beanski

the eerie butterfly

Renee had a blast dressing up and going trick-o-treating. I can't even BELIEVE I just typed that but it is true. She thought the whole show was hilarious. The kids, the candy, the costumes, all of it. I tried to get her to say BOO! all day. She said BEEE! like yeah mom, see, I can totally say that! BEEE!!! We're apparently going to have to change her favorite game to PEEK-A-BEE.

The butterfly preparing for take-off. I have better pictures that don't have a huge ladder in the background but this one made me laugh out loud so I'm going with it.

I know my little butterfly isn't eerie but you know what is?
...Renee was born at 36w2d. I am currently 36w2d pregnant...
...Renee was born on a Saturday morning at 2AM after my water broke at midnight on a Friday night. It is 8:48PM on a Friday night...
...Renee was born on the last day of the month of June. Today is the last day of the month of October...

No, I don't really think I'm going into labor tonight because I didn't have someone pushing hard on my belly this morning and I have been getting shot up with progesterone every 15 seconds for the last four months to stop such things. But you have to admit, if the deja vu gods are reading this blog, I might be screwed.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

sixteen months

21lbs 3oz of a perfect balance of pure comedic relief and sheer torture. I honestly think she can sense the change that is so rapidly approaching and she's testing her limits in a big way. She has lost interest interest in every single one of her toys and prefers to spend her time climbing all over the furniture. She's standing on end tables when we aren't looking and laughing hysterically when we tell her to get down.

When I take her outside, she runs STRAIGHT for the street. I think she thinks my current version of running is sort of hilarious and I'm sure the neighbors probably agree. She screeches with frustration if you try to stand next to her to make sure she doesn't fall. Then she glares at you like it's all your fault when she does indeed fall. The girl is spiritied, I'll give her that. 
 

She's OBSESSED with her baby and I'm beginning to wonder if we've talked TOO much about the baby in attempt to prepare her for what is about to happen. When she's drifting off to sleep she starts with Mama, then Dada, then Baby and she repeats this cycle until infinity or until sleep overcomes her stubborness. She drags that baby around all day long, ripping it's hat off and slapping it on the forehead ('be GENTLE Renee,' for the 912th time today), shoving it's bottle in it's face (yes, it is still an IT which is probably confusing in and of itself for her but really, what am I supposed to do?), moving it from the Pack N Play to the swing and back again. She's interested alright, probably TOO interested. I can hardly wait to see the look on her face when she sees the real baby, I think she's going to think we MUST be joking because the baby, her baby, is already at home tucked nicely into it's crib. It sleeps and she can throw it around and do what she wants with it.

The kid slept through the night every night with very few exceptions from 12 weeks old until the day we got her flu and chicken pox shots at fifteen months. Then she got an infection in her leg. Then she had the flu. Then a cough and now a cold and she wakes up at 2AM like clockwork. And she doesn't really want anything other than for one or both of us to hold her. She will go back to sleep if we bring her to bed with us but honestly I didn't spend the last year and a half fighting that to give in now. So I do the only thing that works for me in this enormously pregnant state. I make Ski get up with her. HAHAHAHAHA. Paybacks are a bitch, huh?

Her speech has taken off this month and the list I have of words she can say is in the 20s or 30s. Yesterday she said breakfast (which was more like Bac-FA) and waffle (like WaFa). She says Mommy and Mama and Mom and Daddy and Dada and Dad depending on what sort of mood she's in or what she's trying to manipulative out of us. Her favorite word this month is hot and she whispers it in this devilish little voice at EVERYTHING. Even the cool mist humidifier is HOT. She hears the toaster pop up or the oven beep and says HOT. The bath is HOT. HOT, HOT, HOT. She can say Wama and Pop Pop and will run to find the phone if I mention either of them or if the phone rings (in her mind they are only people I EVER talk to...which come to think of it is not that far off). She screeches until you give her the phone, says hi and promptly hangs up on them. Every. single. time.

She desparately needs to have her bangs cut and I just can't bring myself to do it. My wish appears to have come true, she inherited her daddy's curls. The mullet of curls in the back just about kills me and I am not sure if I will ever be capable of cutting one of them off. Her eyes that used to be blue are sort of gray, looking blue in some lights, brown in some and green in some. I am not sure they have settled yet.
 

She absolutely loves to throw and catch balls of any type and giggles if you even say the word ball.
 

She prefers daddy for chasing and tickling.
 

But loves mommy for snuggling and reading stories. And when mommy can find a little spare energy? Some rough-housing too.
 

She's a happy little girl and we're so lucky she's ours.
  
  
Sorry about the picture overload. I have this irrational fear that I'll never have time to obsess about her sweetness or take pictures of her as our one and only ever again. I know this is not the end but for some reason it sort of feels like it. I have loved every single minute of the last sixteen months and I'm sort of sad to have things change. Sort of sad but in a happy way...because I'm thinking that I'm about to double the cuteness factor.

my two babies

She has her head plastered against my shoulder as we rock back and forth in the glider that we spent much of our first year together in. The glider that we spent so many hours nursing and snuggling and sleeping and crying together. The glider that now sits in her sister or brother's room, empty and waiting, the space from her room having been replaced by bookshelves and two big floor pillows equipped with just enough snuggle room for her dad and I to read books to her before bed.

Us both reeking of vomit from the flu bug that grabbed a hold of her tiny little body, she struggles to find a comfortable spot on my lap where the baby growing in my belly isn't in her way. I sing her two favorite lullabies, hushing her, promising her that everything is going to be alright. I, without thinking, whisper "I love you, baby" as she settles in and sighs, finally calming.

Her head jerks up, her gaze meeting my eyes.

She looks down, points at my belly and weakly whispers "Baby."

A tear streams down my face and plops onto her feverish little head as I pull her body close again and say, "I have two babies now, honey. And I love you both. You'll always be my baby too."

And the guilt that I have tried so hard to keep at bay since the instant that I found out I was pregnant came rushing back. She's too little to be a big sister. She's just a BABY.

i needed the smile

My sister Annie sent me this picture from last weekend when the whole crew was together without us because well, I'm the size of a semi truck and not allowed to leave the zip code. It is so much fun to watch the relationship between these two grow, sometimes fighting, sometimes competing, this time being good buddies. I needed to smile and this did it. I love those boys.

these kids are going to be the death of me

If you're looking for some sunshiny, optimistic, I'm-so-grateful-to-be-pregnant-and-a-mom talk here, I'm warning you now, go somewhere else. We are fresh out.

Regarding Child #1 whom I shall now refer to as The Barfer:
The cell phone rang yesterday and it was the dreaded daycare call saying "Renee threw up." When I got there to pick her up there was puke all over my poor daycare provider, all over her floor, all over my kid and The Barfer was as PALE AS A GHOST. I took her home and we took a nap together which the bad mom in me has to admit I sort of enjoyed...well, other than the whole smelling barf thing, I enjoyed snuggling with my girl one last time before she isn't my one and only anymore. She's not a snuggler and WILL NOT lay down in our bed EVER so this was sort of a treat. The Barfer woke up, had a decent appetite for lunch and then promptly blew chunks all over my bedroom and the bathroom. We both had barf in our hair and all over our clothes and she was too hysterical for me to clean it up. I stripped us both down and we sat virtually naked in the rocking chair and rocked and rocked and rocked while she moaned and whined and said MAMA over and over again. When things started coming out the other end I was sort of relieved because after last week's antibiotic debacle? Me and the runs are like THIS. She went to bed on-time and stayed there until about 10:30 at which point she woke up again moaning MAMA and then DADA and then whoever wasn't sitting right there next to her was summoned. This went on until FOUR O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING at which point The Barfer properly soiled her pants, demanded they be changed and then went to bed. I'm walking around in a fog, tired and hungry and trying to make up hours at work because I need all of the paid time off I can get wishing for someone to shoot me now. And then I realized that this fog? It may as well be permanent because as soon as Child #2 decides to make his/her appearance the fog will just get foggier. And then I cried. And I wondered WHY IN THE HELL AM I DOING THIS?

Regarding Child #2 or S/he Who Likes to Make Life Interesting:
I am 35 weeks pregnant. My feet, fingers, back, crotch, calves, heels, you-fricking-name-it, IT HURTS. I am sleep-deprived because of The Barfer and because my hips can only handle lying on one side for about seven seconds before I need to roll back over, not to mention the intense bladder pressure forcing me to go to the bathroom every 15 minutes. WHINE, WHINE, WHINE, I know shut up with the whining already, huh? I'm almost annoying myself. I am making up excuses so that I don't have to leave the house because honestly, the next person that tells me that I have a big belly or that I'm huge might just have to die. And then my kids will be left with no mother at all. This tired, crabby, FAT AS HELL shell of my former self has to be better than no mom at all, RIGHT?

I saw my OB yesterday and found out that S/he Who Likes to Make Life Interesting has better maneuvering skills than his/her big sister and has managed to get itself head down. This is good except for the fact that I am the most indecisive person on the planet and now I really will have to make the VBAC vs. Scheduled c-section call. And even though this might just annoy all of you who have had the perfect vaginal birth, I was sort of hoping it would just stay breech so that I could say "I didn't have a choice" and schedule the damn operation. Then wipe my hands clean of any guilt. Now instead, I'll get to wonder if I made the right choice either way. And I could have another month to think about it or it could happen tomorrow. The Barfer was born at 36 weeks so tomorrow is a real possibility. On one hand this is totally welcomed and on one hand COMPLETELY TERRIFYING. I had my second-to-the-last shot of progesterone today and even though 99% of the assholes on this planet are part of the "She's ENORMOUS" camp, my doctor made my day by saying "I didn't know where tiny little you puts all of that baby." I almost kissed her on the mouth. And then I floated back to work telling myself that the doctor that sees millions of pregnant women every day thinks I'm doing a great job and that I'm not abnormally large.

And then daycare called about The Barfer and my pissy mood came rushing right back. Something tells me it will be sticking around for a while...

i guess this is better now than in a month

But it still royally sucks.

I noticed it while she was getting in to her bath last Thursday night. Two little harmless red bumps that looked a lot like mosquito bites. No big. Bath time, wrestle into pajamas, brush teeth and hair and read Time for Bed, tuck her in. Then, literally run downstairs to score myself some Halloween candy (this is NOT a good time of year for me to be this pregnant) and finally to claim my favorite spot on the couch.

The next morning the leg looks swollen. And red. I touch it and it is hard and hot. I call the pediatrician. They tell me no big deal unless it gets bigger or she starts running a fever. Ski calls his nurse mother and she says the same thing. We both freak out about it all day anyways. Sunday it is about the same but she's in a good mood and really, who wants to go sit at Urgent Care when she seems fine? Other than the swollen leg with hard, red bump the size of my fist, she's fine.

On Monday it looked the same so I called and told the pediatrician I wanted someone to look at it. Then I spent the three hours leading up to the appointment trying to convince myself that she was fine and that I was overeating. In the end, my worry won. I sat in the waiting room at the clinic pumping myself up to give her doctor the "Feel free to tell me it's fine and that I'm psychotic and that I'm freaking out for nothing because the $20 copay and your scrutiny is worth my peace of mind" speech.

She took one look at it and got a look of concern on her face. Then she launched in to how it is infected and that we needed to get antibiotics to it fast or it would start walling itself off and the only way to fix it would be to cut it out. Then she measured the mass, wrote some prescriptions and told me that I couldn't send her to daycare until it started getting better and that she needed to see it in again 24 hours. She casually mentioned that the antibiotic didn't taste very good and to get creative about getting it to her and that we should also give her some Culturelle to stop diarrhea, diaper rash and yeast infections.

Then I felt guilty for not taking her in sooner. Then I sent Ski to the pharmacy where he paid ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY DOLLARS for drugs (go ahead and tell me there isn't something wrong with the health care system in this country...I DARE you). Then I tried to con her into taking three syringes full of this repulsive liquid that may as well be solid gold for what it costs and you know what the little monster did? She spit it back out at me. Over and over again.

I thought I had won eventually by giving her ice cream for breakfast, lunch and dinner mixed with drugs. That worked for about two doses. Now she purses her little lips and scowls at me. Like, "Seriously Lady, I'm ON TO YOU." I've tried giving it to her in juice because the kid just about loses her shit when you even say the word juice and she still didn't go for it. I asked her nicely. I've begged her. At this point, if we get about 1/3 of the EIGHTEEN MILLIGRAMS PER DAY that they prescribed, I'm considering it a victory.

Oh and that diaper rash they talked about? IT SUCKS WORSE THAN THE LEG INFECTION. At least when it was just the leg infection she wasn't crabby and irritable. But now her butt hurts too. Anyone have any good ideas for fixing diaper rash fast? I let her pee all over my house last night, have given her numerous baths, tried various cremes and nothing is working.

I guess at least it's happening now and not when I'm trying to take care of her AND a newborn. Look at me, all optimistic and shit.

every pregnant mother's blog needs a post about gender

It seems that every mother has had thoughts about boys and girls and their roles in society and which they would prefer to raise. That every mother secretly either has visions of that little girl to dress up like a princess or that little boy to play in the mud with. Or maybe they can’t imagine not having at least one of each. My husband repeats his 'happy either way' mantra like a broken record every time I so much as raise the question about whether he thinks the baby that is currently monopolizing every spare inch of internal room I have is a girl or a boy so I'm not entirely sure if he has preferences or not. I do know that his friend Bog often leaves messages on our answering machine about how he 'only produces boys' so I know how Bog feels about gender. If it isn't a boy, it doesn't count, right? Some women want girls, some want boys, some are quick to mention when they first meet my completely feminine, totally girly from the shape of her hands to her whiney little voice baby girl, that girls are 'harder than boys.' And whinier. And insert-gender-stereotype-of-your-choice here.

And I often wonder: Do they really think that I would trade her for a boy? Are they saying these things because they don't have a girl and they want to tell themselves that they never want one just in case they never get one? Do I do the same thing about their boys?

They are clearly IMPLYING that I somehow would love a son more than my daughter and that just isn't the case. I've heard every argument from the relationship between mothers and sons being stronger than that of mothers and daughters and all about how when you have a son you only have to worry about one penis instead of thousands. To which I often respond: 'Don't you have thousands of vaginas to worry about? Your son knocks up a girl and you sort of have the same problem as I do if my daughter gets pregnant. Or are you implying that you would encourage him to abandon the girl and his baby?' I've heard about how hard teenage girls are. I've heard it all. The arguments are weak at best.

My favorite color is blue, who is to say that she’ll love nothing but pink?

My favorite hobbies involve getting dirty outside but she is a little girl so she’s only allowed to like playing dress-up and is doomed to be a homemaker? (Another rant for another day: Is being a homemaker automatically bad/good, depending on whose shoes you're in?)

I am educated and successful and independent and perfectly capable of taking care of myself working in a field dominated almost exclusively by men. I was able to find a job where they are supportive of me having children, allow me to take time off to be with them and still appreciate the work I do every day. How is it assumed that she won’t be capable of the same?

On the flip side, it is perfectly reasonable to assume that if the baby is a boy, he’ll be quiet and patient and introspective rather than loud and abrasive and manly. My husband isn’t a tough, man-of-the-house frat boy and I have no disillusions that his son would be either. Maybe he’ll like sports and catching frogs and playing in the dirt like I did as a kid or maybe he’ll be like his dad who likes to play guitar and would rather be inside reading a good book than on a football field slapping other men’s asses.

This woman desperately wanted a little girl all during my first pregnancy. I think it was because I had all nephews and I wanted to be the first at SOMETHING. Being the baby of a family of three leaves your accomplishments, your wedding, your babies, a bit of an afterthought. Your parents make up for it with different acts of spoiling growing up and as I've aged, I think each position in the family tree has its benefits so I'm not being all POOR ME on you or anything. I'm just saying, my wedding could have never been as exciting as my sisters' because we had all been through it twice since. My baby's first steps weren't as exciting as my oldest nephew's. Why? Because when he did it, it had been years since we had seen it up close. When she did, we had just seen it last week. It’s not that anyone loves me or my daughter any less or that we are being cheated in some fashion, it is just a fact of life.

It is the same rationale that makes it so that Renee will always be my first-born. I cried harder when I dropped her off at daycare for the first time than I expect to with my second and not because I love the baby any less than I love her. I know deep down my heart will double in size when this baby is born and while it is virtually impossible to imagine loving someone as much as I love her, I have confidence it will happen.

Somehow and regardless of if it is a baby boy or a baby girl, I know it will happen.

I don’t care if this baby is a girl or a boy because I don’t honestly think gender matters. It might matter when they are two and the choices of clothing and toys are so strongly biased towards pink frilly girls or baseball throwing boys but once they reach an age where they are capable of choosing for themselves, does it really matter? If s/he is going to want to play hockey or join the Math Club, it doesn’t matter if s/he is male or female.

They are who they are. You get what you get.

I plan on doing everything in my power to smash the stereotypes that society feels the need to saddle them with.

If he wants to go to tap dancing class? I plan on taking him.

And if she wants to join a boy’s softball club, I’ll stand on the sidelines and cheer her on.

A mother is allowed to wish this for her children, right?

82.5% is dangerously close to 100

I conned Tara in to taking some fat girl pictures of me on Sunday because I have one set of belly pictures from this round and it was from 22 weeks. It is virtually impossible to get the images you want using a tripod and remote control with a toddler trying to tip it over. I called in the reinforcements. She did a great job, huh? These were taken at 32.5 weeks. Here is me at 31 weeks and 34 weeks with Renee. This time? BIGGER.
 
  
 

Well, except for this FREAKY one that you can't really blame on Tara because my belly? It's not all that natural and cute. You see that gigantic head poking out of the top side of my belly? Yeah well, my children only like to live in there butt-down. And don't try to get them to flip because they are she is temperamental and will come out four weeks early just to spite you. Heart rate is holding steady at 150.

I have good days and bad days. Days when I feel motivated enough to cover cardboard boxes in cute fabric for Renee's room or to cook enough lasagna to feed a small army and days when I hit the couch 10 seconds after the little monster goes to sleep and promptly start sobbing. These last three months of pregnancy aren't for the weak at heart.

On the days that I feel good, I'm optimistic and happy. Grateful to be going through pregnancy again, grateful for how strong and big the baby is getting, grateful that all of us are healthy and happy. I'm looking forward to becoming a family of four and I am just dying to see if this baby is anything like its big sister. I'm dying to know finally, once and for all, if she has a sister or a brother. I'm excited to go through all of it again, this time with a [hopefully] more down-to-earth perspective.

The irrefutable force that caused me to gain large amounts weight in the first two trimesters finally tapered off and I really haven’t gained much weight in the last month. I’m up just under 30 pounds, which seems respectable. Although I am getting dangerously close to weighing as much as my husband and let’s just say I’m going to try to avoid that if at all possible. Or he’s going to have to start eating more Milky Ways. IT’S ONLY FAIR.

The one pregnancy torture I didn’t have with Renee but has plaguing me this time is my feet swelling up after a day of work. The weekends are fine but man, I get home from work and I can hardly bend my toes. My doctor told me to try out compression stockings and by some act of God, my insurance actually covered the NINETY-FIVE DOLLAR expenditure. I have confidence that they might help, IF ONLY I COULD BEND OVER FAR ENOUGH TO GET THEM ON MY FEET.

I also invested in a maternity belt and could punch myself in my own face for not buying one sooner. It has made me feel slightly human again. If you are pregnant and have back pain, GO BUY A MATERNITY BELT. Right now. Don't even ask how much it costs, just BUT IT.

Nesting is in full force. I just have two pillow covers, two blankets and some curtains to pin and sew and baby clothes to wash and fold and organize and a couple of things to get for the walls. I need to get the oil changed in the cars and pack my hospital bag. I REALLY NEED TO PACK HOSPITAL BAG. CAN NOT SLEEP UNTIL HOSPITAL BAG IS PACKED. Ski is doing his own version of nesting which basically involves FREAKING OUT about money.

I've had some revelations in the last month that I have been waiting for and was concerned would never come. I woke up one day and decided that I don't care how or when this baby gets here as long and s/he gets here and is safe and healthy.

If I have to toss and turn and sit on the side of the bed trying to wake up my tingling hands for forty-nine more consecutive nights, I'll try to do it without complaining. Too much.

If I never know what it feels like to kiss the hands and forehead and feet of a baby still damp from amniotic fluid, I'll accept my body and thank it for managing to give me two healthy children.

If I never get to watch one of my children get their first bath or cry their first cries, I will remember that missing those things is so very insignificant compared with missing out on ever becoming a mother.

If I have to send Renee to daycare for an extra day or two because I can't physically lift her out of her crib, I'm going to tell myself that she is having fun with her friends and I'll figure out a way to make her feel extra special and loved on those days when she gets home.

If this baby shows up early and can't figure out how to breastfeed and it seems like a better idea for me to quit than to freak out about it, I'll remind myself that it was hard at first with Renee too and I can't even fathom the possibility now of never having that nursing time with her. And if that doesn't work, I'll tell my perfectionist tendencies to SHUT THE HELL UP and I'll quit. And I'll try to keep the guilt to a minimum.

If I end up with another bout of Post Partum Depression or the Baby Blues or whatever hormonal force that was that had me crying for months on end, I will look into the eyes of my children, tell them that I love them with every fiber of my being and I will remind myself that the sun will shine again. If it doesn't shine, I'll ask for help. And I won't be ashamed for not being stronger.

I accept that I have very little control over the situation.

The only thing that I can [try to] control is my perspective and I AM GOING TO enjoy the birth of this baby by whichever means it comes and I AM GOING TO enjoy the three months I get at home afterwards spending time with my children. I AM GOING TO enjoy the hospital rest and the crappy food and the sleepless nights and the raging hormones as much as is humanly possible and I AM GOING TO remind myself at every turn that someday, many years from now, I will look back on these days as the best days of my life.

I feel content and confident and sure of myself for the first time in eons and quite possibly for the first time ever. It feels good.

I think this all means that I'm ready for the baby to be born where I can be thrown for a loop by everything I didn't see coming and spend the next six months in a sleep-deprived, stressed out, tears-streaming-down-face stupor. And you know what I have to say to that? BRING IT.

the whole idea of cousins is finally getting fun

Ski's sister Jill and her family headed north for a visit this weekend. Renee and Elliott chased each other around the house and squealed. And I sat on the couch thinking THERE IS HOPE THAT SOMEDAY THEY REALLY WILL ENTERTAIN EACHOTHER AND I CAN SIT ON THE COUCH AND EAT COOKIES. AMEN. Elliott kept referring to Renee as the 'big baby' because 'she walks now.' Lucy continued on with her sweetest-baby-on-the-planet role and I spent the weekend wishing my kid was still crawling so that I could get ONE picture of her where she isn't racing. Or so that I could sit down for 15 seconds. 

I took a TON of pictures, some of which I am hanging on to for Christmas purposes. Here is a peak though. Such sweetness.  

How cute is Lucy's hat? Renee will have one if it is the last thing I do. Also, can you believe her eyes? DEAR LORD.

Do you think my kid would sit down and get her picture taken with her cousins? NOT A FAT CHANCE IN HELL. At least her cousins listen.
  

This is what we get. Ski chases her and catches her. She giggles with delight and takes off again. Ski chases her again. Repeat cycle until infinity or until your head falls off, which ever comes first. My bet is on your head.