I've been thinking a lot lately about my friends. Why? Maybe because I'm so far from my family that my friends make up my "family". Some I have known for a long time. Some have kids too, some don't. Some I've know for a decade (wow, that deserves some sort of fancy award for sure!), some I've only known for a few years. Many I talk to daily, some I talk to weekly or maybe even monthly. Or maybe I only "talk" to them over text message or Facebook. Whatever the medium, they are all important to me for many different reasons.
Every woman who is a mom needs mom friends. Seriously, they will keep you sane, tell you that you are not crazy and ARE doing the right thing parenting-wise (even if you're duct-taping your kid to the "naughty step"), they will let you cry and laugh at the same time, they will pour you endless cups of coffee and more glasses of wine, they will commiserate about breaking bad habits, dealing with terrible teachers, and most importantly, remind you that yes--children CAN survive on quesadillas, Go-Gurts and chocolate milk...basically, they have your "six" (or your back). They will never care if you show up in sweatpants smelling like squash and spit-up while holding out your baby saying, "Take him. I can't do it" while having a meltdown on their doorstep. But they WILL take every chance that they can to remind you that you are beautiful, a great mom, a wonderful wife, etc.
Every woman also needs friends without kids. Why? Because when you hang out with them, you feel free. You can talk about your kids, but guess what? They're usually not with you. However, the great thing is, is that *if* your kids are with you, these friends are not tired themselves from parenting and are a wonderful help and distraction to your kids. I have some friends like this who will read, tickle and play peek-a-boo for hours--seriously. These friends also remind you that you ARE someone special that is not defined only by just your children and significant other. They are also interesting in ways that maybe you aren't--maybe their dating life is crazy, maybe their jobs are nuts, whatever it may be, it might be just different enough for you to live vicariously through them, if only for an afternoon.
I have a few friends that I talk to daily. These precious women somehow still put up with me after crazy text messages, multiple breakdowns over the bumps in life and just generally my bat sh*t crazy high-maintenance ways. And I love these women. They see me at my best, they see me at my worst. Without them I would be lost. One of the greatest benefits of these friendships is that their kids often become best friends with my kids. And there are some days in life where you just need two families getting together and letting go.
My friends who I don't see or talk to as often as I'd like are just as important to me--I think of them daily...and they also put up with my bat sh*t crazy ways and still love me too! How fortunate am I? I look forward to spending time with them because we have things in common that don't necessarily revolve around family. We can vent, laugh and roll our eyes at what life throws our way. We provide each other emotional support in different ways, but are equally important. I love these women--they are strong, they are independent, they are amazing. I always enjoy every moment with them.
All of these friends make up my family here. Without them, I'd be lost. With them, I feel stronger, more complete, more "safe". I am so lucky to have been touched by many different people in my life. I am even more fortunate to call these people friends, my extended family. To each of you out there, thank you. You have impacted my life and made me a better woman because I have met you.
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Saturday, February 23, 2013
Accepting Something & Liking It Are Totally Different Things...
I have a feeling this entry will be more of a rant than anything. I'm just in that kind of mood--like I've gotta get it out there. It's been about a week now of majorly interrupted sleep, a clingy and teething baby, complete disappointment in myself that I can't somehow "fix" his problems (I'm a fixer by nature, you see...), and the fact that I miss my oldest son like nobody's business.
Connor goes to his dad's house on a (fairly) regular basis. We've been apart since before Connor can remember, and have had this schedule for just as long, but it has never gotten any easier. Connor is my best friend in the whole world. He makes me laugh, he knows me so well that if he can sense I'm feeling tired/sick/etc will say something to perk me back up. Basically, we've been peas in a pod since he was well, a pea in a pod. I love him like a crazy person. We've always done everything together. And when he's gone, I miss him like a crazy person--I catch myself wondering what he's doing, if he's having fun, did he brush AND floss his teeth, etc., etc. But most of all, I wonder if he's missing me too.
I also have to be honest about something--parenting little Bee right now sucks. It sucks hard. WARNING: here comes my ranting and complaining...I am tired. So tired I probably shouldn't even get behind the wheel of a car at this point. I am dreading nighttime. My body and mind wants sleep so badly that it physically and emotionally hurts. I know that you don't remember the hard times later (just like you supposedly don't remember how awful labor & delivery *really* is), but when you're in the trenches of an episode of tough parenting, it's awful for everyone involved.
And I'm weepy. And bitchy. I know it's because I'm tired and I miss Connor, and I know that it's not my normal attitude in life. But I have no respect for those who pretend everything is just peachy all the time. I'd rather be a true, crazy, passionate person than a fake Stepford wife (yes, I am talking to you lady at Connor's school who always has your hair and makeup done and wears matching Nike outfits with your husband--that's just plan weird, ok? Seriously. Who decided to do that? If it was you, how did you get him to agree? And if it was him...well...again, weird. Creeps me out).
So yeah...I guess I'm stuck with accepting the fact that missing Connor sucks, parenting little Bee through this teething firestorm means physical and mental exhaustion, and that I'm quite likely to be a royal b*tch until one or the other lets up. But like my favorite new quote goes, "Accepting something and liking it are totally different things".
Connor goes to his dad's house on a (fairly) regular basis. We've been apart since before Connor can remember, and have had this schedule for just as long, but it has never gotten any easier. Connor is my best friend in the whole world. He makes me laugh, he knows me so well that if he can sense I'm feeling tired/sick/etc will say something to perk me back up. Basically, we've been peas in a pod since he was well, a pea in a pod. I love him like a crazy person. We've always done everything together. And when he's gone, I miss him like a crazy person--I catch myself wondering what he's doing, if he's having fun, did he brush AND floss his teeth, etc., etc. But most of all, I wonder if he's missing me too.
I also have to be honest about something--parenting little Bee right now sucks. It sucks hard. WARNING: here comes my ranting and complaining...I am tired. So tired I probably shouldn't even get behind the wheel of a car at this point. I am dreading nighttime. My body and mind wants sleep so badly that it physically and emotionally hurts. I know that you don't remember the hard times later (just like you supposedly don't remember how awful labor & delivery *really* is), but when you're in the trenches of an episode of tough parenting, it's awful for everyone involved.
And I'm weepy. And bitchy. I know it's because I'm tired and I miss Connor, and I know that it's not my normal attitude in life. But I have no respect for those who pretend everything is just peachy all the time. I'd rather be a true, crazy, passionate person than a fake Stepford wife (yes, I am talking to you lady at Connor's school who always has your hair and makeup done and wears matching Nike outfits with your husband--that's just plan weird, ok? Seriously. Who decided to do that? If it was you, how did you get him to agree? And if it was him...well...again, weird. Creeps me out).
So yeah...I guess I'm stuck with accepting the fact that missing Connor sucks, parenting little Bee through this teething firestorm means physical and mental exhaustion, and that I'm quite likely to be a royal b*tch until one or the other lets up. But like my favorite new quote goes, "Accepting something and liking it are totally different things".
Thursday, February 21, 2013
I Have A Stage 5 Clinger Folks...
Or as some might call it, a teething baby. And it's bad. Really, really bad. So terrible that it makes me believe that someone from a hidden camera reality show is going to show up at my door and go, "Surprise! This was all a set-up just to see how much crying, fussing, hair pulling, face scratching, screaming and tears you can actually take! Now here's your normally happy go-lucky baby back" (and maybe a million dollars for my time and lost sanity).
Here's the thing, and maybe you can label me as a sh*tty mom for saying this--I can't handle crying, fussy babies. Yes, I know that babies do this and it's totally normal. But my psyche can't handle the fact that no matter what I do I can't soothe my child. THAT makes me feel like a terrible mom (that, and the fact that we've had Baby Einstein on repeat for two days now).
Trust me, we're trying everything. Tylenol, all natural teething tablets, orajel (yes, I know that some argue it's dangerous but I bought the one without the benzocaine in it). I've resorted to letting him chew on packages of wipes, under my watchful eye of course. For some reason, the crackling seems to soothe him. I've even stopped my attempts at moving him into his crib for naps (another post for that process) and letting him try and nap in his swing--we're currently at 50/50 for naps which makes everything that much worse--little Bee is in full meltdown mode by 4pm without his much needed naps.
But to not come off as a complete a**hole, a teething baby has made me happy about a few things. Here they are in no particular order:
1) Wine (who am I kidding...this is #1, and 5pm comes earlier and earlier these days)
2) A wonderful nanny so I can drive off and pretend to go somewhere important
3) Friends who I can vent to and that reassure me that this will pass
4) Sophie the teething giraffe. I don't know what it is about this thing, but he loves it. Unfortunately, she might meet her death at his hands (and mouth). No toy, even ones made in France, can sustain the terror he's inflicting on that poor thing.
So until this "passes", I've got a Stage 5 Clinger. He doesn't really want to be put down. He'll fight sitting with me of course, but the minute I put him down it's all over. So we have our pattern. He'll want to be put down, I put him down, he cries, I pick him up...over and over.
I love you Bee, I really do. And it's a damn good thing you're really cute.
Here's the thing, and maybe you can label me as a sh*tty mom for saying this--I can't handle crying, fussy babies. Yes, I know that babies do this and it's totally normal. But my psyche can't handle the fact that no matter what I do I can't soothe my child. THAT makes me feel like a terrible mom (that, and the fact that we've had Baby Einstein on repeat for two days now).
Trust me, we're trying everything. Tylenol, all natural teething tablets, orajel (yes, I know that some argue it's dangerous but I bought the one without the benzocaine in it). I've resorted to letting him chew on packages of wipes, under my watchful eye of course. For some reason, the crackling seems to soothe him. I've even stopped my attempts at moving him into his crib for naps (another post for that process) and letting him try and nap in his swing--we're currently at 50/50 for naps which makes everything that much worse--little Bee is in full meltdown mode by 4pm without his much needed naps.
But to not come off as a complete a**hole, a teething baby has made me happy about a few things. Here they are in no particular order:
1) Wine (who am I kidding...this is #1, and 5pm comes earlier and earlier these days)
2) A wonderful nanny so I can drive off and pretend to go somewhere important
3) Friends who I can vent to and that reassure me that this will pass
4) Sophie the teething giraffe. I don't know what it is about this thing, but he loves it. Unfortunately, she might meet her death at his hands (and mouth). No toy, even ones made in France, can sustain the terror he's inflicting on that poor thing.
So until this "passes", I've got a Stage 5 Clinger. He doesn't really want to be put down. He'll fight sitting with me of course, but the minute I put him down it's all over. So we have our pattern. He'll want to be put down, I put him down, he cries, I pick him up...over and over.
I love you Bee, I really do. And it's a damn good thing you're really cute.
Monday, February 18, 2013
All About The "Bee" (or Matthew as he's known to some)
Oh, Bee...like Connor, everyday this little man surprises and amuses me. He hasn't met a woman he doesn't like, he also hasn't met any food or snack he doesn't like (which explains his "man chub" and "moobies" which make him just that much more delectable)--yes, I enjoy talking about Bee (or BooBoo) like he's a yummy French dessert. Why? Because he reminds me of a hybrid of a sweet macaroon and decedent chocolate eclair. I never thought I'd be that mom, but yes...I threaten to eat his little face off every day and I also promise to nibble on those chubby legs whenever we get ready for bath time. I know I'll need to cut it out before he hits high school. Otherwise that would be weird.
Matthew was born on July 23, 2013--two weeks before his due date (just like his big brother!). My water broke as I was chowing down my peanut butter covered waffles drenched in syrup (no judging--by this point I was so miserably pregnant that I gave myself a free pass to whatever sounded good to me). Connor was on his way home from spending time with his dad. I sit on the couch, turn on the Today show and "it" happened--my water broke. Now, this never happened with Connor, so I was worried that something even scarier had happened--that I'd peed my pants. I ran to the bathroom and thank goodness, my bladder control was still intact. However, I was definitely in labor. And scared shitless. It had been 9 years since this happened after all.
In full disclosure, I called Dylan and Connor's dad from the toilet (I mean, I was paralyzed people). Dylan had the momentary "This can't possibly be happening, it's Monday morning and I have meetings scheduled all day" to which I replied, "If you don't get your skinny ass home right away I will personally kick it up and down the halls of St. V's once we get there". He arrived VERY shortly thereafter.
For weeks we both had "go bags" packed up, all the necessities for labor and the stay thereafter. We hit the highway, my contractions in full swing. Every bump in the road or short stop at a light felt like i was donating a kidney with no pain meds on the black market (at this point, my selfishness was still in full force. I was way more concerned about my pants getting wet because *God forbid* someone thinks I pissed my pants and I wasn't even thinking about the baby, I was picturing my "happy place"--that beautiful spinal tube and medication that has changed labor forever).
We had left our neighborhood when Dylan informs me he has left his cell phone at home. Really?!?!? You remembered your man face and eye creams, laptop, iPad, pressed button-down shirts and khakis, and extra pair of shoes WITH shoetrees...but you forgot your damn cell phone? We turn around as I'm grasping the dashboard trying to not reach over and put the sleeper hold on him. After we turned around we got stuck behind...a combine. You know, the ones that are like tractors that drive like 10 mph? Yep, one of those. I started screaming, "GO AROUND! GO AROUND!". Dylan did and we were able to acquire the cell phone and hit the road once again. Dylan dug his hole even deeper when he had the audacity to say, "You know, we'll laugh about this someday". Right (for the record, still not laughing).
To make a long story short, Bee came very quickly. He knew what he wanted and he wanted OUT. He was beautiful. A full head of dark hair, these wide blue eyes that sucked you in and made you feel like you never wanted to look away. His hands were precious, his fingers long and immediately wrapped around mine. Tears were streaming down my face. Here was this precious human being I had shared a body with for almost nine months. He was mine. It was just as amazing as when I had Connor.
Since Bee has been born he has kept us on our toes. He wasn't the greatest sleeper, but Dylan stepped up to the plate and took over nighttime feedings pretty early so I could get some rest for the long days ahead. Connor is the most amazingly patient and generous big brother we could have ever hoped for. When Dylan travels, Connor assumes the role of "man of the house". Bee loves his Bubba (Connor) so much, he lights up when Connor comes into the room and will just sit and watch him in amazement for hours. We've already prepared Connor to be ready for a "stage-5 clinger" once Bee starts moving because Bubba's room is where he's going to want to be. As a matter of fact, the first clear word Bee has said is, "Bubba!".
It's been almost 7 months since this little creature entered our lives and we are forever changed. We have all bonded in ways I never imagined, it's exhausting and difficult at times but it's elating more of the time...it's the best job in the world. I am lucky enough to stay home with both of the boys and I wouldn't have it any other way (well, except I'd love to train Bee to wait and drop a deuce until AFTER I've had my morning coffee because that's just more polite. Oh, and also not to do it in the car on the way to Target because those bathrooms are just nasty).
Yes, I'm surrounded by testosterone and I love it--because at the same time, I am also surrounded by boundless love from my boys. I'm blessed to have friends who are in the same boat and if you ask any one of us about our "boys", our faces light up and the love is so evident.
I can't wait to see how Bee grows and what he'll be like. He's already showing a temper like his mama (and a little bit of stubbornness), a desire to move and be active and get what he wants when he wants it, but he's also showing tenderness--like when he caresses my face as I feed him his bottle. He's almost crawling and I know once that happens time flies by even more quickly--so in the meantime, I'm going to enjoy every poopy diaper, oatmeal crusty smiles, open mouthed giggles from being tickled, and those first of the morning grins. As I know from raising Connor, it all goes by too quickly and I want to cherish every one of those moments with my new lovely family.
Matthew was born on July 23, 2013--two weeks before his due date (just like his big brother!). My water broke as I was chowing down my peanut butter covered waffles drenched in syrup (no judging--by this point I was so miserably pregnant that I gave myself a free pass to whatever sounded good to me). Connor was on his way home from spending time with his dad. I sit on the couch, turn on the Today show and "it" happened--my water broke. Now, this never happened with Connor, so I was worried that something even scarier had happened--that I'd peed my pants. I ran to the bathroom and thank goodness, my bladder control was still intact. However, I was definitely in labor. And scared shitless. It had been 9 years since this happened after all.
In full disclosure, I called Dylan and Connor's dad from the toilet (I mean, I was paralyzed people). Dylan had the momentary "This can't possibly be happening, it's Monday morning and I have meetings scheduled all day" to which I replied, "If you don't get your skinny ass home right away I will personally kick it up and down the halls of St. V's once we get there". He arrived VERY shortly thereafter.
For weeks we both had "go bags" packed up, all the necessities for labor and the stay thereafter. We hit the highway, my contractions in full swing. Every bump in the road or short stop at a light felt like i was donating a kidney with no pain meds on the black market (at this point, my selfishness was still in full force. I was way more concerned about my pants getting wet because *God forbid* someone thinks I pissed my pants and I wasn't even thinking about the baby, I was picturing my "happy place"--that beautiful spinal tube and medication that has changed labor forever).
We had left our neighborhood when Dylan informs me he has left his cell phone at home. Really?!?!? You remembered your man face and eye creams, laptop, iPad, pressed button-down shirts and khakis, and extra pair of shoes WITH shoetrees...but you forgot your damn cell phone? We turn around as I'm grasping the dashboard trying to not reach over and put the sleeper hold on him. After we turned around we got stuck behind...a combine. You know, the ones that are like tractors that drive like 10 mph? Yep, one of those. I started screaming, "GO AROUND! GO AROUND!". Dylan did and we were able to acquire the cell phone and hit the road once again. Dylan dug his hole even deeper when he had the audacity to say, "You know, we'll laugh about this someday". Right (for the record, still not laughing).
To make a long story short, Bee came very quickly. He knew what he wanted and he wanted OUT. He was beautiful. A full head of dark hair, these wide blue eyes that sucked you in and made you feel like you never wanted to look away. His hands were precious, his fingers long and immediately wrapped around mine. Tears were streaming down my face. Here was this precious human being I had shared a body with for almost nine months. He was mine. It was just as amazing as when I had Connor.
Since Bee has been born he has kept us on our toes. He wasn't the greatest sleeper, but Dylan stepped up to the plate and took over nighttime feedings pretty early so I could get some rest for the long days ahead. Connor is the most amazingly patient and generous big brother we could have ever hoped for. When Dylan travels, Connor assumes the role of "man of the house". Bee loves his Bubba (Connor) so much, he lights up when Connor comes into the room and will just sit and watch him in amazement for hours. We've already prepared Connor to be ready for a "stage-5 clinger" once Bee starts moving because Bubba's room is where he's going to want to be. As a matter of fact, the first clear word Bee has said is, "Bubba!".
It's been almost 7 months since this little creature entered our lives and we are forever changed. We have all bonded in ways I never imagined, it's exhausting and difficult at times but it's elating more of the time...it's the best job in the world. I am lucky enough to stay home with both of the boys and I wouldn't have it any other way (well, except I'd love to train Bee to wait and drop a deuce until AFTER I've had my morning coffee because that's just more polite. Oh, and also not to do it in the car on the way to Target because those bathrooms are just nasty).
Yes, I'm surrounded by testosterone and I love it--because at the same time, I am also surrounded by boundless love from my boys. I'm blessed to have friends who are in the same boat and if you ask any one of us about our "boys", our faces light up and the love is so evident.
I can't wait to see how Bee grows and what he'll be like. He's already showing a temper like his mama (and a little bit of stubbornness), a desire to move and be active and get what he wants when he wants it, but he's also showing tenderness--like when he caresses my face as I feed him his bottle. He's almost crawling and I know once that happens time flies by even more quickly--so in the meantime, I'm going to enjoy every poopy diaper, oatmeal crusty smiles, open mouthed giggles from being tickled, and those first of the morning grins. As I know from raising Connor, it all goes by too quickly and I want to cherish every one of those moments with my new lovely family.
Saturday, February 16, 2013
Puberty
I promised myself I would write a post about Connor--there are so many things to say about him that I had trouble finding a place to start. So obviously, I chose puberty. Because I want people who read this to feel as uncomfortable with that word as I do (so thoughtful of me, right?).
I recently took Connor in for his 9/10 year checkup. I was expecting the same kind of visit as we've had for almost 10 years, except I convinced him that there would be no shots (to be fair, I was only about 75% sure there would be no shots--but there is no music loud enough to drown out a hyperventilating kid in the backseat). Turns out, the visit was a complete surprise. He did get a shot, which put me in the mommy penalty box, and there was also talk of...puberty.
WTF? The doctor was all rational about it, giving him handouts, giving me handouts, telling me to look over all of them and to talk to Connor about it...she acted like this was no big deal. No big deal?!? Guess what? IT'S A *BIG* FREAKING DEAL. When I look at Connor, I see an angelic little 4 year old heading off to pre-K, not some soon-to-be preteen boy that hides out in his room with a moody disposition and is perpetually annoyed by his parents (ok, another honesty moment--he does play in his room a lot and gets annoyed from time to time, but that's human--not PUBERTY).
So, Connor reads the handouts on the way back to school, but doesn't say a word. Then I head home with the baby and enough handouts to teach an entire fourth grade classroom about what happens to all of their bodies during this "time". I read the handouts. Extremely detailed and *very* thorough. I spend the remaining four hours until Connor gets home from school on the verge of a panic attack. What if he asks me about sex? The handouts talked about "wet dreams", how the f/ck am I going to explain that one? It talks about "hair down there" and "noticing that your arms, legs, and armpits will become hairier. 2:30pm came, I put on extra deodorant and prayed for the best.
Oh, did I mention that Dylan was traveling at this time? Yeah, no male backup to be had.
But guess what? Connor doesn't say a word about the handouts. There they are, staring at me from the kitchen table and I panic when he puts his lunchbox down right next to them. Still, nothing. Big sigh of relief. I am home free, at least for now...
As Connor is playing Legos and I'm giving Matthew a bath, I marvel at the fact that I am bathing this little baby while a preteen plays across the hall. Next up, shower time for Connor. Dun, dun, dun...I have to ask the question, I'm dying to know what he thought of the handouts--I've been obsessed with this for almost 8 hours now. So I say, "Did you read the handouts the doctor gave you?". Connor, "Yep". Me, "Do you have any questions? I mean, some Dylan will probably be better to ask, but you know...". Connor, "Actually, I do". Me, "Oh shit (what ran through my head)". What I really said, "Okay, what?" with a big, fake, everything's cool, come talk to mommy smile. And he looks at me while standing buck-naked in the family room and says, "I really don't want to get zits or pimples". I blink. I blink again and again. That smile is now a look of puzzlement. You mean to tell me a 9 year old boy reads about penises growing larger, hair growing in "special places", wet dreams, having "funny feelings about people you like" (I could go on and on...) and he's worried about ZITS?!?
Big sigh of relief--actually, I felt a whoosh of all that panic flood right out of me. I ask him to go put some pants on (please) and we'll talk. I reassure him that we'll help him take care of his skin, that he has perfect skin now, but that no matter what, we'll work hard so that he's always confident.
Look, I know the talk will have to happen soon. But until then, he's still my baby boy and I'm going to hold on to that for as long as I can. He is brilliant and understands many things and a small part of me thinks he might already have this puberty stuff down. He's amazing--not only intelligent, but funny, charming, witty, empathetic, a voracious reader and technically-saavy enough to reconfigure our Wi-Fi while Dylan was traveling and reset the password so we couldn't get on the Internet (THAT was a fun one). He loves his cats and makes sure they are all taken care of multiple times a day. He is kind and patient with Matthew and the love and adoration between the two warms my heart everyday.
He's a wonderful gift and I grow more in love with him every day. He never ceases to amaze me. Although he might just do that when we go to have the formal "talk" and he rolls his eyes and says, "Uh, Mom and Dylan? I learned all that stuff in my biology book when I was like 7".
I recently took Connor in for his 9/10 year checkup. I was expecting the same kind of visit as we've had for almost 10 years, except I convinced him that there would be no shots (to be fair, I was only about 75% sure there would be no shots--but there is no music loud enough to drown out a hyperventilating kid in the backseat). Turns out, the visit was a complete surprise. He did get a shot, which put me in the mommy penalty box, and there was also talk of...puberty.
WTF? The doctor was all rational about it, giving him handouts, giving me handouts, telling me to look over all of them and to talk to Connor about it...she acted like this was no big deal. No big deal?!? Guess what? IT'S A *BIG* FREAKING DEAL. When I look at Connor, I see an angelic little 4 year old heading off to pre-K, not some soon-to-be preteen boy that hides out in his room with a moody disposition and is perpetually annoyed by his parents (ok, another honesty moment--he does play in his room a lot and gets annoyed from time to time, but that's human--not PUBERTY).
So, Connor reads the handouts on the way back to school, but doesn't say a word. Then I head home with the baby and enough handouts to teach an entire fourth grade classroom about what happens to all of their bodies during this "time". I read the handouts. Extremely detailed and *very* thorough. I spend the remaining four hours until Connor gets home from school on the verge of a panic attack. What if he asks me about sex? The handouts talked about "wet dreams", how the f/ck am I going to explain that one? It talks about "hair down there" and "noticing that your arms, legs, and armpits will become hairier. 2:30pm came, I put on extra deodorant and prayed for the best.
Oh, did I mention that Dylan was traveling at this time? Yeah, no male backup to be had.
But guess what? Connor doesn't say a word about the handouts. There they are, staring at me from the kitchen table and I panic when he puts his lunchbox down right next to them. Still, nothing. Big sigh of relief. I am home free, at least for now...
As Connor is playing Legos and I'm giving Matthew a bath, I marvel at the fact that I am bathing this little baby while a preteen plays across the hall. Next up, shower time for Connor. Dun, dun, dun...I have to ask the question, I'm dying to know what he thought of the handouts--I've been obsessed with this for almost 8 hours now. So I say, "Did you read the handouts the doctor gave you?". Connor, "Yep". Me, "Do you have any questions? I mean, some Dylan will probably be better to ask, but you know...". Connor, "Actually, I do". Me, "Oh shit (what ran through my head)". What I really said, "Okay, what?" with a big, fake, everything's cool, come talk to mommy smile. And he looks at me while standing buck-naked in the family room and says, "I really don't want to get zits or pimples". I blink. I blink again and again. That smile is now a look of puzzlement. You mean to tell me a 9 year old boy reads about penises growing larger, hair growing in "special places", wet dreams, having "funny feelings about people you like" (I could go on and on...) and he's worried about ZITS?!?
Big sigh of relief--actually, I felt a whoosh of all that panic flood right out of me. I ask him to go put some pants on (please) and we'll talk. I reassure him that we'll help him take care of his skin, that he has perfect skin now, but that no matter what, we'll work hard so that he's always confident.
Look, I know the talk will have to happen soon. But until then, he's still my baby boy and I'm going to hold on to that for as long as I can. He is brilliant and understands many things and a small part of me thinks he might already have this puberty stuff down. He's amazing--not only intelligent, but funny, charming, witty, empathetic, a voracious reader and technically-saavy enough to reconfigure our Wi-Fi while Dylan was traveling and reset the password so we couldn't get on the Internet (THAT was a fun one). He loves his cats and makes sure they are all taken care of multiple times a day. He is kind and patient with Matthew and the love and adoration between the two warms my heart everyday.
He's a wonderful gift and I grow more in love with him every day. He never ceases to amaze me. Although he might just do that when we go to have the formal "talk" and he rolls his eyes and says, "Uh, Mom and Dylan? I learned all that stuff in my biology book when I was like 7".
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Ginormous Changes Around Here
Where did the last couple of years go? Oh yeah...we moved, I got pregnant, puked until I thought my stomach would come up next, parked my ass on the couch for months and then had a baby...oh, also went without wine for 9+ months (do NOT recommend--seriously. We almost needed couples therapy because I wasn't drinking AND I was hormonal)...
So we have some catching up to do. First off--moving. BB (before baby) we lived in a cute little townhouse that Dylan & Connor loved but I was frustrated with because their crap covered all of my crap. It was time to move on. Enter Amanda house-shopping on her own one random day (ok, ok, I was with my mom and she *might* have egged me on). Which was followed by Amanda putting an offer on a house that day (without Dylan, but what the hell--have I told you the story of how I bought my car when he was in San Francisco? This is obviously a pattern). All of this ended up with us getting the house and *holy shit* moving! Moving!! Into a real house with a real office for Dylan to work in and a real yard (that's a whole different post).
We love our house. For the most part. Great neighborhood (minus the one little shitbag that lives down the street and bullies Connor. It's a good thing I was a marooned mammal last summer otherwise I would have taken him out with a Nerf gun while he was careening around our neighborhood on his and wwwaaayyy too close to our cars for comfort).
Pregnancy. I'll keep this one short and sweet. It blew. I don't remember the first three months, the second three were ok, the last three I wanted to smack myself in the face with a 2x4 and remain unconscious until labor began. And then I wanted as many pharmaceautitals as humanly possible along with the tube in my spine to make everything pretty (and this is pretty close to what actually happened when baby came). Baby's name is Matthew. He's amazing. And chubby. And he has a big head. But he is so awesome, he deserves a post devoted entirely to him.
AB, or, After Baby. WTF? Life changed. A lot. It's amazing how batshit crazy people can get when they are sleep-deprived. There were times when I was waiting for some secret CIA people to drop in through my windows, accuse me of being a terrorist and start the water-boarding. Because obviously this little newborn worked for them and was starting us out on the sleep depravation tactic. Things have settled out. Dylan and I no longer stare each other down like we are one move away from a full on prison escape--without the other person.
Connor is, as always, a completely entertaining and exhaustingly intelligent little boy. Like Matthew, he deserves his own post.
So, that's it--we're settling in with both the boys, drinking wine again (and even ventured out tasting!), Dylan is still working like a dog and I'm still riding his ass everyday to get home sooner because DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND I AM GOING OUT OF MY EVER-LOVING MIND HERE?!?!?!?. To his credit, he's done 50% better this week. Good job babe, good job. :-)
So we have some catching up to do. First off--moving. BB (before baby) we lived in a cute little townhouse that Dylan & Connor loved but I was frustrated with because their crap covered all of my crap. It was time to move on. Enter Amanda house-shopping on her own one random day (ok, ok, I was with my mom and she *might* have egged me on). Which was followed by Amanda putting an offer on a house that day (without Dylan, but what the hell--have I told you the story of how I bought my car when he was in San Francisco? This is obviously a pattern). All of this ended up with us getting the house and *holy shit* moving! Moving!! Into a real house with a real office for Dylan to work in and a real yard (that's a whole different post).
We love our house. For the most part. Great neighborhood (minus the one little shitbag that lives down the street and bullies Connor. It's a good thing I was a marooned mammal last summer otherwise I would have taken him out with a Nerf gun while he was careening around our neighborhood on his and wwwaaayyy too close to our cars for comfort).
Pregnancy. I'll keep this one short and sweet. It blew. I don't remember the first three months, the second three were ok, the last three I wanted to smack myself in the face with a 2x4 and remain unconscious until labor began. And then I wanted as many pharmaceautitals as humanly possible along with the tube in my spine to make everything pretty (and this is pretty close to what actually happened when baby came). Baby's name is Matthew. He's amazing. And chubby. And he has a big head. But he is so awesome, he deserves a post devoted entirely to him.
AB, or, After Baby. WTF? Life changed. A lot. It's amazing how batshit crazy people can get when they are sleep-deprived. There were times when I was waiting for some secret CIA people to drop in through my windows, accuse me of being a terrorist and start the water-boarding. Because obviously this little newborn worked for them and was starting us out on the sleep depravation tactic. Things have settled out. Dylan and I no longer stare each other down like we are one move away from a full on prison escape--without the other person.
Connor is, as always, a completely entertaining and exhaustingly intelligent little boy. Like Matthew, he deserves his own post.
So, that's it--we're settling in with both the boys, drinking wine again (and even ventured out tasting!), Dylan is still working like a dog and I'm still riding his ass everyday to get home sooner because DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND I AM GOING OUT OF MY EVER-LOVING MIND HERE?!?!?!?. To his credit, he's done 50% better this week. Good job babe, good job. :-)
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Cat Chaos (or WTC - my White Trash Cat)
It's been a long & very eventful summer. Dylan had the whole summer off (10 weeks) and we had some great (and hilarious) family bonding time - which I'll talk about in a different post. Right now there is a more pressing issue at hand. My cat.
Back in May I tried to install a new faucet in the kitchen sink. Long story short, I forgot to turn off the main water and ended up soaking myself, my kitchen and my cat while turning the downstairs into what felt like a tropical rainforest (humidity and all). Luckily for me, my dad was flying in that night and could help me fix it. Unfortunately, I think it caused my cat some trauma from which he suffered PTSD. He had what I can only imagine was a nervous breakdown and acted schizo all summer, refusing to come inside, pretending to not recognize us (and no this wasn't only when Dylan was fishing the Wall Street Journal out of the bushes in his boxers). Flash forward to a week and 1/2 ago. Mr. Jackson decides all is better and comes in the house, eats some food, drinks some water and plops his hairy butt down on my kitchen floor to do whatever cats like to do. That's when I see it, a gigantic wound on his stomach. Dylan rushes him to the vet and we wait for the call.
The vet calls us three hours later with this news - Jackson has a wound that will require him to be "put under" where they will stitch up the wound and insert a drain. Wait a minute - drain? Drain what into where? Call me callous but that cat was staying at the vet's office until the drain was out (I can barely handle barkdust on my floor, can you imagine a cat "draining"?). Once we conquered that challenge, then they told us how much it'd set us back. Let's just say it was worth about two car payments. Two hours later, vet calls again. While Jackson was under they cleaned his teeth and found a tooth that was completely broken in half, was infected, and causing his gums to swell. Oh, and three cavities. Removing the tooth (and possibly the teeth with cavities) would only tack on an additional $100 or so to our final bill. I said to take out the broken tooth, leave the cavities in.
We took him home on Friday (yes, after the drain was taken out). The past week has been like living in the seventh circle of hell. The damn cat has that stupid collar on which traps food pieces like a tray so he's walking around with half a meal falling off his neck most of the time, he's been stressed so he's shedding which makes the whole family miserable with allergies, he got another round of worms while on his outside summer sojourn but we couldn't get the pills down his throat, he howls all night long because he wants to go outside but can't...all of this was frustrating and exhausting but I didn't hit the wall until this morning's fiasco. I went to escape to coffee with a friend only to come home and find my laundry room destroyed. Jackson's box is kept there. There is no possible excuse as to why what happened, happened - his box is the biggest one they make. He had fresh litter, nothing left behind. But what he did was unforgivable. I'll spare the main details and leave you only with this - nowhere in my "stay-at-home mom" job description did the term "cat-shit chiseling" come into play. But that's what I had to do, off the walls, off the floors, off everything except his box - which he left one small piece of the entire present.
After this morning, Jackson is going back to the vet's to be boarded overnight. Two reasons for this - 1) He was going to go tomorrow morning anyway to have the final stitches removed and to get them to give him the pills we couldn't get him to take, and 2) If I have to spend another night with this animal someone isn't waking up in the house tomorrow morning. I won't toss the cat (I'm not that evil) but I will definitely make my way to the nearest Marriott for a night of boarding myself.
Back in May I tried to install a new faucet in the kitchen sink. Long story short, I forgot to turn off the main water and ended up soaking myself, my kitchen and my cat while turning the downstairs into what felt like a tropical rainforest (humidity and all). Luckily for me, my dad was flying in that night and could help me fix it. Unfortunately, I think it caused my cat some trauma from which he suffered PTSD. He had what I can only imagine was a nervous breakdown and acted schizo all summer, refusing to come inside, pretending to not recognize us (and no this wasn't only when Dylan was fishing the Wall Street Journal out of the bushes in his boxers). Flash forward to a week and 1/2 ago. Mr. Jackson decides all is better and comes in the house, eats some food, drinks some water and plops his hairy butt down on my kitchen floor to do whatever cats like to do. That's when I see it, a gigantic wound on his stomach. Dylan rushes him to the vet and we wait for the call.
The vet calls us three hours later with this news - Jackson has a wound that will require him to be "put under" where they will stitch up the wound and insert a drain. Wait a minute - drain? Drain what into where? Call me callous but that cat was staying at the vet's office until the drain was out (I can barely handle barkdust on my floor, can you imagine a cat "draining"?). Once we conquered that challenge, then they told us how much it'd set us back. Let's just say it was worth about two car payments. Two hours later, vet calls again. While Jackson was under they cleaned his teeth and found a tooth that was completely broken in half, was infected, and causing his gums to swell. Oh, and three cavities. Removing the tooth (and possibly the teeth with cavities) would only tack on an additional $100 or so to our final bill. I said to take out the broken tooth, leave the cavities in.
We took him home on Friday (yes, after the drain was taken out). The past week has been like living in the seventh circle of hell. The damn cat has that stupid collar on which traps food pieces like a tray so he's walking around with half a meal falling off his neck most of the time, he's been stressed so he's shedding which makes the whole family miserable with allergies, he got another round of worms while on his outside summer sojourn but we couldn't get the pills down his throat, he howls all night long because he wants to go outside but can't...all of this was frustrating and exhausting but I didn't hit the wall until this morning's fiasco. I went to escape to coffee with a friend only to come home and find my laundry room destroyed. Jackson's box is kept there. There is no possible excuse as to why what happened, happened - his box is the biggest one they make. He had fresh litter, nothing left behind. But what he did was unforgivable. I'll spare the main details and leave you only with this - nowhere in my "stay-at-home mom" job description did the term "cat-shit chiseling" come into play. But that's what I had to do, off the walls, off the floors, off everything except his box - which he left one small piece of the entire present.
After this morning, Jackson is going back to the vet's to be boarded overnight. Two reasons for this - 1) He was going to go tomorrow morning anyway to have the final stitches removed and to get them to give him the pills we couldn't get him to take, and 2) If I have to spend another night with this animal someone isn't waking up in the house tomorrow morning. I won't toss the cat (I'm not that evil) but I will definitely make my way to the nearest Marriott for a night of boarding myself.
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