Fuzzy Love

A Cold Front

That winter weather that's been blowing across the continent hit us yesterday with freezing cold temperatures and a few inches of snow. Just like every other day Colorado gets a dusting of snow, all the schools were delayed, including Liam's preschool. Which turned out to be a good thing, since it took me an extra half hour just to get the kids ready to go outside (I had to zip the lining into Olivia's coat, track down two hats and two pairs of mittens, find my own scarf and gloves, and then discover that both kids had ripped of their hats and mittens, and, well, you get the idea).

Since Liam's class began an hour late, his total school day was only an hour and a half. Turns out that doesn't allow Olivia and I enough time at home for Olivia to catch a decent nap. I had to wake her up. As we all know, the first rule of parenting the preschool-and-under set is naps are sacred. It pained me to wake her up. So, to put it off, I took some pictures of the little cuddlebug.

Poor girl; in about three minutes she went from the warm and gentle setting pictured above to 18 degrees of blowing-snow nastiness.

I delayed in leaving so long that Liam was the only child left (out of the four that showed up) when Olivia and I finally got to school. If you're more than fifteen minutes late, they call the sheriff, but so far we've dodged that bullet (fifteen minutes late just seems so possible to me).

A Touch O' the Christmas Spirit

We took Liam and Olivia to meet Santa last week. I'd explained the concept of being good and sitting on Santa's lap and, of course, the big payoff on December 25th, so Liam was ready. We went to the same place we go every year (check out the amazing Santa consistency we've achieved throughout Liam's life: in 2003 , 2004, and 2005).

Now, as Liam slowly walked down the path to Santa, holding my hand tightly, he was cautiously awestruck at the Santa village scene. But when Santa greeted him with a jolly, "Hello Liam! You've grown this much [fingers and thumb about three inches apart] since last year!" Liam responded with a surprised but enthusiastic, "Yes!" After that, he was quite happy to sit on Santa's lap and explain that he wants, "da Diego talking wescue center and a talking kitchen for Owidia." Not sure why all the toys need to talk, but I think Santa got the idea (even though a Diego anything toy would not be Santa's first choice, I'm sure Santa is feeling the pressure of this being Liam's first year of really understanding and looking forward to the big day).

Olivia, kitchen or no kitchen, wanted nothing to do with Santa.

So we set her free and she peered at the fancy stranger from afar.

Fast forward to yesterday. Liam and Olivia and I were at the grocery store and I was seriously contemplating buying either a giant blow-up light-up penguin or two little light-up snowmen for our front yard Christmas light show extravaganza (suburbia will do that to a person), when we passed one of those Christmas trees covered with info about little kids that need presents. I decided the light show could wait and picked off one of the cards to take home.

Liam was curious about what I had "swiped" from the store, so I explained that some little kids don't get many presents (skirting the whole "but what about Santa" issue) and, since we could afford to, we would buy some nice toys for another little boy who is also three. Liam thought about this for a moment, then asked, "What is da wittle boy's name?" I told him - it's Andy - and Liam thought for another moment and said hopefully, "Could Andy come over and play wit me tomorrow? Is that a good idea?" That's a great idea, Liam. (Except we aren't allowed to have any contact with Andy, which is sort of a hard concept to explain and somewhat dampens the Christmas cheer. <sigh>)

One Year Ago

My baby is one. Since I didn't do it before, I thought I'd write her birth story, since the day Olivia was born was a perfectly perfect day.

Olivia was born on a Monday, although she was due the previous Wednesday so I was into the fourth trimester and feeling cranky (to say the least). The day after my due date I was scheduled for a non-stress test and I asked, "How long do I have to wait to be induced?" Seeing as Thanksgiving was the following week (and, I assume, the doctors were hoping to avoid coming in), the answer was, "Not long." and I was scheduled for Monday, the 21st of November. That meant I was to call on Sunday night and, if the birthing ward wasn't too busy, Mark and I could head in to the hospital at about ten o'clock and I would get the induction drugs the next morning.

Our friend Jenn was watching Liam for us, so she volunteered to spend the night in our guest room and then take Liam back to her house in the morning (because we all know he wouldn't sleep well anywhere else). Mark's parents were due to arrive sometime on Monday and they'd take Liam from there. So Jenn showed up about nine-ish on Sunday night, after Liam was in bed, so we could leave.

Thinking forward to this point, I had thought I'd be a wreak. After all, I was a total mess when driving in to have Liam. All the way to the hospital my internal dialog went something like this: "I've changed my mind. I don't need a baby. This has all been a big mistake; I just want to go back home and watch tv and go to bed." Of course a few hours later I had Liam, fell in love at first sight, and wanted to cuddle him in my arms forever and ever (which kind of came true; I barely put him down his first six months). So I fully expected to be sobbing my way out the door to have Olivia, along the lines of, "I don't need a baby; I already have a baby. I want to go home!" But that didn't happen (you see, when you think of these things ahead of time, they don't come true); I was perfectly calm and ready and the only tears I shed were when I reminded Jenn that Liam likes lots of cuddles.

In the meantime, I had eaten a huge last meal (as one must when heading in to the hospital, as you never know when you'll be allowed to eat again) of Kraft Dinner (for symmetry's sake). I also started to feel a few pangs of what could have been labor, but, seeing as I'd been thinking I was in labor for weeks, I didn't think much of them. Besides, we were off the hospital anyway.

On the way to the hospital, I decided to time the contractions. Lo and behold, the woman who couldn't get herself into labor with a map was now having contractions five minutes apart. Painful ones. Of the real labory type. Sure enough, when we checked in and I was hooked up to all the machines that annoyed me so much the first time, it was confirmed: I was in labor and drug-free. I couldn't help but be proud; it had always bothered me that I hadn't gone into labor by myself the first time and that, if I had been in the wild, Liam and I would have been goners.

Honestly, at first it wasn't so bad. I was more taken up with my heartburn issues than anything to do with actual labor. I was plagued with heartburn throughout both pregnancies, but it was dramatically more painful with Olivia that I'm frightened to think what a third pregnancy would manage to do to me. As it was, I was lying in the hospital bed while my body apparently digested my esophagus in a most agonizing way. And all my damn Tums, which I hated to love over the previous nine and a quarter months were all sitting at home in the kitchen. I begged Mark to find me a Tums, but, since he is practically minded, he asked the nurse instead. You'd think a hospital, somewhere in its depths, would have one or two Tums that could be slipped to a woman in more pain from heartburn than from labor, but no. It was ultimately easier to get the epidural. After a seemingly endless wait the nurse brought me a huge cup of some of the foulest-tasting liquid on the face of the earth with the expectation that I'd be happy about it. I got it down in two gulps and promptly threw it all back up, all over my own face. Fortunately it wasn't long before the labor pains got worse and I forgot all about the heartburn.

After the heartburn medication incident, the night gets a bit fuzzy. I know I didn't sleep at all, and neither did Mark. I also know that I was progressing nicely throughout the night, which meant I was in a tremendous amount of pain. I remember thinking, "So this is what real labor feels like," but mostly the pain was like a fog that would clear for a few minutes and I'd be aware of things like the nurse stroking my hair, or Mark telling me I was doing great, but then the fog would close in again and I remember nothing.

It did not occur to me to ask for an epidural, even though that was part of my master plan. I probably would have kept drifting in and out of the fog until Olivia arrived except that the idea of the epidural was suggested to me and I took it. Olivia arrived about an hour later and, had I known that, I probably would have gone for the drug-free birth. Oh well.

At the light of day, my doctor came in on his rounds. I was pronounced "almost ready" and he popped out of the room to tell the nurses to get things prepared. Sleepless but wired, and now blissfully pain-free, I did not understand that he meant it was time to push. I think I was still expecting the inducement drugs. But soon he was back, predicting a baby in two pushes. And two pushes later, at 7:27 am, Olivia was born.

Unfortunately, my first thought was a rather shocked, "She doesn't look [exactly] like Liam," as if Mark and I were only capable of producing one combination of genes. My next thought was the bit more conventional: "She's absolutely beautiful." And, with that, I fell in love.

Our first day with Olivia was absolutely magical. Our room was quiet, the lights dim, and we had some family to visit (a novelty for us). Mark's parents arrived in Denver about noon and of course they headed right to the hospital. After they left friends began to arrive, each little group appearing as others were packing to go, as if they had all coordinated their visits. At dinnertime, Hadar and Liza came by with the most fabulous French dip sandwiches and cookies from Udi's. I honestly don't remember a meal that tasted better.

Even without sleep the night before, I was running on adrenaline of the sort that probably enabled my ancestors to keep themselves alive, but that enabled me to wash my face (remember the puke?) and do my makeup. Mark, on the other hand, did not have that evolutionary boost, and was ready for bed by seven. Too bad he still had to pick Liam up from Jenn's and reintroduce Liam to his grandparents (since two-and-a-half-year-old memories are rather short).

So I think of Olivia's birth day as the perfect day. The day our beautiful, sunny, sweet, and cuddly little girl joined our family; the day our family became compete. The day I learned my heart can be in two places at once. The day we met little lady Olivia.

We're Still Here

Remember when I said we were sick? That wasn't sick. Sick was what happened a couple of days later when I was stuck in bed too tired to sit up, read a book, or even watch tv. That's sick. Mark's parents arrived on Friday and, instead of me picking them up from the airport with the kids, they got a hurried Mark who they had to rush back to work and then drive themselves to our house (and do you mind dropping by the pharmacy on the way?) only to find all three of us asleep when they arrived.

 

Also very sad: we had to cancel Olivia's birthday party. I still feel badly about it, especially since it's her first one. At least she doesn't mind. But more on that later.

This weekend, being the first after Thanksgiving, Mark did the obligatory roof-climb for Christmas. He did a great job, even though he baulked at lighting the top peeks. While he was on the roof we discovered that jokes about his life insurance being up to date are funny, but jokes about him becoming a vegetable are not.

Liam helped, mostly by measuring stuff.

Stir Crazy

We're all still sick. I thought Liam was over it, but last night the fever reappeared. In the meantime, Olivia has a higher fever and is cranky and the only up side is that I'm getting lots of cuddles (which have been in short supply since she learned to walk). And Liam and I both have a cough and we wake up each morning with something heavy on our chests. I'm not sure if it is acceptable to show up to preschool with such a cough, but I suspect not. So none of us have been out of the house since Friday and we're all a little stir crazy. In that time I've cleaned out three closets, just to burn a little energy.

Anyway, over the weekend there was an article in the newspaper about a dance and etiquette class that is held each year for kids in 5th and 6th grades. They learn how to do the box step and the cha cha, table manners, and how to make small talk. A boy learns to lend a girl his jacket on a chilly night and a girl to curtsy (which is possibly less useful). The boys wear sport coats and ties, the girls dresses and white gloves. Now, as you can imagine the girls get into this stuff, but apparently the boys do too (especially since, said one boy, the girls wear gloves and therefore he doesn't really have to touch them), and it's probably a confidence booster for an awkward age. So I've kept the article and linked the website and we'll just see what Liam is doing in the fall of 2014 (and Olivia, of course, in 2016).*

*Some of the appeal of this may stem back to Lisa and Dwayne's wedding this summer when Mark and I were seated with an etiquette freak who attended a Boston prep school. She got visibly upset when I licked my fingers in the buffet line (what else could I do when my finger accidentally touched my mashed potatoes? I couldn't very well wipe it on my dress.) and I'm thinking it might serve Liam and Olivia well to understand these ways of the world (as long as they also learn to tell a ale from a lager).

Dragging and Dumpster Diving

We're all sick today. Liam developed a fever on Friday evening and has a sore throat and cough and general crankiness. The rest of us woke up with the same illness today; Olivia has the fever, while Mark and I just feel generally hungover (if only). We're all laying around, being grumpy and staying warm and watching movies on television.

So there's not much to report, except about Olivia's new penchant for digging through the trash.

It started a couple of weeks ago after the kids and I had gone through the Wendy's drive through and brought lunch home. Olivia and Liam split a kid's meal of fries and chicken nuggets (remember when I vowed my kids would never eat fast food?), but they didn't eat the whole thing and one nugget made into the garbage.  I'm hoping it was right on top.

A few minutes later, Liam and I are in the living room when Olivia wanders by happily chomping away on the nugget she dug out of the trash. And you know what? I didn't even take it away from her (the second child gets the shaft).

So now Olivia thinks the trash can is the giver of all great things. On a daily basis she not only rummages through the garbage looking for treasures (until she gets caught, of course), but she also seems to think cool stuff she finds around the house belongs in there. Like the Play Doh in the picture. Liam had the same idea at this age, which is why we own a couple of Fisher Price Little People toys but no actual little people. So we need to nip this new habit in the bud before we loose any more stuff, but I'm not really sure how to do it.

But, come to think of it, is it any wonder that we're all sick?

No Child of Mine

I knew something was amiss the other day when I made chocolate chip cookies. Liam was right in there as usual, dumping the ingredients into the bowl after I measured them out. But, after the chips were in, Liam jumped down off his chair and wandered off. When I asked (through a full mouthful), "Don't you want some cookie dough?" he politely and utterly without interest answered, "No fank you."

Hmmmmm.

If that weren't disturbing enough, on Tuesday night things became more serious. I made Kraft macaroni and cheese for dinner, aka Kraft Dinner or KD for short, with three extra slices of processed cheese, just as my mother used to do for me (because we apparently weren't getting enough fat in our diets). It was the favorite meal of my childhood and the most frequently-eaten meal of my young adulthood. And, when I was nine months pregnant and about to head to the hospital to give birth to Liam, it was the very last meal I ate (nothing else was even considered). And Liam didn't like it. He didn't refuse to eat it; he tried it and did not like it.

I was in such shock, all I said was, with a bit of a whine: "I thought you liked Kraft Dinner." And Liam, sensing my distress, climbed up onto my lap and gently but earnestly said, "Mommy, I thought I didn't."

Colorado Turns Blue

First of all, I realize not everything I say today will make sense; last night Liam and Olivia coordinated their efforts to ensure that my twenty-month run of not sleeping through the night continued.* Who knows why Olivia woke up twice: teething? hungry? just missed me? but Liam is all my fault, since I inexplicably forgot to put him into a diaper and he woke up at midnight in a puddle. I had to change the sheets and everything.

So, when I woke up this morning (at six, with Olivia), I wasn't exactly in a reasonable state of mind. But I did manage to weigh myself, which is somewhat of an obsessive habit, even though I know I'm supposed to be happy with how I feel and not focus on a silly number. But this morning that silly number was three pounds lower than the one on Sunday, so all of a sudden the day became bright and beautiful (and I didn't even know the election results).

Fast forward to getting dressed. In that muddled state of mind I decided today was the day to pull out the skinny jeans, the pre-Liam jeans that have not been out in public since 2002. And lo and behold I could do them up. On top I added a shortish pink sweater that also hails from the never-been-pregnant era, and then I went about getting the kiddos ready to drop Liam at preschool. It wasn't until we were already five minutes late that I caught a reasonable view of myself in the bathroom mirror.

Oh my god can you say muffin top? (And isn't it strange and a bit disturbing that wikipedia has such an entry?) So, with no time to change and even though it was already 65 degrees here at eight thirty in the morning, I had to wear a coat buttoned to the neck while half the other moms showed up in shorts.  Not that shorts were a possibility either, as I haven't shaved my legs since the first snowfall. But at least my shorts fit in the waist.

Another point: any woman over an A cup should never wear light pink crew neck sweaters.

But, what I really want to say is that Colorado is a blue state and I've been doing a happy dance all day. I suppose people are coming to their senses and realizing that extreme right-wing views don't really represent most of us folks. After all, the conservatives in Colorado still showed up in spades to vote down rights for same-sex couples (including the right to manage their partner's health care, which I think goes beyond self-righteousness and enters mean), so it's not like they all got stuck at the end of the voting lines or something. That said, I like to think that a tiny bit of Beauprez's gubernatorial defeat came from his running mate's comments about gay marriage: "Do we allow a man to marry a sheep?"

*That's right; I have not had eight hours of continuous sleep since about one month into my pregnancy with Olivia. At that time I had to pee, you see.

Liam Puts on a Puppet Show

A green frog and a young princess enter from below the "stage." They are bopping up and down; they are walking together.

LIAM: Dere's a pwincess and a fwog and the fwog kisses the pwincess and the pwincess turns into a fwog! And the fwogs kiss togethew.

THE END

This is what Shrek has done to the fairy tale. In Liam's world there are no television commercials, all toothbrushes have power buttons, and princesses turn into frogs.

Books-A-Plenty

Liam brought home one of those Scholastic book club pamphlets a few weeks ago and I went a little nuts. Although I loved getting those when I was at school, I mainly associate with Scholastic a feeling of immense frustration at being forced to choose one or maybe two books each time. So, now that I am the adult, and am able to do things my way (more or less), I went crazy choosing books for Liam.*

What's exciting is that the Scholastic books are really inexpensive and, at less than three bucks each (on average), I was able to get him fifteen books. As I found out when they arrived on Wednesday, they are also, well cheap. Most of them seem to be just a couple of steps up from being run off a color copier at Kinkos. But there are cases where quantity wins over quality and, since we read at least six picture books a day, this is one of them. I fall asleep often enough while putting Liam to bed (just to have him wake me up each time by patting my cheeks and saying sternly, "Mommy! Mommy! Read dee story!") without the mind-numbingness of reading the same book for the twentieth time in so many days.

And Scholastic, once you weed through the Dora- and Disney-themed crap, has some really good books. Liam got some classics, like The Little House, Madeline, and Blueberries for Sal, and some excellent newer books, like Alphabet Adventure and Llama Llama Red Pajama. But it was a bit strange to pick up Liam's sizable pile of books at school only to discover that only one other kid in his class had ordered a book. And by that I mean a book. At least our bed time is exciting again.

*Although Liam really does enjoy reading time, I admit there is a bit of the stage-mom/football-dad syndrome coming out here. I tried to get Liam to pick out books with me, but he was more interested in kazooing loudly in my face at the time.