Let me be frank for a minute: whoever said that 5 o'clock was the appropriate time to start drinking never had a 4-year-old boy. They just didn't. Whoever said it was either a masochist or childless. It is either/or, by the way. You can't have children and not be a masochist. So, to the childless, I say 5 o'clock is too late. To the masochists, I say mind your own business.
My boy is driving me nuts. Like, really, really nuts, and there is really no getting around the fact that the only way to counter the nuts is with wine, be it 9 a.m. or 6 p.m.
Last week, I didn't feel well. As is the case with a stay at home mom, the kids just don't care. I don't get a sick day. I just have to muddle through as best I can. The best I could do that day was watch TV with my little guy after his sisters departed for school. In an unprecedented act of sleepiness, I completely passed out on the couch. For two hours. Two very solid hours. When I awakened, I discovered my little man had seized the opportunity to unleash his creativity on my house.
I found crayon wall art. I found a yellow lab with a new blue marker tattoo. Upstairs, he had attempted culinary uniqueness by making mouthwash soup with large dallops of toothpaste all over the bathroom counter. Entering the playroom, I saw that what was formerly a half a ream of printer paper and a new roll of Scotch tape was now a giant paper fort intended to house his stuffed animals. It was like Christmas Nightmare on Elm Street with a new horrible surprise waiting around every corner. I give him credit for doing all of this relatively silently, but, man, that will teach me to get sick and accidentally fall asleep ever again.
Then, a few days ago, I decided to take a shower. I do this on a daily basis. I have for several years. I find it's the only way I can feel human. I used to let my babies scream in their bouncer seats just so I could wash away the filth they had pooped, peed, and barfed on me the day before. It seemed like a fair trade off. Now that they keep most of their bodily functions to themselves, I guess I don't need to shower daily, but I do. I think it's a side effect of living in America where frivolity reigns.
I took 10 minutes. Just 10. Titus has not even noticed my absence in the past. He sits with his morning snack and PBS, and he prefers to be left alone. Well, not this day. This day, the boy had a mission: Destroy the House and Drive Mommy Bat Poo Crazy, Part 2. This time, I met with an even worse mess in a fraction of the time. He managed to get the sugar bowl off the top shelf of a cabinet. It was completely empty by the time he was done with it. I imagine a good portion went to his tummy, but there was plenty left to coat the counter, the kitchen floor, and part of the living room floor. Of course, you can't have sugar scattered all over the place without raisin bran. I found this all over the living room floor and in between each and every couch cushion. The dogs had a lot of fun with this, so many of the areas where the cereal landed were now covered in sugar and dog drool. He wasn't finished. He got out our iced tea maker (remember: America=frivolity). He filled it with a box of rice crispies (lower case because I buy the store brand; clearly my children do not deserve name brand), some peanuts in the shell, a generous helping of milk, and half a box of cheese crackers (again, off brand). Oh--and don't forget, sugar on top! Then he plugged it in and let that little concoction stew.
I was speechless. Mouth-open-wide-eyed-smoke-coming-out-of-my-ears speechless. Titus looked at me sheepishly and said slyly, "Mommy, I made you a snack." Immediately, the phrase, "Good intentions pave the road to hell" came to mind. I merely pointed to the couch, and he took his cue and sat down. Had he been a dog, his tail would have been between his little, scheming legs.
Someday I may look back and laugh at all this. For now, all I know is 5 o'clock isn't early enough to reach for the wine, especially now that I can't have iced tea.
Monday, September 23, 2013
Thursday, August 8, 2013
A Blog About Dogs...and Cats, Too, I Guess
The fact is, I am a cat person right down to my inner guts and core. I love their independence, their cleanliness, their blatant disregard for everyone around them, their sweet little faces, their fastidiousness, and pretty much everything else about them. Basically, the cat is everything I wish I could be all at once while still getting people to cater to my every whim and quirk. My cat can walk across my face at 3 in the morning, insisting on food, and I happily get up to serve. If any of my children walked across my face at 3 in the morning, for any reason, I would break out the Mommy Monster and let them have it. It's just the natural order and reasonings of a True Cat Person.
Dogs are a whole different story for me. I barely tolerate most of them. If I encounter a cat in the suburban wild, I will stop in my tracks and attempt to interact with it. If I encounter a dog, I barely give it a second look. They're just so damn happy all the time, and I prefer my animals to have a little more moodiness. A dog will dole out affection for people like a clown handing out candy at a parade. While this may appeal to the masses, I find it patronizing and trivial. Anything worth having takes work, and the love of a cat is definitely worth working for.
When we first got married, I went into a bit of a funk. I was substitute teaching while Peter finished his last year of law school. While I hit the jackpot when it came to men, there was still a hole in my life. That hole turned out to be cat-shaped. We cajoled our landlord, with the help of his cat-loving wife, into disregarding his "no pets" clause and letting us get a kitty. We found her at the shelter. She was 7 months of awesome, and she was ready to come home with us. We promptly changed her name from Kharn to Alice the Wondercat. You can do that with cats. You can't do that with dogs. Alice has been my constant companion for 10 years, and I can't get enough of her, especially since the only person she loves in our house is me.
Then we moved to our current home. My husband, a staunch Dog Person, began his campaign for canine companionship. It so happened that a friend of ours had a lovely yellow lab she needed to re-home. She was 2, pre-trained, kind of cute, super friendly, and I was willing to give it a shot. 3 years later, Pearl is a fixture in our family, shedding all over, eating poop like it's candy, smelling terrible, and making everybody smile. Even me once in a while. Then Peter got into his head that Pearl needed a friend...
Along came Mahone. Another re-homed dog, he is a German Short Haired Pointer with a nervous disposition and an inability to sit still. He has his moments of cuteness, but for the most part, he drives me insane. The kids adore him. He naps with Titus. He chases my cat. He slips on the laminate floors. He eats food faster than a cheetah runs.
And so it came to pass, this True Cat Person became a dog rescuer. Crazy, smelly dogs. I am willing to admit, but only to you, that sometimes I love them. Their incessant cheerfulness can be kind of endearing. Now that I have a Dyson, cleaning up after them is much easier and kind of enjoyable. However, my favorite part of the day is putting them in their crates for the night. When Alice the Wondercat hears the click of the locks, she knows that the house is once again hers, and seeing her pop out from under the bed, hungry for food and affection, brings a calm and peace to my life like nothing else can.
Dogs are a whole different story for me. I barely tolerate most of them. If I encounter a cat in the suburban wild, I will stop in my tracks and attempt to interact with it. If I encounter a dog, I barely give it a second look. They're just so damn happy all the time, and I prefer my animals to have a little more moodiness. A dog will dole out affection for people like a clown handing out candy at a parade. While this may appeal to the masses, I find it patronizing and trivial. Anything worth having takes work, and the love of a cat is definitely worth working for.
When we first got married, I went into a bit of a funk. I was substitute teaching while Peter finished his last year of law school. While I hit the jackpot when it came to men, there was still a hole in my life. That hole turned out to be cat-shaped. We cajoled our landlord, with the help of his cat-loving wife, into disregarding his "no pets" clause and letting us get a kitty. We found her at the shelter. She was 7 months of awesome, and she was ready to come home with us. We promptly changed her name from Kharn to Alice the Wondercat. You can do that with cats. You can't do that with dogs. Alice has been my constant companion for 10 years, and I can't get enough of her, especially since the only person she loves in our house is me.
Then we moved to our current home. My husband, a staunch Dog Person, began his campaign for canine companionship. It so happened that a friend of ours had a lovely yellow lab she needed to re-home. She was 2, pre-trained, kind of cute, super friendly, and I was willing to give it a shot. 3 years later, Pearl is a fixture in our family, shedding all over, eating poop like it's candy, smelling terrible, and making everybody smile. Even me once in a while. Then Peter got into his head that Pearl needed a friend...
Along came Mahone. Another re-homed dog, he is a German Short Haired Pointer with a nervous disposition and an inability to sit still. He has his moments of cuteness, but for the most part, he drives me insane. The kids adore him. He naps with Titus. He chases my cat. He slips on the laminate floors. He eats food faster than a cheetah runs.
And so it came to pass, this True Cat Person became a dog rescuer. Crazy, smelly dogs. I am willing to admit, but only to you, that sometimes I love them. Their incessant cheerfulness can be kind of endearing. Now that I have a Dyson, cleaning up after them is much easier and kind of enjoyable. However, my favorite part of the day is putting them in their crates for the night. When Alice the Wondercat hears the click of the locks, she knows that the house is once again hers, and seeing her pop out from under the bed, hungry for food and affection, brings a calm and peace to my life like nothing else can.
Sunday, August 4, 2013
Scaling the Wall
The day before yesterday, I flew to the Midwest with the three offspring in tow. We come back for a month in the summer to swim, eat, drink, visit friends, and get in some quality time with my parents. The thing about my job is that it's portable. I can just relocate to Illinois for a month. Unfortunately, Peter cannot, so he gets stuck behind for at least half of our time here. This means I get to fly alone with the kids.
As you can imagine, I'm not the calmest flyer. Well, I'm not the calmest anything, to be completely honest. So, I like to get to the airport with plenty of time to spare. I catalogue all the things that could go wrong: heavy traffic, extra long security lines, broken down computers, alien insect invasions, and I prefer to give myself as big a buffer as possible. The result this last trip was having almost 2 hours to spare. We ate an overpriced breakfast. We went to the bathroom. Twice. Then we went to the kids' play area.
The curious thing about the kids' play area at SeaTac airport is the 8 foot wall that doesn't go all the way to the ceiling. There are two diagonal ducts or something, but really, there's no practical reason for the absence of wall. Perhaps budget cuts. Budget cuts seem to be a logical reason. Who knows? The wall is the perfect temptation for a little person like Titus who loves to throw things at random, and throw he did. He threw his absolutely most favorite and necessary toy in the world: his Night Night. His whole world crumbled when I peeked over the wall from the top of the children's climbing structure and told him there was nothing I could do.
We had to go to our gate. It was almost time to board. You have never seen such a disappointed little person in your life, and even though it wasn't my fault, I felt so very, very guilty. I tried to find someone who worked at the airport. Apparently, no one works at the airport. They work for the airlines, sure, but ask them to help you find a person who works for the airport, and they look at you like you are a recent asylum escapee. I guess the airport just runs on robots and fairy dust.
I managed to find a ticketing agent who had small children who had favorite toys in the whole wide world, and she managed to find someone who worked for maintenance, I assume for the airport, but they could have worked for Denny's for all I know. We were told to go back to the play area and wait. So we did. And we waited. And they didn't come. The boarding time was now dangerously close. I had paid extra to get priority seating, and that didn't come cheap. It was now a matter of weighing my son's emotional and mental well-being against the extra $100 I spent to get on the plane first so we could get the seats we needed (we flew Southwest who doesn't assign seats). I could have bought him 10 new Night Nights for that $100, but somehow, it wouldn't be the same. He'd always associate the airport with this traumatic event, and, let's face it, I'd always feel guilty there. Since we utilize the airport frequently, I didn't want to shoulder all those negative feelings for the rest of my life. It was time for Mama to go over the wall.
I assessed the situation. There was a room full of children and their parents. There was a bench I could climb up in order to get to the top of the wall. There was a large man sitting on this bench. I thought, worse case scenario, he could help me back up. Or I could maybe shimmy up those diagonal ducts that were covered in enough dust to fill 275 vacuum cleaners. I took the kids in. I told them to stay. I went over the wall. The room behind me fell silent. When I got to the top, I saw two things: a long drop down and a metal cross bar that could help me get back over if I could manage to get a foot hold because it was at my eye level.
I landed with a very soft thud in dust thick enough to cover my flip-flopped feet. I retrieved Night Night, who was slightly dirty but no worse for the wear. He survived his flight. I threw him over and heard a very happy Titus. I knew I had made the right decision. Did I mention I was wearing black pants? Now to get to that cross bar. I had to take a running start, which kicked up a cloud of dust all the way to the ceiling that most likely settled on most of the people in the room. I hit the wall with a bang, got my foot up, pulled myself up with the strength of Hercules if Hercules was an out-of-shape woman with little to no upper body strength that was determined to reunite with her children and still make it to priority seating boarding.
When I came over, every jaw in the room had hit the floor. My pants, once black, were now a light grey. I used my white sweatshirt to wipe up the dusty footprints I left on the bench, and we were off in a little cloud of triumph mixed with humiliation with a generous sprinkling of smug on top. We made it to the gate right as our group was boarding, and all was right with the world, even if I was leaving a trail of dust behind me that would put Pig Pen to shame.
We had to go to our gate. It was almost time to board. You have never seen such a disappointed little person in your life, and even though it wasn't my fault, I felt so very, very guilty. I tried to find someone who worked at the airport. Apparently, no one works at the airport. They work for the airlines, sure, but ask them to help you find a person who works for the airport, and they look at you like you are a recent asylum escapee. I guess the airport just runs on robots and fairy dust.
I managed to find a ticketing agent who had small children who had favorite toys in the whole wide world, and she managed to find someone who worked for maintenance, I assume for the airport, but they could have worked for Denny's for all I know. We were told to go back to the play area and wait. So we did. And we waited. And they didn't come. The boarding time was now dangerously close. I had paid extra to get priority seating, and that didn't come cheap. It was now a matter of weighing my son's emotional and mental well-being against the extra $100 I spent to get on the plane first so we could get the seats we needed (we flew Southwest who doesn't assign seats). I could have bought him 10 new Night Nights for that $100, but somehow, it wouldn't be the same. He'd always associate the airport with this traumatic event, and, let's face it, I'd always feel guilty there. Since we utilize the airport frequently, I didn't want to shoulder all those negative feelings for the rest of my life. It was time for Mama to go over the wall.
I assessed the situation. There was a room full of children and their parents. There was a bench I could climb up in order to get to the top of the wall. There was a large man sitting on this bench. I thought, worse case scenario, he could help me back up. Or I could maybe shimmy up those diagonal ducts that were covered in enough dust to fill 275 vacuum cleaners. I took the kids in. I told them to stay. I went over the wall. The room behind me fell silent. When I got to the top, I saw two things: a long drop down and a metal cross bar that could help me get back over if I could manage to get a foot hold because it was at my eye level.
I landed with a very soft thud in dust thick enough to cover my flip-flopped feet. I retrieved Night Night, who was slightly dirty but no worse for the wear. He survived his flight. I threw him over and heard a very happy Titus. I knew I had made the right decision. Did I mention I was wearing black pants? Now to get to that cross bar. I had to take a running start, which kicked up a cloud of dust all the way to the ceiling that most likely settled on most of the people in the room. I hit the wall with a bang, got my foot up, pulled myself up with the strength of Hercules if Hercules was an out-of-shape woman with little to no upper body strength that was determined to reunite with her children and still make it to priority seating boarding.
When I came over, every jaw in the room had hit the floor. My pants, once black, were now a light grey. I used my white sweatshirt to wipe up the dusty footprints I left on the bench, and we were off in a little cloud of triumph mixed with humiliation with a generous sprinkling of smug on top. We made it to the gate right as our group was boarding, and all was right with the world, even if I was leaving a trail of dust behind me that would put Pig Pen to shame.
Friday, July 26, 2013
My Problem With Peter Pan
Actually, the title's a bit misleading. I have no problem with Peter Pan. I loved the book. It's delightfully dark and imaginative and fun. Peter Pan is much less lovable, and Captain Hook is far more formidable. Tinkerbell was just a blip on Peter Pan's pixie spectrum. He forgot her. He forgot the kids. He was quite sad, really.
Then Disney got ahold of the story, and they kid-friendlied it right up, which is silly because it's a children's story to begin with. Children could just handle darker, scarier things back in the day. Maybe it's because they could still get polio. I don't know.
Anyway, Disney created a more palatable version for modern(ish) kids. Maybe post-war kids were needing less scary and more fairy. I apologize for that rhyme. Sometimes I can't resist. Even in the Disney version, however, Tinkerbell was a naughty pixie, and pirates were clearly the enemy. That's not my problem with Peter Pan, though.
My problem with Peter Pan in the hands of Disney is what they're doing with it now. Why does Tinkerbell have her own franchise? Did everyone forget that she's a manipulative, abusive, murderous, betraying pixie? She tried to have Wendy killed. She told Captain Hook where to find Peter Pan and the Lost Boys. Sure, she saved him from the bomb, but that would never have happened if she had comported herself like a nice pixie in the first place. She brought that bomb on herself.
So when I see Tinkerbell, I feel as though she's more villain than hero, and her entire pixie franchise is everything that's wrong with kids today: behave badly, get rewarded. It's so true that the nice guy finishes last. I mean, where are John and Michael? Why don't the Darling children have their own spin off?
As if rewarding a bad pixie with fame and fortune weren't enough, Disney decided to further plunder and taint the Neverland legacy with "Jake and the Neverland Pirates." Wait. What? Neverland pirates are bad. They're the enemy. Why do the kids want to be Neverland pirates? The pirates lose in the end of the Disney version, and they go on killing in the real version. Now, they've been reduced to cute little kids with a bumbling Captain Hook who occasionally helps them on their little adventures. This is most troubling. Kids need to respect the villain for what it is: evil and scary.
Oh, Disney, I know you need to make a few more bucks, but please, please don't continue rewarding the bad guys. It seriously messes with my head. Tinkerbell should be in prison, and Captain Hook should be dead, skewered at the end of Peter Pan's sword. You know who could give me this scenario? Tim Burton.
Then Disney got ahold of the story, and they kid-friendlied it right up, which is silly because it's a children's story to begin with. Children could just handle darker, scarier things back in the day. Maybe it's because they could still get polio. I don't know.
Anyway, Disney created a more palatable version for modern(ish) kids. Maybe post-war kids were needing less scary and more fairy. I apologize for that rhyme. Sometimes I can't resist. Even in the Disney version, however, Tinkerbell was a naughty pixie, and pirates were clearly the enemy. That's not my problem with Peter Pan, though.
My problem with Peter Pan in the hands of Disney is what they're doing with it now. Why does Tinkerbell have her own franchise? Did everyone forget that she's a manipulative, abusive, murderous, betraying pixie? She tried to have Wendy killed. She told Captain Hook where to find Peter Pan and the Lost Boys. Sure, she saved him from the bomb, but that would never have happened if she had comported herself like a nice pixie in the first place. She brought that bomb on herself.
So when I see Tinkerbell, I feel as though she's more villain than hero, and her entire pixie franchise is everything that's wrong with kids today: behave badly, get rewarded. It's so true that the nice guy finishes last. I mean, where are John and Michael? Why don't the Darling children have their own spin off?
As if rewarding a bad pixie with fame and fortune weren't enough, Disney decided to further plunder and taint the Neverland legacy with "Jake and the Neverland Pirates." Wait. What? Neverland pirates are bad. They're the enemy. Why do the kids want to be Neverland pirates? The pirates lose in the end of the Disney version, and they go on killing in the real version. Now, they've been reduced to cute little kids with a bumbling Captain Hook who occasionally helps them on their little adventures. This is most troubling. Kids need to respect the villain for what it is: evil and scary.
Oh, Disney, I know you need to make a few more bucks, but please, please don't continue rewarding the bad guys. It seriously messes with my head. Tinkerbell should be in prison, and Captain Hook should be dead, skewered at the end of Peter Pan's sword. You know who could give me this scenario? Tim Burton.
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
Whenever I Open My Mouth...
...my mother comes out. This is a little saying that is going around Facebook in various meme forms these days. I have to tell you, I can't relate. I was blessed with a mom who apparently never said anything memorable in the obnoxious category.
It's inevitable when you become a parent to ponder the parenting you received (and, let's face it, are still receiving). My memory may be skewed by rose-colored hindsight glasses, but I have no memory of my mom yelling. She never lost her temper. She was always willing to chat with me until her eyes couldn't stay open any longer. She spent lots of quality time with me. She was a great mom. I pale in comparison to her.
I yell. My temper is always just under the surface, ready to blow. Some days I can't wait for the kids' bedtime so I can have a little peace and quiet. I hide from them in my room. I take care of the basics, and I hug and kiss them and tell them how amazing they are and how much I love them. Hopefully these will be the things they remember when they have kids and ponder their own upbringing. This may be wishful thinking on my part.
My kids will definitely be able to relate to the "whenever I open my mouth" quote. I give them a lot of good material. Gems like, "If you do that, you'll kill yourself and be dead," or, "Don't answer the door. There's crazy people out there," or "I didn't give birth to pigs, so stop trying to live like them," or one of my favorite go-to's, "If you don't shut your faces, I'll sit on you." It's not uncommon for me to ask myself, "What the heck does that mean?" or to admonish myself for introducing even more confusion into my children's already mixed-up, chaotic world.
Already I hear them using my mom-isms on each other. Wendy, as the oldest, is the biggest offender. Titus, as the youngest, makes me laugh. Everything of mine that he repeats sounds so cute in his little squeaky voice. I only hope that the things I say that they are absorbing won't do too much permanent damage.
So, maybe whenever I open my mouth, my mom doesn't come out. Of course, this just applies to the things I say. Whenever I open my mouth to laugh, my mom shoots forth from my innards. When we get going, we both have the same laugh that the elder Mr. Dawes has at the end of Mary Poppins. You know, the breathy one that killed him? Only, the laugh hasn't killed us yet. It does make me pee my pants, though.
I'm glad to have this in common with my mom.
Already I hear them using my mom-isms on each other. Wendy, as the oldest, is the biggest offender. Titus, as the youngest, makes me laugh. Everything of mine that he repeats sounds so cute in his little squeaky voice. I only hope that the things I say that they are absorbing won't do too much permanent damage.
So, maybe whenever I open my mouth, my mom doesn't come out. Of course, this just applies to the things I say. Whenever I open my mouth to laugh, my mom shoots forth from my innards. When we get going, we both have the same laugh that the elder Mr. Dawes has at the end of Mary Poppins. You know, the breathy one that killed him? Only, the laugh hasn't killed us yet. It does make me pee my pants, though.
I'm glad to have this in common with my mom.
Thursday, July 18, 2013
Where No Woman Has Gone Before...
Captain's Log: Stardate 71813
Offspring are participating in an unauthorized session of Rapid Body Liquid Ejection. Day 4, and their rebellion continues. They seem to be in an alternating pattern so I can't learn their routine. Any one of them could explode at any time, and I am helpless to stop it.
The new washing machine is being tested frequently. I am happy to report that it is standing up to the task of purifying all clothing and linens that come into contact with the body liquids. Its cheerful medley announcing the end of its cycle is a pleasant diversion in an otherwise bleak house. I am happy with this machine.
Equally satisfying in its performance is the carpet steam cleaner. Deciding to purchase one when the crew moved to a bigger home was very wise on the part of myself and the Commander. What would otherwise be hours of scrubbing on my hands and knees has been reduced to merely pushing and pulling while in a comfortable standing position. Carpets are still intact. Rooms are fresh.
This participation in the RBLE has proven one thing: the offspring are all, indeed, human. While suffering from nausea, exhaustion, dehydration, and general cabin fever, they have all displayed very passionate, albeit very unpleasant, emotions which an android could not possess. This alleviates my fears that they are cyborgs who will rise up in their sleep and kill me.
I eagerly await relief from Commander Beckwith who is at his central command procuring funds for this mission. I fear we may be close to mutiny, and I don't know how much longer I can contain the offspring. My mission, for now, is to remain still and hope they do not see me, for if they do, things could get ugly.
Signing off.
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
4 Years With 3
Four years ago today, I became a mother of three. My little Titus made his world debut during the hottest weather in recorded Seattle history. I should have known he was going to give me a continual run for my money.
Watching Titus grow and trying to keep him alive has been a bit of a cursed blessing. On the one hand, he's completely and insanely adorable. On the other hand, he is hell bent on destroying the world. Most days I find myself caught in this vortex of craziness that occurs when his adorable meets his awful, and in that vortex, I twitch and giggle.
Becoming a mom for the first time was interesting. All things were so new, and there were so many rules and regulations to learn and follow. I left pages of instructions for my in-laws when they would take Wendy, never minding that they raised 6 kids. I lived in a constant state of panic and second-guessing. As a result, I missed out on actually enjoying the baby phase, wishing it away one poop blow-out at a time. For the record, and in retrospect, she was an amazing baby. Very portable and lovable and squishy.
After a few years with Wendy, I felt confident enough that I could not only have a second baby but that I could also enjoy it. Of course, it took a few times to get a pregnancy to stick. I got to house two babies for several weeks, but they decided to take the short route to heaven. But Nina? Nina stuck. That kid probably bullied her way to the front of the egg pool, and she's been a kick in the pants ever since. She came out completely opposite from her big sister, and I enjoyed my little curly-topped baby girl very much.
Then we decided to go for one more. I grew up in a family of 2 kids, and I always wondered what it would be like to have 3. That seems like a good reason to bring another human into the world, yes? Transitioning from 1 to 2 was a bit of a leap. I felt like I was betraying Wendy by introducing another person into her perfect little world. But thinking about going from 2 to 3 was a different story. Wendy took to Nina immediately. They'd love their little brother.
They did. They do. Of course, Nina handled the transition about as well as an elephant handles ballet. Before Titus, she was perfectly satisfied with how Peter parented her. He could give her baths and put her to bed and hold her and other such pleasantries. After Titus? Well, after Titus Peter failed to meet her standards. Only I could administer proper care. So, you know, that was a bit of a challenge, especially when recovering from a c-section and breast feeding and trying not to melt in the relentless heat.
Here we are, 4 years later. New house. Central air conditioning. Sleeping through the night. It's been a bit of a bumpy road, and I'm sure it will continue to be for years to come. I wouldn't trade life with 3 kids for a second, though. That's not true. I'd trade it for a luxury cruise around the world, but I'd want it back the minute I got home. An hour after I got home. Maybe a week.
Watching Titus grow and trying to keep him alive has been a bit of a cursed blessing. On the one hand, he's completely and insanely adorable. On the other hand, he is hell bent on destroying the world. Most days I find myself caught in this vortex of craziness that occurs when his adorable meets his awful, and in that vortex, I twitch and giggle.
Becoming a mom for the first time was interesting. All things were so new, and there were so many rules and regulations to learn and follow. I left pages of instructions for my in-laws when they would take Wendy, never minding that they raised 6 kids. I lived in a constant state of panic and second-guessing. As a result, I missed out on actually enjoying the baby phase, wishing it away one poop blow-out at a time. For the record, and in retrospect, she was an amazing baby. Very portable and lovable and squishy.
After a few years with Wendy, I felt confident enough that I could not only have a second baby but that I could also enjoy it. Of course, it took a few times to get a pregnancy to stick. I got to house two babies for several weeks, but they decided to take the short route to heaven. But Nina? Nina stuck. That kid probably bullied her way to the front of the egg pool, and she's been a kick in the pants ever since. She came out completely opposite from her big sister, and I enjoyed my little curly-topped baby girl very much.
Then we decided to go for one more. I grew up in a family of 2 kids, and I always wondered what it would be like to have 3. That seems like a good reason to bring another human into the world, yes? Transitioning from 1 to 2 was a bit of a leap. I felt like I was betraying Wendy by introducing another person into her perfect little world. But thinking about going from 2 to 3 was a different story. Wendy took to Nina immediately. They'd love their little brother.
They did. They do. Of course, Nina handled the transition about as well as an elephant handles ballet. Before Titus, she was perfectly satisfied with how Peter parented her. He could give her baths and put her to bed and hold her and other such pleasantries. After Titus? Well, after Titus Peter failed to meet her standards. Only I could administer proper care. So, you know, that was a bit of a challenge, especially when recovering from a c-section and breast feeding and trying not to melt in the relentless heat.
Here we are, 4 years later. New house. Central air conditioning. Sleeping through the night. It's been a bit of a bumpy road, and I'm sure it will continue to be for years to come. I wouldn't trade life with 3 kids for a second, though. That's not true. I'd trade it for a luxury cruise around the world, but I'd want it back the minute I got home. An hour after I got home. Maybe a week.
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