  She just wanted to check in, offer her help if I needed it, and shower me with lovely words of support.  In one of our exchanges, I told her that I really just wanted to cry as I began thinking about how on earth I was going to raise two children.  I freaked out.  I had a lapse in confidence.  I had an “OH CRAP” moment.

She reminded me that I was going to be a great mom.  She reminded me that just as I had adjusted to life with one child, I would naturally adjust to life with two.  Then she wrote a line that I keep repeating over and over in my little brain….”You’ll look back on this time of being pregnant while trying to raise a toddler, and you’ll realize how freakin hard it was.”  Brilliant.  Insightful.  Wise.  This is freakin hard.

Just like no one tells you that you’re going to poop during labor, or that you’ll need to wear an ice pack in your granny panties, or that your boobs will leak milk when you’re out grocery shopping and hear another baby cry – no one tells you that being pregnant while chasing a two year old from sunrise to sunset is HARD.  Really, really hard.

So, when I got sick, there was a definite interruption in my auto-pilot mode.  While I would have preferred not having a fever for 5 days and feeling like I had jelly beans stuck up my nostrils and razor blades in my throat – it did force me to stop and realize that I needed a break.  I needed to ask for help.  I needed to hang up the Super Mom cape for a little bit.  I needed to just be a worn-out mom.

And while I didn’t necessarily need to feed DJ chocolate cake for breakfast, I did need a few days without tantrums.  I did what I had to do.  Am I paying the price now?  Absolutely.  She’s wondering where her Willy Wonka mom went – but, now I have the perspective and energy to deal with the ever-changing tides of my two year old’s moods.

Long live bribery and the price we pay for resorting to such measures.  And may we cut even good moms the slack they need to feed their kids breakfast cookies without judgment.

P.S. If you’ve never seen this sketch by Bill Cosby, you must watch it!  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JcVcRMS4ejQ

I am eating a piece of See’s candy as I sit down to write this.  Let me justify this food choice by making the following declarations: 1) Prior to opening the box of See’s, I polished off an entire bunch of steamed rainbow chard, and 2) My child has been nothing short of absolute hell on Crocs.  Do I feel entitled?  Yes, absolutely.

Now onto my second piece of See’s….I don’t know what has hit our house, but I can tell you for certain, it isn’t “Peace,” nor “Harmony.”  DJ has decided that both sleep and reasoning are over-rated.  Put the two together, and you’ve got a recipe for disaster.  I have never felt so physically taxed and emotionally drained.  After last night’s episode, I woke up feeling hung-over this morning….without any of the regrets or incriminating photos.

Last night easily goes down as one of our worst evenings ever.  While I understand that DJ is in the profession of testing her boundaries, I cannot say that I have the managerial skills required to mitigate this phase.  Lucky for her, God seems to have given me an extra dose of patience – and that has been my only defense against this Tasmanian devil living under my roof.  She flat out rejects every.single.one of my requests/suggestions/demands, and in last night’s exercise of independence, DJ refused to get into the bath.

Her original objection to getting into the tub was because she wanted to “do it.”  (Meaning, I am not permitted to assist her, in any way, as she climbs headfirst into the porcelain lagoon).  She wants to do absolutely everything herself these days, and I am starting to learn that “I do it” is her version of a threat.  If I don’t comply, then she will punish me with some ludicrous behavior – like a crying, screaming, kicking, hair-pulling fit that lasts way too long.  So, last night, when I lost all of that extra patience I was just bragging about, and I began “encouraging” her to plunge more quickly into the bath – all bets were off.

What ensued for the next hour was a long tirade against me, the floor, the bathroom, her stuffed animals, her fine blonde hair, etc.  She just kept repeating, “I don’t want to take bath.  I want to take bath. I don’t want to take bath.  I want to take bath. I don’t want to take bath.  I want to take bath. I don’t want to take bath.  I want to take bath. I don’t want to take bath.  I want to take bath. I don’t want to take bath.  I want to take bath. I don’t want to take bath.  I want to take bath. I don’t want to take bath.  I want to take bath. I don’t want to take bath.  I want to take bath.”

If I weren’t so darn frustrated, I might’ve felt a little heartbroken over her indecision.  I mean, can you imagine being trapped inside a body, that was being led by a mind that literally changed course every half a second?  (And, if you think the above repetitious sentences were annoying to read – and you took the luxury of skipping ahead – just think about what it felt like to be trapped in it, for real, with no way out!)

My mom happened to be over for this little episode.  When DJ finally fell asleep, and I emerged from her bedroom over an hour later, my mom said “It stressed me out so much to hear her cry like that, that I almost had to leave the house.”  Trust me, mom, that feeling is nothing foreign to me…..except, I have to hang in there. I have no choice but to ride the emotional rollercoaster with my toddler.

Despite feeling literally beat up by my child after these types of incidents (which seem to be happening all too often lately), I must admit to a grand sense of achievement once the storm passes and the calm is restored.  It makes me feel like a really good mom when I’m able to navigate through the rough waters while acting in a loving, supportive and controlled manner.  (And honestly, I will take self-administered pats on the back whenever, and wherever, I can!).

One thing I left off – in between the grand finale of her tantrum, and me escaping her wrath, DJ rolled over and said, “I so sawdy (sorry) Mommy.  Hold me in your arms.  I love you. I so tired now.”  And that, my friends, just goes to show that my sweet little girl hasn’t gone anywhere at all….she’s just going through the motions of growing.  A beautiful reminder of why it pays to love our kids through their ugliest moments – always knowing they will desperately need us on the other side.

(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).

She’s almost 3 years old, this little baby of mine, but don’t call her a baby because she will tell you, “I’m a big girl. I’m not a baby anymore!”… and she’s not, she’s so not a baby anymore. Where is the time going? I want it to slow down, but in the same breath, I of course know that it won’t… and so I’m doing my best to be ever more “present” in each moment. Not just with her, but with myself, in every area of my life.

The change in Allie in just the last couple of weeks has been remarkable. She all of a sudden doesn’t just seem bigger, but she seems MUCH more mature. I know every parent must experience this around this age, just before three (and I’m sure there are many more times coming where I’ll feel it this strongly too). This stage is the final movement out of the baby / toddler stages and seriously into little girlhood, isn’t it. Just in the last two weeks, Allie has finally decided to use the potty, all on her own… just like that. We thought we’d lucked out right after she turned two, but that was a fluke. It’s not been an easy road with the potty training. So to have her announce, all of a sudden, and repeatedly, that she needs to use the potty has been amazing! On top of that, her vocabulary skills are intensifying to the point where I am shaking my head in disbelief, that some of these sentences and concepts are coming out of her mouth. Over the weekend she told me, as we were driving, “mommy, you forgot your sunglasses”, which I had! Really? Observant little one all of a sudden. She’s also begun to be much more affectionate, which is absolutely wonderful. Of course, there is the flip side, where she is also asserting her independence much more as well. I’ll take the good with the bad. I know it’s all part of it.

I guess I’m just feeling it, more than ever before, and I know it is far from the last time… that this stage that my daughter has been, this cute toddler stage, with the funny words and the cute little run and she still fits on the changing table, is going, going, ALMOST gone. I am holding on to every dear second of what’s left of it, even though I know that what is next is just as wonderful. I see her changing and growing into this beautiful little girl, and I want so much to always remember her this way, because I know I have already forgotten things about how she was as an infant that I swore I wouldn’t forget. So what can I do? Just be present… really truly take in every moment with her, as best I can. Be present, not just for myself to feel completely immersed in my life with her, but so that she knows her mommy is genuinely here for her and cares about her more than anything. It’s easier said than done, as I’ve got a million things running through my mind with my new business venture, but that absolutely needs to be secondary (as important as that is). Making the time to be in the moment with her, for her, for me, is the most important thing I can do… since I can’t stop time…

Just when I thought I was fresh outta food for fodder, I met a perfect stranger who inspired the perfect blog, mildly titled “Mind Your Own Business.”

Today was Ravioli Tuesday.  It’s this tradition that DJ and I have every second day of the week.  We go to swim lessons, and then stop by a local pizza joint to share a plate of raviolis that even my Uncle Guido would approve of.  We’ve been doing this for several months now – which is only a semi important detail, and only because it means that the restaurant staff knows us well, and thereby DJ feels right at home in “her booth” by the window.

Today was actually a really good day. Right after DJ’s swim lesson, she noticed a group of ducks swimming in the nearby sewer….um, I mean, creek?  Anyhow, this little highlight was enough to curb her hunger pangs long enough to make our wait for the hot raviolis totally bearable.  She was happily sipping on her ice water, and making conversation with anyone who’d listen.  I was uncharacteristically relaxed, as I was feeling super proud of her manners.

Toward the end of our meal, DJ announced, “Home, mommy.” This meant that she had reached her limit, was ready for nap, and signaled that it was time for a to-go box.  Without whining, or throwing anything even resembling a tantrum, she climbed down from her booth, and began making her way toward the door.  I asked her only once to come back to mommy, which she did, when a woman chimed in from across the restaurant.

She said, “Well, there’s a strong-willed kid.” I looked up at her and smiled.  She said, “I’ve been a preschool director for 25 years.  I can spot a strong-willed kid from a mile away.” I politely replied, “We call it ‘independent,’ and while it can be challenging now, I know it will serve her well in the future.” Touché, right?  Wrong.  She went on to say, “Well, we call it ‘problem-child.’  I can tell by her eyes that you have a 24/7 job.” Um, don’t all parents have a 24/7 job? Furthermore, lady – what are you basing this on?  Your 25 years of experience has shown you that a child anxious to take their self-appointed nap is problematic?  I turned to walk away, when she inquired, “Is she your only child?” “Yes.” “Oh yes, I can tell by the look in her eyes that she thinks she’s the only one…..” There you go with that “look in her eyes” garbage again, lady.  Perhaps you should leave your preschool gig and open a Palm-and-Eye Reading shop along some questionable stretch of El Camino.  (How’s that for an unsolicited opinion?)  And, I’m curious, what exactly is the ‘look’ of an only child?  Maybe she gets it from me since I’m also an only child.  Like problem-mother, like problem-daughter.

Obviously, no further words were exchanged.  Mostly because I’m a great mom, and my child is nothing short of sweet and amazing and nothing good could have come out of me continuing to engage in conversation.

On our drive home, I wondered what gave this woman the right to share her very negative opinion of my family?  I wondered if her experience alone should have made her appear as an authority figure, and that I somehow should’ve appreciated her insight?  I wondered if I was overreacting to be so offended?  Should I have gotten in the last word by dropping some knowledge on this old bitty about how to offer words of praise rather than discouragement?  

Here’s what I’ve decided to be the bottom line : Parenting is hard work.  Raising a wonderful human being is the biggest responsibility in the world.  Being a good mother or father means questing yourself, your judgement, your decisions, your sanity – at least a dozen times per day.  And just when you are having one of those rare moments, when everything is under control and the stars are aligned and you are thoroughly enjoying the company of your two year old (which, let’s face it – is a major feat), all it takes to shake your confidence is the hasty opinion from some outsider.  Unless me or my child are causing harm to you or your child, OR, you wish to offer a compliment, I’m sorry to say it – but mind your own business.

Of course my daughter has her moments – she’s two.  What two year old isn’t “strong-willed” at times?  In fact, I share most of our bad-behavior stories here because, well because two year old shenanigans are entertaining underneath how exhausting they are.  However, just because my kid is developmentally doing all of the rebelling that she should be doing, does not make her a “problem child.” 

It’s one thing to offer empathy to a parent who is clearly struggling to get through the moment, it’s another (and unacceptable) thing to pass judgement based on three minutes of observation.  You’d think a seasoned preschool director would know that toddlers are schizophrenic.  

Offer encouragement, people – or you just might get called out in a public forum for ruining a perfectly good Ravioli Tuesday.

Greetings from lovely Lake Tahoe!  It is absolutely, without a doubt, so incredibly gorgeous here.  I just read a little fun fact about Lake Tahoe this morning : The Lake is 99.1% pure, and  an object dropped under water as deep as 100 feet, can still be viewed from the surface.  I guess this fact struck me so much because honestly, all I can think of when looking out over the Lake is “pure beauty.” And, it really is.  

This is our first real vacation since having DJ nearly two years ago.  In fact, we are staying at the same place we stayed when I was about eight months pregnant with her.  It is also the same place that my husband’s family vacationed every summer while he was growing up.  We love it here on the South Shore, and look forward to spending our family’s summers here, too.

Now that all the flowery stuff is out of the way….talk of the beautiful lake and the sentimental connections we have here – let me level with you, vacationing with a toddler ain’t for sissies.  Lord Almighty. 

Today is our fifth day away from home, and I am more exhausted than I have been in two years!  And yes, while I’d rather be exhausted on a sandy beach then stuck inside my own four walls – I will definitely not be returning from this trip with the glow of a woman whose done nothing but joy-read while sipping frosty Pina Coladas.

Let’s take yesterday, for example….my otherwise totally-devoted-to-family-time-while-on-vacation husband, agreed to take one business call our entire trip.  This call happened to coincide with the time that I decided to take my FIRST shower sans-toddler since arriving on vacation (Did I mention that since leaving home, DJ has literally been attached to my hip?).  Anyhow, I’m in the shower, taking a moment to appreciate my independence, when in barges my determined daughter, saying “poo poo, Mommy, poo poo.” 

Um, ok – you can’t argue when a kid is potty training.  So, the toilet is right outside the shower…which means DJ has now pealed back the shower curtain (my only shield from motherhood), and is begging me to put her on the potty.  While dripping water all over the place, and breaking out in goose bumps, I lean over the tub, strip her pants and big girl panties off, and place her on the potty.  She then gets ticked off by my close proximity to her and pleads for “privacy.” Obviously, I win the argument that I can’t actually go anywhere else (with suds streaming from my head and down my back), and she relaxes enough to do her business.

Of course when she finishes, we both take notice of the empty toilet paper roll.  With wet, pruned fingers, I once again lean outside the shower and try to place a roll of the cheapest one-ply paper the hotel could get a bargain on, back on the chrome fixture.  All the while, DJ is freaking out, “I do! I do! I do!” Again, I finally win the argument, put the roll on the spring-loaded thingy, and realize I now have to wipe her bum bum.  Needless to say, my shower ended abruptly, my arm pits went unshaven again, the conditioner surely hadn’t penetrated my split ends, i had toilet paper shreds streaming from mu fingertips, and the bathroom was a sopping mess.  

After emerging from the bathroom totally battered and bruised, with my husband’s call having just ended – I glared at him and said “How could we have forgotten her potty?” I mean, really, with EVERYTHING else we had remembered to pack – her favorite books, the sunglasses she likes to chuck at us, her special water bottle, the pillow from her bed, her life jacket and water socks, her favorite dolly – somehow, we had forgotten DJ’s potty….the one she can sit on all by herself, the one that has it’s own cubby for wipes. The one that doesn’t require parental supervision to use.

Then, there are the stairs.  We are staying in a lodge-like hotel, and our “room” is more like a two-story condo. There are 11 stairs from the first floor to the second.  Ask me how I know there are 11…..well, because I have walked up and down them fourteen hundred times in the past five days.  Aside from the in-room AC unit which blows cool air from it’s fan, the stairs are DJ’s favorite part of our room.  We don’t have stairs at home, and let me tell you – exercising was not high on my list of objectives for this vacation. At least I’m not feeling guilty about the S’mores.

I hadn’t really planned for the extreme separation anxiety and the associated need for DJ to be held by me almost every minute of every day.  I hadn’t really thought about how DJ would feel suddenly living in a new environment. I didn’t anticipate that she wouldn’t understand what vacation meant.  I hadn’t thought through that bringing a canopy for shade, our own chairs for lounging, all of DJ’s beach toys and a cooler for our fresh lunch on the beach would mean arms and hands full of crap that would require lugging to/from the room everyday.  I hadn’t really thought through how the changes in DJ’s routine would affect her mood, or how the majority of our meals out would effect ours (any two year old is not really known for their good restaurant manners).  I really just thought that “vacation” held a universal understanding of relaxation, freedom from responsibilities, and protection from all things grumpy.  Not so.

However, with all of that said (and yes, I am feeling loads lighter after that rant), there have been such precious memories made this week.  Watching DJ’s face light up each time she sees the Lake while she shouts, “Ocean, right there!” has been priceless (as has hearing her sweet little voice pronounce “Lake Tahoe,” has been as we correct her that it’s not the ocean).  Seeing her bravely jump around in the kiddie pool, practicing her favorite songs from swim lessons, has been a delight (and great confirmation that those lessons are money well spent).  Watching her pick up handfuls of sand, slowly releasing each grain through her fingers and into the light breeze has reminded me how much wonder is all around us if we just stop.  Just stop.  Stop worrying about the small stuff – like how we forgot to pack the potty.

Last night, we roasted marshmallows in a fire pit on the beach.  We watched the sunset as DJ discovered the gooeyness of roasted puffs of white sugar.  It was beautiful, and it was a blast.  It was also one of our finest “vacation moments.” And, if we walk away from these five days of craziness with only that memory etched into our minds, then the seven hours it took to travel what should have only taken four, will be more than well worth it.

Room service, please……