Everything, EVERYTHING and not everything

This Summer has flown by! And no blog entries reflect all the STUFF that's happened.

So, in an effort to download my memory banks (because in 10 years I'm going to wonder...what did we do the Summer of 2017?), here goes...

For about 6 weeks this Summer I was plagued by a virus from hell. It manifested in the weirdest ways - ways in which I didn't know my body was capable of dysfunctioning.

No sore throat, no runny nose (well, very minimal snotting) - those are the usual suspects. Instead I had pink-eye. I've never had pink-eye in my ENTIRE life. It was very weird.

And I coughed a lot. Especially at night. For almost 2 weeks I spent EACH and EVERY night coughing my lungs out for about 3-4 hours. Sweating from the effort, sucking hard on Ricola, and pleading to God for mercy. I know things are really bad when I literally pray - God help me. Please God help me. Please, please, please. Have mercy on me, a sinner.

The weird thing was, I was fine all day, but then at night - the horrible coughing marathon.

So after a lot of Googling and consulting doctor friends, my best guess was I had a viral infection that caused a lot of post-nasal drip which is accentuated and greatly exacerbated when you lie down. And so for weeks I slept propped up on two pillows, as if one were to fall asleep sitting on the couch.

So six weeks is a long time to feel crappy. And during that time a lot of other stuff happened.

For one, I crashed our family car. Again.

I was stopped at a red light; there were 2 cars in front of me. The light turned green and we all started to roll forward slowly. Two seconds in, I thought it was a good time to look down for a box of tissues and then BOOM!

The first car slammed on his breaks completely, which caused the 2nd car to slam on his breaks completely, which caused me, the downward-gazing driver to slam into the 2nd car.

I was going maybe 5 mph? If that.

The car I hit had a small dent in his back bumper.

My car, however, feigned like an NBA pro, crumpling completely.

Sigh, another one bites the dust.

Things I felt in the immediate aftermath - horror, shame, disgust (at myself), sad, sad, very, very sad.

And also during my 6 week viral illness, Judah had one of the toughest days of his short life.

We noticed one of his bottom teeth was growing in but his baby teeth were not wiggling enough. It slowly dawned on the Spouse and I that Judah would need to get his baby teeth extracted. ASAP.

The day of the scheduled extraction I went to pick up Judah from Summer Camp and saw a giant circle bruise right in between his eyes. Apparently he had been hit by a baseball (which he called the "moneyball" because it's the pitch that's supposed to be the hardest and fastest) which a strong 9 year old batted in the direction of his face.

Moneyball indeed.

Judah was in a lot of pain and moaned about having a headache, which means he's really hurt because this guy doesn't complain about physical pain, ever.

And now he was getting his teeth pulled, but he didn't know it because the Spouse and I decided it was best to not tell him! Why worry him needlessly with anticipation? We merely told Judah the dentist was going to "look at" his teeth.

The moment he received the bad news while reclining on the padded dentist chair was one I'll recall for a long time. Judah, I'm so sorry but the dentist said he has to take out BOTH your bottom two teeth. (An x-ray revealed that the other adult teeth was just days away from making it's debut as well).

His eyes opened wide with fear, filled with tears, shock, betrayal, worry.

I wondered how this would end.

But my brave, accommodating, good boy was true to his brave, accommodating, good nature, and despite his intense fear, laid still and let the dentist give him two numbing shots with a giant needle and yank out both his teeth.

Two hours and 8 extremely bloody gauzes (and a good dose of ibuprofen) later, he was smiling again.

Judah - Minus two teeth; Plus one swollen bruise

There's nothing quite like your baby losing his baby teeth that makes you feel like he's not a baby anymore.

Another milestone. Another passage. Another clear marker that...that...there's life and growth and change...and very real loss.

Small, Grey, and Bright-eyed

Small, grey and bright-eyed.

Small, grey and bright-eyed, he repeated on the drive home from preschool.

Mommy, what does bright-eyed mean?

Uh...it means like happy and healthy.

Oh. You are big, peach and bright-eyed Mommy.

Uh...thanks Noah.

Another day, another flower from Noah to tuck behind my ear.

And you my love, are the reason why I am bright-eyed much of the time. Noah, for all his fussiness and inflexibility is still ridiculously delicious and charming to me.

He is a master of communication (as demonstrated above for his love of new words and phrases) and I often find myself adopting his own made-up conventions. In particular, he invented a way to express EXTREME approval - the Four Thumbs Up - in which you give two thumbs up twice.

Simple and effective, no?

I also often adopt his thumb-to-the-side convention to signify moderate approval. As in, Noah, do you like the new noodles I cooked for you?

I like it [side-thumb] medium, Mommy.

And it isn't just me. On the rare occasions Judah and I are alone, Judah often asks me - Mommy, tell me what Noah says. I want to hear more about him. What does he tell you?

Such is the ridiculous delight that issues forth from Noah's little mouth.

Aside from his creative expressions, he also delights me daily with flowers. Practically every day Noah will grab a dandelion or daisy off some green field and present it to me as a token of his love. Some days I have giant handfuls. Other days I have bright fuschia blooms from a neighbor's prized bush - sorry neighbors!

It never fails to remind me of his older brother, who used to do the exact same thing, but hasn't done it for over a year.

Six year olds are just not as obsessed with their mothers as 3 year olds, alas. When I get home from an outing Judah barely lifts his head in acknowledgement whereas Noah will stop, drop and barrel down the stairs to me, giggling and chortling the whole way.

Oh how quickly the window closes for me to feel like a rock star to my kids.

And so, with a relish that I didn't have with Judah, I embrace his fierce embrace. I know how precious and truly short-lived it is now.

And how it will never, ever, ever be quite like this again.

Damn You Size 2T!

I'm never prepared for the tightness in my chest and the welling up of tears right behind my eyeballs. It always catches me off guard.

How can putting away my kids' too-small-for-them clothes hurt so bad?

All I can say is, WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

I'm just sorting through cheap cotton clothes for crying out loud! *sniffle sniffle*

And yet with each little t-shirt and pajama set I put into the donation pile, my heart sinks lower and lower.

This is good-bye. This is the end. This is where I have to acknowledge that every item represents a real, irretrievable, incontrovertible loss.

Of what, exactly, I'm not sure.

All I know is that it hurts like hell.

The Good, the Bad, and the Fat Shaming

Life seems to be accelerating at break neck speed now that I'm with the kids a LOT more than I was previously (before Noah's preschool situation imploded and before I reduced Judah's time in after school daycare).

I can hardly find time to clear dirty plates off the counter and wipe down crumbs, much less maintain a blog of our ins and outs.

But I must! I must! Because this will be my only record of these soon to be bygone days of early childhood chaos and joy. I can think of no better application of Dickens' famous lines - It was the best of times! It was the worst of times.

First the best...

Child development books all say that age 5 is the "golden" year of childhood. And with Judah it is completely TRUE. He wants to be good. He aims to be good. And about 95% of the time he succeeds swimmingly.

 


He's so "good" in fact that he broke into tears last week when I told him that he'll one day be a teenager and will intensely dislike his parents.

Every teenager finds his parents annoying, Judah. They feel like they already know everything and that their parent's rules are simply there to frustrate them and keep them from enjoying life.

No Mommy! I don't want to be a teenager!

He was so distressed that I finally decided he could only be helped by a higher power. And so I told him to pray about it. That sweet boy, he immediately bowed his head and said the most precious thing.

Dear God, thank you for our life stages (Life stages! I kid you not, that is verbatim - the rest I'm paraphrasing from memory). Please let me be a good teenager and not hate my parents. Amen.

Man, I wish this kid could stay "5" forever.

And then the not so good...

Noah has always been a short, fat kid. Especially juxtaposed to his long, lean brother.

Noah at 7 months: poster-child for childhood diabetes or baby sumo-wrestling.

When Judah went through his "I'm Batman" phase, he often pointed to his baby brother and declared that Noah was "the Penguin".

Unfortunately, Judah's teasing of his brother has persisted and now Noah tells me at least once a day "Mommy, I'm fat."

I usually respond with a avalanche of reassurance.

You're not fat Noah!
You're perfect!
I love you just the way you are!
You're wonderful!
You're not fat. And even if you were, there's nothing wrong with being fat.
But you're not fat!
Hippos are wider than giraffes, that's how they're supposed to be.
You're just the way you should be!
Everyone's different and that's okay!

Why can't he understand he has THE PERFECT little body?

This week, instead of my usual tirade, I decided to ask Noah a further question. Maybe I'm reading to much into his statement - I'm fat, mommy. Maybe he identifies as "fat" but doesn't feel like it's a bad thing to be fat.

So I took a deep breath and said, "And how does that make you feel, Noah?"

He looked down and in a small voice whispered, "embarrassed."

Mommy heart. Broken.

So I broke my first bone...

This may just be the most idiotic picture I've ever taken.

Here I am in crazy pain from fracturing my right elbow joint, waiting in the ER all day, and smiling?!?! Seriously?! Just a few minutes ago I was crying actual tears and my face looked grimmer than the reaper's as I contemplated the impossibility of cooking, cleaning, driving, or doing childcare with only one arm for weeks? months?

What about all my home-improvement projects? In particular, I was so excited to start tearing out some gnarly plants to clear some gardening space now that the soil was all prepped from a recent record rainfall. But there would be no wielding my giant shovel now. Sigh, maybe next year.

Soon, after I got home, I realized even perforating toilet paper was an impossible struggle for my ultra-pain-sensitive arm. I finally gave up and used a combo of my left arm and teeth. Oy. You know you are truly f*cked when TP is too much for you to handle.

But it wasn't just the loss of my dominant arm that bothered me - it was the pain. The raging, flaming, burning, never ceasing, I can't find any position that doesn't hurt, pain.

Pain that hounds you like a shadow to the point where nothing could distract you from it. Pain that feels like a crucible in which your actual identity starts to warp. Pain that becomes an ocean's roar and a hot glare shining right into your eyes. Pain that turned me inward and away.

The 3 year old's depiction of mommy with a broken arm - looks like a creature from hell - very accurate.

For two days I felt unceasing pain that wavered between a 7 and 9. I started to completely understand how chronic pain sufferers would commit suicide. Actually I started wondering why more chronic pain sufferers DIDN'T commit suicide. And I cursed the medical policies that made my docs advise me to only manage my pain with tylenol and motrin. Seriously? What do you have to do to get some Vicodin around here? Break a bone?!

And then on the third day I woke up to the sound of silence. My arm had finally stopped screaming at me. Oh it still hurt to be sure, but at least now I didn't feel compelled to swallow a raft of OTC drugs that had started to give me major stomach pains - the lesser of two evils.

But I still despaired. I don't want to go in for a numbing shot so the bone doc can check my range of motion. I don't want to get surgery if the range is impeded. Having needles and instruments stuck in me just makes me viscerally recoil...and kinda totally scream on the inside in panic.

And of course my mind revisits over and over again the moment things took a sharp dive for the worse. One second I'm fine. The next second I'm royally screwed.

One second I'm running down my driveway about to get something from my parked car, excited to take a nice stroll through the sunny neighborhood after 5 straight days of rain. And the next second I had slipped on a pile of still-wet leaves while rounding a corner.

Half a second. Flat.

The rest of that day was spent in urgent care. The rest of the next day was spent at the orthopedics. And a good chunk of the next day was spent getting a CT scan. Today is the only day I will not have some major medical appointment. But tomorrow will be judgment day - the day my bone doc looks at my CT scan, injects a giant numbing needle into my elbow, and determines if I need surgery. The moment I've been dreading.

Through all the endless waiting in waiting rooms, I (luckily?) had an e-book on my phone that I'd been very excited to read - When Breath Becomes Air - a memoir about a 36 year old neurosurgery resident who discovers that he has late-stage lung cancer. While I was totally entertained and absorbed by his fantastic writing and intriguing insights, I wonder if that was probably not a good reading choice - maybe I should've opted for something lighter and funnier - like by the SNL ladies.

Contemplating living while dying a horrible death in the midst of my own personal fear and pain is just not the kinda thing that lifts one's spirits, you know?

But you know what does lift one's spirits? All the acts of kindness and well-wishes from friends. Thank you friends! Those are sweet sweet balms indeed.

Which leads me to that ridiculous picture of me smiling. The spouse, who could've been understandably annoyed at losing his one day-off to a long hospital visit, and at the looming loss of all his free-time and then some to more housework and way more child-care, and a lot more driving duties for an indefinite period, was astonishingly smiling at me behind the lense.

Kindness.
Patience.
Graciousness.
And love.

It's impossible not to smile at that.

The Time When

Often Judah and I will have a big chunk of the day to ourselves because Judah's school has a ton more days off than Noah's preschool.

Our tradition on those days, like this past Monday, is to drop Noah off at preschool and walk to the Starbucks across the street for breakfast.

Happiness is a bagel with cream cheese and just the two of us.

I don't know if it's the pastries or the company that makes Judah so radiantly happy during those times. But he is as happy and content as I've ever seen him then.

"Mommy, can we have a conversation?" he asks.

"Sure."

"Mommy, who do you think is stronger, the blue bionicle or the green bionicle?"

As you can tell, it's not the most scintillating conversation for me, but I love how open his heart is during those moments. If I wanted to instruct him or impress something on him, that would be the time to do it. That day I told him I was cutting down his precious TV time in half (it had ballooned from 1 show a day to 2 shows) and instead of the expected meltdown, he accepted it with equanimity and even grace.

"Okay mommy, I don't want to watch too much TV."

As Judah gets older, I'm realizing that the openness of his heart is what I'm most afraid of losing. He has always loved me with abandon and banishing any sadness or pain was as easy as having huggle snuggles on the couch. Literally, that's all it took.

But will it always be that easy?

Will my love always be enough?

Judging from the surly anger of every teenager that has ever lived, no.

It's a horrible, dreadful, creeping realization that I will recede and other forces - cultural and social - will loom larger.

The boy who occasionally tells me - Mommy, I'm sad I'm not a girl because then I can't ever be a mommy like you - will be no more.

But he will still have my heart forever.

Bob Helper Rubble

Dear Noah,

You have officially broken my heart by turning 3 last week. How could you?!

Oh my sweet chunk'o' 12 week old lovin'. I miss you.

You try your best to comfort me by pretending you’re a baby. Asking me to hold you because “I can’t walk mommy” and asking me to spoon feed you because “I’m a baby mommy”. You started doing this so much I worried that you were truly regressing. But then I asked you why you keep acting like a baby and you said “Because you love babies, Mommy. You sad that I’m growing up.”

Oops, my bad.

Didn’t mean to hijack your natural growth and development with my own emotional hang-ups. But aren’t you such a sweet, compassionate, insightful little bear?

For the last few months, you’ve been really into construction stuff. Your favorite show is Bob the Builder or Animal Mechanical and naturally your favorite Paw Patrol character is the construction pup, Rubble. You recently told us: My name not Noah. I Bob Helper Rubble.

Well, nice to meet you, Bob Helper Rubble.

You’ve always been really interested in mechanical movements, even as a baby, which totally explains why you are a puzzle fiend. You frequently take out puzzles on your own and spend long periods piecing them together, taking them apart, and piecing them together again.

And although you worship your older brother, these things are completely unique to you. Judah has never cared for construction related things or doing puzzles, being more of a ninja-superhero kind of guy.

I’m so glad you have your own identity. Your brother is an easy-going rule follower. But you. You are my stubborn one. My jokester. The king of the side-glance. The one who does the exact opposite in order to get a rise out of us. You make my blood boil in frustration like no one else, but you also make me melt into a puddle of I-love-you-goop multiple times a day.

You are a gift I get to open every day. Looking at you thrills me. Tickling and kissing your tummy fills me with joy abandoned. And your knock-knock jokes are truly the best, the logic just attenuated enough that I get it. I get it! And I love it.

Classic Noah Knock-Knock Joke:
Noah: Knock-knock
Me: Who's there?
Noah: Elephant
Me: Elephant who?
Noah: Elephant, I have a long nose!

This Saturday, we broke a tradition that we’ve been doing every Saturday morning for the last 2 years. Usually your brother goes to Chinese class Saturday mornings and you and me go grocery shopping at our favorite place – Trader Joe’s.

You sit in the little red cart and point at the seasonal plants on display. We start going through the produce aisles and you babble about fruit and veggies. You ask me where Cookie Monster is and get distracted looking for him. You want to hold the little plastic bags while I drop items into them. We talk about cheese and turkey and how daddy loves his salsa.

We grab samples and milk and butter and yogurt. You help me check for bad eggs. You get hungry and break into our snacks before we get to the checkout stand. All the old ladies smile at you.

You hand items to the checkout person one by one. You stick TJ stickers all over your face and all over me. We sometimes get help out because one cart just won’t fit all the food we bought.

But this Saturday, I did it all alone. And I’ll probably never do this with you again. Just like that, you turned 3 and were old enough to join your brother at Chinese school.

I missed you my little friend.

And it was hard to read the food labels through my tear-blurred eyes.

In which I explain all day to my kids that Mommy is sad because her Grandpa died

Celebrating his 90th in great health

Today I attended my first family funeral - my maternal grandfather passed away at age 94 (or is it 95? I could never figure out the lunar calendar).

I heard he was gravely ill the day we left for Ohio and I was hoping to see him one more time upon my return to California, but I was too late.

I am, as you could guess from my first sentence, a newbie at death.

But now I know. I am now part of that horrible club - Those Who Have Lost a Loved One.

Those who wish they had spent more time with the loved one before his death.

Those who Regret.

Those who wondered why they didn't and couldn't realize how much they would miss the loved one until his death.

Those who are grateful for distracting kids and general busyness.

Those who grieve.

Those who took for granted.

Those who return to the well of profound sadness in search of solace.

Those who realize that death is still horrible, even in very old age.

It didn't sink in for me until I saw him lying there in his coffin, looking slightly off-color but well enough that I could imagine he was merely taking a nap, as he often did when I visited. He wore all his usual clothes - his one and only worn suit and second-hand sueded vest with shearling trim. And later, Judah reminded me that he also wore his glasses.

Relationships are often complicated - filled with undercurrents of hurt and resentment, disappointment and abuse. But when I consider my grandfather, I feel nothing but the holy grail of unconditional love and acceptance.

Now that I'm a parent, I realize that that is the gift of loving grandparents. A parent and child are too close - too intermingled in their egos and motivations. It is too hard to parse out what is love and what is self-preservation.

But a grandparent is distant enough to be unequivocal.

Others will likely see only the inevitable passing of a very old man, but my goodness how great the hole left in the wake of such love.

That Day

Ah Christmas.

Never is there so much anticipation and effort than for this most special of days.

We gather, we fete, we give, we receive.

And often (always?) to the backdrop of human frailty and despair.

As a child, I remember almost every Christmas was spent "together" yet alone. The gifts under the tree would remain unwrapped until the emotional aftermath of a big fight cleared, not unlike the toxic fumes of a nuclear explosion.

We usually opened our gifts well after the New Year.

But even without huge fights, there is always the insidious whiff of disconnection, the unshakable scent that deep down, all is not well. We are not the cheerfully decorated and brightly lit inner beings we so hopefully display. In fact, it's like they are mocking us.

We are beleaguered. Tired. Exhausted. Sick. And lonely. Aren't we?

Judah is pondering the cognitive dissonance he senses between holiday cheer and the reality of human brokenness. Obviously.

Maybe it's just me. I've been told I dwell on the morose. Indeed I wish it were just me.

But I know too much. I know the broader context and the personal history behind the cheerful photos shared on social media. All is not calm, all is not bright.

Are you sad this day, gentle reader? Know that you are not alone. Far from it. The entire human race and all of creation groans with you. (Well, everyone except Judah who is exceptionally happy with his Christmas gifts - a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle play hut, flashlight, camera, and binoculars).

Seriously, can I talk to HR now?

Today I quit.

As a mom friend once said to me when she had her "I quit" moment - I no longer accept this position.

I lasted 4 years as a mom and now I'm done.

Where do I turn in my badge?

I really hate vague writing, but in this case, I'm gonna keep it vague because to list every instance in which I wanted to tear my hair out and strangle little people would be (a) super self-abusive cuz I'd have to relive it all through my writing and (b) super time-consuming because there were maybe 68 instances today alone.

The only really scary thing about Halloween: how close mommy is to losing her sh*t.

Let's just sum it up like this:
--lots of whining and fussing. LOTSSSSSSS. Especially in the car when I can't do a darn thing about it. (Although, in fairness to Noah, he makes a good point when he screams, "STOOOOP CAR! OOOOOUT!!!!! BUCKLE!!!! (translation: undo my seat-belt buckle)")
--lots of clinging on to me. As in, NEVER NOT CLINGING ON TO ME.
--my own struggles with insomnia for the last 3-4 weeks. you know it's a bad day when you have to chug 3 cups of coffee just to have the feeble strength to lift your eyelids up all the way.
--shortest naps ever. Noah napped for 30 min yesterday and 20 min today. UGGGGHHHH.
--Noah's sudden and inexplicable aversion to baths. Seriously, why are you doing this to me oh toddler who used to LOVE baths?!

His cuteness is exactly inversely proportional to his annoyingness - well played God.

So today at 2:30 pm, after Noah woke up from his very offensive 20 minute nap, I snapped. Inside. In my head. I threw up my existential hands and told myself, "I quit. I no longer accept this position."

And then I carried on bathing and moisturizing and dressing and cooking for fussy, whiny kids as usual.

Because. Mom.

Poisoned

This week and weekend has been pretty rough.

Judah's been dealing with a horrific all-body rash that has turned his face into a cross between a puffer-fish and Quasimodo.

Kinda looks like a pro-activ "before" pic from hell.

Oh my poor, deformed, rashy son.

It started around Tuesday and I finally took him to the doc on Friday. The doc wasn't that impressed (probably since it didn't look that bad yet) and told us it wasn't contagious. Well, that's a relief.

The prevailing theory is poison oak (or ivy or sumac), but to be honest, we have no idea when or how Judah came in contact with the offending plant. He is forever trampling through shrubbery and hiding in it so he can gleefully watch us hunt for him, so it was probably inevitable that he would get this sooner or later.

Either way, I realized I do not handle watching my child suffer very well. I went through wild swings of imagination - what if it's strep? what if it infects his blood and organs? what if he goes into shock from the allergic reaction? what if the rash leaves horrific scars for life? what if he stops breathing? Pure. Torture.

But Judah has handled it all with surprising grace and equanimity of spirit. At his most uncomfortable stage one night I was patting him with cold water compresses, and he sighed in relief each time the cool cloth was draped over his burning skin. "I have the best mommy in the world," he cooed.

He is so much like me - blessing physical discomfort if it brings emotional consolation.

Tenders

His name is Noah but I call him Tenders.

Or sometimes, Tenders Love.

It started when he was a wee chunk of a peanut and it just seemed to fit. He was so sweet and good-natured and oh so chock full of fatty rolls everywhere. Mmmmmm, sweet brown baby fat. Sweeter than the darkest molasses.

And now I cuddle him all day, cooing his nickname to him and play-biting his round pot-belly and little dinner-roll feet. As if he's still just 3 months old.

Judah loves it and adds his own little voice to the chant. O Tenders, Tenders Love, Judah sings.

Our Tenders Love is growing up too fast.

Two weeks ago, though we've said and done nothing to encourage him, he one day, out of the blue, just sat on the potty and pooped! Since then he's wanted to go on the potty incessantly, which we've indulged, but never again did his magic business there.

Of course we had to take a picture of his first (and apparently last) successful dump!

Noah is also acquiring new words at a frantic pace and learning how to really communicate verbally. I love to hear his little voice say "Yeah, or No" when I ask him questions. And he now devours books and loves to read almost as much as Judah did. Although, truly it's pretty hard to match Judah's inborn obsession with stories. Judah was sitting through multiple readings of the Lorax at age 7 months, whereas Noah just recently started to love it.

Mommy's dramatic reading of the Lorax, take # 526.

Nevertheless, all the signs are there for me to try to blatantly ignore. Noah is 18 months. A toddler. No longer a baby. I don't have a baby anymore. That sweet brown fat.

And I realize I don't want another baby. I want that baby back. That baby named Noah that I call my Tenders Love.

It's hard to watch him grow up, but God is merciful. At least he's short and chubby for his age so I can imagine he's still a little younger than he actually is.

Who you calling short and chubby? I'll cut you #$@%!

Judah I egged on to grow up as quickly as possible. But Noah, sweet Noah, dear Noah, little Noah, can not stay little long enough.

Listen...

I try to be thoughtful on this blog.

I try to be coherent.

I try to not let it descend into word-barf followed by a chaser of emotional vomit.

But you know what? Sometimes I just can't.

Sometimes I just have to word-barf and emotional vomit somewhere to someone. And although you poor readers are not exactly flesh and blood people sitting in front of me, this will just have to do because I am currently all alone.

And the problem is I am almost always all alone. Because being with your kids who are all under age 4 does not really count as real company. As much fun as they are (and they really are) you can imagine how limited the conversation gets. Judah doesn't even get the concept of time. How long is five minutes Mommy? Yeah, we're not going to be discussing world events anytime soon.

But even if I'm at the park or having a playdate, if the kids are around, I'm in "soundbite" mode. That means I try not to say anything or respond in a way that would cause the other person to say anything that requires more than 3 seconds time. Because someone somewhere is trying to talk to me (Mommy, MOMMY, MOOOOMMMMMYYYYYY! I'M TRYING TO TALK TO YOU AND YOU'RE NOT LISTENING!!!!!), or about to eat a discarded cigarette butt, or needing his butt wiped, or simply wandering off.

So you can imagine how shallow the conversation gets.

After the kids go to bed is the only time I can actually finish 3 consecutive sentences without interruption. But sadly for me the Spouse is an introvert. And frankly, I'm a very sucky conversationalist after spending 14+ hours with the kids and cooking, serving, and cleaning up 16 meals, plus dealing with countless episodes of meltdowns, irritating behavior, and general all-day non-cooperation.

Maybe, gentle blog reader, you ARE the ideal conversationalist for this beleaguered and weary shell of a woman. You can not talk back. And I can go on forever about me, me, me without a second's thought about you. How was your day? Uh-huh, and how did that make you feel?

Anyway, I suppose it's only right to say, at the end of all this, thank you. Thank you for "listening". Thank you for "being there". Thank you for letting this tired, lonely woman prattle on into the wee night. Now, can you also please just HOLD ME?

The barbarians arrive at the gate in zero minus 6 hours.

The Long Goodbye

Today I finally sorted through all of Noah's 0-9 month old clothes and took them to a consignment shop.

I'm not at all a sentimental person and I NEVER cry.

But going through all his little onesies and newborn footies, I came as close to crying as my cold robot heart would allow.  I had no idea it would hurt so much.

Saying goodbye to your little baby forever.  That might just well be the hardest thing about parenting.  Motherhood is like the ultimate exercise in ambivalence--I SO SO SO want Noah to grow up and develop and blossom AND I SO SO SO want him to stop growing and always stay the same.

Even as I cuddle his chub and inhale deep whiffs of his sweet fatness, I'm mourning that he'll never be this small, this cute, this baby-ish ever again.

It *almost* made me want to have another baby.

The Baby Blues

I've been feeling blue lately but I can't quite put my finger on why.

Sleep deprivation is the obvious culprit.  I haven't slept more than 2 hours at a time since Noah was born and  probably won't until he's sleep-trained.  Sadly, however, sleep-training is not going as well as I hoped.  His longest sleep stretch is a mere 3 hours and he doesn't seem to be very good at self-soothing.

Don't act cute with me.  You know what a pain in the butt you are!

But it could also be because I'm sick.

And/or that I haven't touched dairy, chocolate, or caffeine in 8 weeks.

And/or I've been isolated at home because I'm deathly afraid of taking the baby out and having him catch a cold.

And/or the fact that the baby is not really on a schedule so I can't plan my day and I have almost no control over any aspect of my life.  For a type-A person to not have control...well, let's just say nothing could be worse.  Add to the mix that I'm generally a pessimist and debbie downer and it's no wonder the blues have ensued.

And/or the fact that I can't put Noah down for naps.  The physical exhaustion of holding a 12 lb child for 8-10 hours a day is definitely exacting a toll on my achy neck and shoulders.

And/or that I feel guilty about not giving Judah much attention.  Ironically I wanted to have another baby to force Judah to be less attention-needy.  To be able to play on his own and be more independent.  But instead it's just made him weepy and miserable every day.  He constantly tells me "I missed you all day at Ms. Lori's house (his daycare)."  And he falls apart every time he sees me holding Noah (which is practically all the time since I can't put Noah down for a nap).  And more than ever he constantly wants me to play with him and does not play on his own.  Ugh.

My poor neglected big boy.

This last weekend I checked in on him during nursery hour and he looked downright depressed.  I've never seen him like that before.  He's always a happy, hyper, active guy.  But even though his favorite people were joking with him and trying to cheer him up, he just sat glumly on a chair, looking downcast.

A rare moment when Noah isn't around!

Being replaced by a baby has really taken a toll on poor Judah.

Judah proudly shows off his new police badge and gave me a 'deputy' orange sticker.

I know this newborn period won't last forever.  By at least 14 weeks Noah should be able to sleep at least 5 hours at a time and take naps on his own.  But that seems like a hopeless eternity when you have the baby blues.

Every morning I wake up and regret the fact that I've woken up.  Every morning I have to give myself a mental pep-talk just to cobble together the will to go on.

Usually, it's just a simple mantra that I try to believe each time I repeat it--it won't always be like this.  It will get better.  Just get through this one day.  One more day.  One day more.

Or when it's really bad...one more hour.

Week 4: Noah in the Night

I'm going to keep this one short because I am SUPER tired.  Why?

Because our night-nanny left last week and I've been wrangling with Noah all night by myself for 3 days.  He's an easy chill guy during the day but night-time Noah is frankly a bit of a nightmare.

With the night-nanny he would only nurse every 3-4 hours.  But now that it's just me he wakes every 1.5 to 2 hours to nurse (he probably did that before but the night-nanny soothed him down again without the magic of boob juice)  On top of that he has horrible gas, and sometimes just stays awake for 2 hours--just for fun!  Bottom line--I've maybe gotten 4-5 hours of fragmented sleep each day.  An hour here, an hour there.

You're lucky I think your to cute to abandon at my local fire station.

It's so miserable I think I'll just let him sleep next to me so I don't have to fully wake up and get him from his crib to nurse each time.  Ugh, I feel like such a zombie.

Power to the baby!  I will resist the urge to sleep at night!

Sleep deprivation is no joke people.  No joke.

Sh*t Just Got Real

When I think about the fact that there's only 4 weeks until my due date, I kind of want to cry--just curl up in a fetal position (how appropriate) under my covers and cry.

If this baby comes even just a little bit early, we are really screwed.

Here's a list of all the things I have NOT done yet:
--find an OB in my new city.  EEEK!
--register at the labor and delivery department in the hospital in my new city.
--find someone to watch Judah while I'm giving birth.
--find someone to help with the newborn after the birth.
--dig out Judah's old baby stuff--all still in boxes!
--obtain and install an infant car seat.
--unpack 80% of our crap from the move.

It just seems like daily maintenance chores takes up 95% of the day--and the list of to-dos just gets longer, no matter how much I manage to cross off.  Yes, some progress has been made, but for every one thing I do, 3 new things manage to pop up!  It's like a whack-a-mole game from hell.

These days I'm so stressed out of my mind I think I have a permanent scowl on my face and the poor spouse has had to put up with my incredibly short fuse and grumpy disposition for weeks.

Of course it doesn't help that I like to distract myself from my stress and misery by surfing FB and other sites periodically throughout the day.  Argh.

It's times like these I really need to just keep looking forward instead of regretting the time I've wasted and the fears and what-ifs that may or may not happen.  As Daenerys Targaryen, the Stormborn, the Unburnt, Mother of Dragons, Trueborn Queen of the Andals, Rhoynar and the First Men (so sue me, I'm a Game of Thrones nerd) always says:

If I look back, I am lost.

Monte-sorry

Sadly we had to say goodbye to Judah's nanny now that we've moved away to a new city.  And besides, I feel like it's time Judah had more social interaction with other kids instead of just him and the nanny hanging out all day.

And so begins the daunting search for a good daycare.

The first place I visited was a Montessori daycare/preschool in a really nice neighborhood close to our house.  I don't really know anything about Montessori schools (besides that they're pricey), but I figured it sounds reputable and high-quality.  They probably know what they're doing there, right?

To say it was disappointing is a bit of an understatement.  Really, it was...sad.  It made me feel...like crying, on the inside.

Maybe it was the fact that 20 little 2-3 year olds were supervised by only 3 teachers.

Maybe it was the fact that none of them were having any real interaction with the adult supervisors--the adults were just there to make sure no one made a huge mess or did anything physically injurious to themselves or others.

Or maybe it was the fact that none of the teachers smiled.  Ever.  Not ONE the entire 2 hours I was there to observe the class.  Their expressions changed from boredom to exasperation and back to boredom.  I can only imagine how "lively" and "loving" they are when they don't have a prospective client visiting!

For two hours the kids are just left to their own devices.  I saw a chubby boy basically cry and meltdown over and over again for two hours.  I saw one little girl on her own, just holding a doll, sitting on the floor.  I saw one kid, by himself, munching on rice cakes.

But perhaps most disturbing was the 3 kids that came to hang out with me and Judah when they saw that an adult (me) was actually interacting and playing with a kid (Judah).  It's like they were hungering for that kind of positive relationship and kept coming to give us toys and talk to us.

One little girl stared at us with big shy eyes and didn't say a word for 20 minutes.  But she tried to play along with Judah and me and eventually I got her to say her name (Olivia) age (2?) and got some excited giggles and exclamations out of her.  She looked so sad when we left.

Later on, in the second hour, a new teacher came to relieve one of the morning shift teachers.  This lady was awesome.  She smiled, she talked to the kids, she led them in circle songs and actually had energy.  But this is one person in a sea of 20 toddlers.  Not nearly enough to go around.

I'm pretty sure we're not going back here.  I feel a little disheartened.  I mean, for a place that charges about $12 an hour for each kid, you'd think you'd be getting some really top-notch care!  But this place was just so...depressing.

Trying and Failing

I've wanted to blog for a long time on the unhappy topic of infertility.

It seems like such a plague for my generation.  I've known so many friends who've tried and failed and tried and failed and went through months or years of heart-aching inability to conceive and/or carry to term.

No one tells you that trying to get pregnant in your 30's is hard.  No one tells you that fertility peaks around 20-24 and it's a long, slow but ever steady decline from there.  And if anyone ever were to say these things, they would be pilloried by the media as oppressively misogynistic--trying to keep women barefoot and pregnant and out of the circle of power.

Society tells us to be independent women.  To compete with the boys.  To go to college and grad school.  And then to throw ourselves into brilliant careers because, what the heck was all that schooling for after all?

And then our hearts tell us to make families.  And our bodies try and fail us.

Eventually, most of us do have kids.  But it wasn't/isn't an easy, straightforward path.  Facebook status updates are full of success announcements, but show none of the failures.

For every update that says--there's a bun in the oven!  There are hundreds of unwritten updates that should say--Year 2 of trying, still no bun!  And for every birth announcement, sadly, there are many and more unwritten miscarriage announcements.

And sometimes the first baby is not so hard to come by, but subsequent ones may be much much harder.  I was totally caught off guard when it took 5x longer to conceive this 2nd baby than the first.  I'd never heard of second child infertility until I started googling around for answers.  You always hear that once the fertility spigot has been opened, so to speak, it just keeps comin'!  But if you google that phrase, you'll see that's far from the truth.

Just yesterday a friend told me her 4-year old son is dying to have a sibling and she's been trying forever to get him just that.  My heart totally went out to her.  I could see the conflicted look of pain in her eyes as she noted my belly bump.  A look I know all too well.  I no longer joke with people about their plans for having 2nd kids because you never know how hard or how long they've been trying...and failing.

I hate writing about this topic.  I hate bumping up against the hard realities of natural laws.  And I hate the sour, bitter taste of trying and failing.  But I feel like it's a major diservice to women not to let them know.  To not say something.  Our society already does a heckuva job covering up these hard truths.

May you never be too soon old and too late wise.

P.S. This is a great, but sadly too rare article on a personal fertility crisis from the WSJ.

Overwhelmed

Life, be not proud.
For you can end at any moment.
At 20-odd weeks, without any signs of warning.
I'm thinking of you, brave friend, as I enter the period of your sudden tragedy.
Thank you for trusting us with your dark hour.

But death, be not proud.
For the perishable will be clothed with the imperishable, and
The mortal with immortality, and
The saying that is written HAS come true:

Death has been swallowed up
Overwhelmed
In victory.

Disclaimer--Sorry for the scare everyone.  This post is not about me, but a friend.