I've always said I'm never going to be able to have a last child. Just when the baby starts doing something that outgrows baby-ness, I start yearning. My husband really hopes I will 'out grow' this yearning. But I haven't yet.
Last night, I laid in my bed with Adrienne. After a hellacious and exhausting day, she was just a little angel lying there. We spent about twenty quality minutes together. We prayed the Hail Mary and Our Father, we held hands, clapped our hands together, talked and laughed and made cute jokes. All the while, as she was completely unaware, I adored her, reveled in her innocent beauty, and allowed tears to silently travel from my eyes down to the pillow. That's a mom thing, I guess. Looking at a child with such overwhelming affection and abounding love that it makes you cry. I think I also was crying because she is growing up so fast.
I can see Julian growing. Moreso now that I am home. He wakes up in the morning, bigger, more like a little boy and less like a baby boy. This saddens me terribly as I love babies so much. Julian is such a little doll face. I woke up this morning and Julian said, "Mommy, Iwanshum oatmeal." You wanshum what?! You didn't say oatmeal. Yes, he said oatmeal. If you have read the eatmeal post, you understand how heartbreaking it was for me to hear him say oatmeal. Oh, you're growing up. I'm still clinging to him calling it his 'big girl bed.'
Isabelle fell asleep on my chest tonight. We were watching Dancing with the Stars. This doesn't happen - the falling asleep on my chest thing. Not at all at her age, 6 months. Izzy was in bed at about 8p and just screaming. Poor kid (oh no, there she goes again as I type this), she's teething. I could actually feel her first tooth coming through on the bottom tonight. So, we've had a few rough nights. She was just fussy and wanted to be held. I was holding her on my lap, she kinked her head up at me with drowsy eyes and a half smile. She said 'I love you' with that look. I stroked her hair and kissed her. She had fallen asleep. I held her with me for a little while and just loved the moment. Loved the fleeting moment. Tried to burn the moment into my memory to take out again when she's 12 and I want to kick her out of the house for being so sassy.
Growing up. When I see that Adrienne has changed in the smallest of ways on any given day, I'll tell her, "Stop growing up!" to which she always replies, "I'm trying to!" Keep trying, baby, I want to freeze time.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
I'd rather poke a needle in my eye.
As I was sitting in the patient room with my three crying children, in a moment of desperation and temporary (up for debate) insanity, I thought to myself, "In this very moment, If I had a choice, I would prefer to poke a needle into my eyeball than to be right here, right now." Now, if someone handed me a needle, I may have chickened out. But if they handed me a needle in exchange for my children, owey kazowey baby, that thing was going in!
I think I made the first mistake. I showed up to the doctor's office at 11:55. Julian's right foot had been bothering him so badly, so I thought we better get it checked out. I showed up to the pretentious, I think I'm better than you, you look like a slob and your kids are annoying, why don't you know basic protocol you're a grown woman, type of receptionist. What the hell ever happened to people being helpful in life? Whatever, another post altogether. Anyway, I inquired about a few things I should already know about clinic time, if my insurance would cover this visit, etc. Turns out, clinic opens at 1:00. Mind you 11:55, three kids. Ms. Sassypants said I needed to call the number on the back of my insurance card and ask if the doctor is in the network.
Here I am, one hour till clinic. I take the kids to the waiting room with the standard broken ass abacus kind of thing that no one really likes, and sat down. I had three pb & js in the bag, which Adrienne, Julian and I scarfed down in seconds. The kids sat and ate pretzels while I called the insurance Member Service. Okay, Dr. Makestoomuch is part of this plan, whatever. He's covered, we're covered, I don't know I should kill me for it. (That day I would have let you.)
Okay, here we are, one hour to go. Kids are now fed, but starting to get tired.
Just imagine the 5 worst scenarios that could have possibly happened at the doctor's office in the waiting room with a 3 1/2 year old, 2 year old, and 6 month old....did you imagine them? Okay, those 5 things happened and then a whole bunch of other crazy, awful, embarrassing shit.
At 1:00, we went to a room to give someone information, then to another waiting room, then to patient's room for more waiting, then nurse, then more waiting, then doctor. During the more waiting part is where I had the needle fantasy, by the way. When the doctor arrived, who was the nicest of all the people I had met, I thought, "If this person tells me to just keep an eye on it and he's going to be fine, he's getting a needle in his ass. Hard." As he walks in, I'm holding Julian and Isabelle in my arms. Adrienne is lying on the floor with her blankey and I am near tears. "Looks like you got your hands full, mom," Dr. Imsofunny says to me. Good thing he was nice. And helpful.
So, he looks at Julian's red, puffy, bruised, sore little foot. He pushes on it in a few places and gets some pretty good reactions from the little guy. We get x-rays, stickers, and it's a fractured bone. Okay, now, all good moms shield your eyes and plug your ears. I was SO HAPPY to hear that my son had fractured a bone in his foot! I mean, after two hours of hell on Earth, at least there was something to show for it!
Julian got a soft cast wrap and some more stickers and we were outta there! 2:09. 11:55-2:09. NEVER AGAIN! I know I left out all of the juicy specifics and fun laugh out loud stories about children behaving badly. I think we are all better people because of it.
Home. Naps. Beer. I'm feeling a little bit better...
I think I made the first mistake. I showed up to the doctor's office at 11:55. Julian's right foot had been bothering him so badly, so I thought we better get it checked out. I showed up to the pretentious, I think I'm better than you, you look like a slob and your kids are annoying, why don't you know basic protocol you're a grown woman, type of receptionist. What the hell ever happened to people being helpful in life? Whatever, another post altogether. Anyway, I inquired about a few things I should already know about clinic time, if my insurance would cover this visit, etc. Turns out, clinic opens at 1:00. Mind you 11:55, three kids. Ms. Sassypants said I needed to call the number on the back of my insurance card and ask if the doctor is in the network.
Here I am, one hour till clinic. I take the kids to the waiting room with the standard broken ass abacus kind of thing that no one really likes, and sat down. I had three pb & js in the bag, which Adrienne, Julian and I scarfed down in seconds. The kids sat and ate pretzels while I called the insurance Member Service. Okay, Dr. Makestoomuch is part of this plan, whatever. He's covered, we're covered, I don't know I should kill me for it. (That day I would have let you.)
Okay, here we are, one hour to go. Kids are now fed, but starting to get tired.
Just imagine the 5 worst scenarios that could have possibly happened at the doctor's office in the waiting room with a 3 1/2 year old, 2 year old, and 6 month old....did you imagine them? Okay, those 5 things happened and then a whole bunch of other crazy, awful, embarrassing shit.
At 1:00, we went to a room to give someone information, then to another waiting room, then to patient's room for more waiting, then nurse, then more waiting, then doctor. During the more waiting part is where I had the needle fantasy, by the way. When the doctor arrived, who was the nicest of all the people I had met, I thought, "If this person tells me to just keep an eye on it and he's going to be fine, he's getting a needle in his ass. Hard." As he walks in, I'm holding Julian and Isabelle in my arms. Adrienne is lying on the floor with her blankey and I am near tears. "Looks like you got your hands full, mom," Dr. Imsofunny says to me. Good thing he was nice. And helpful.
So, he looks at Julian's red, puffy, bruised, sore little foot. He pushes on it in a few places and gets some pretty good reactions from the little guy. We get x-rays, stickers, and it's a fractured bone. Okay, now, all good moms shield your eyes and plug your ears. I was SO HAPPY to hear that my son had fractured a bone in his foot! I mean, after two hours of hell on Earth, at least there was something to show for it!
Julian got a soft cast wrap and some more stickers and we were outta there! 2:09. 11:55-2:09. NEVER AGAIN! I know I left out all of the juicy specifics and fun laugh out loud stories about children behaving badly. I think we are all better people because of it.
Home. Naps. Beer. I'm feeling a little bit better...
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
It's all in a day, Part 1
I wake up to a number of different things on any given day. Sometimes it's my husband wanting to know where the clean socks are. Sometimes it's my son creeping out of his newly acquired "big girl bed" (don't ask). Sometimes it's my baby daughter fussing around in her crib because she's peed through her onesie and sleeper. Sometimes it's my eldest child, age 3 for the record, who crawls up to my bed and purrs. It's usually somewhere between 6:00 - 6:30 when someone chooses, or is awarded the position of ringleader for that day.
Breakfast. 22 month old Julian always wants oatmeal, which he affectionately calls it either o-mote, or eatmeal. I think he graduated from o-mote to eatmeal, actually. So, he's getting there. Julian gets his eatmeal. Adrienne gets her chocolate cereal (Cocoa Pebbles) with milk in it, she requests. Then, as she is eating her chocolate cereal, she asks, "Is this breakfast or dinner?" She asks this because she knows that after dinner, if you eat well, you get dessert. Of course you would eat well, Adri, it's chocolate for breakfast. No chance at dessert after this meal, sweetie. And as for baby Izzy, well, she gets her bottle.
Julian screams at the top of his lungs and Adrienne cries because it hurts her ears. I say, "IGNORE" to Adrienne, and Julian screams louder. They sit together at the table and throw Fruit Loops at each other (Julian gets Fruit Loops while his eatmeal is cooling.) By the end of breakfast, the kitchen floor is littered with smashed Fruit Loops, lumps of eatmeal and drippy sippys. Julian has red burns on his chin from the eatmeal, Adrienne has chocolate milk down the front of her shirt, and Izzy has puked on herself, or me. So we change. We all change.
Somewhere in there, I try to get my coffee. And when I do, and feel sick and jittery because I haven't eaten, I throw two frozen waffles in the toaster. And it's 7:30 a.m.
Breakfast. 22 month old Julian always wants oatmeal, which he affectionately calls it either o-mote, or eatmeal. I think he graduated from o-mote to eatmeal, actually. So, he's getting there. Julian gets his eatmeal. Adrienne gets her chocolate cereal (Cocoa Pebbles) with milk in it, she requests. Then, as she is eating her chocolate cereal, she asks, "Is this breakfast or dinner?" She asks this because she knows that after dinner, if you eat well, you get dessert. Of course you would eat well, Adri, it's chocolate for breakfast. No chance at dessert after this meal, sweetie. And as for baby Izzy, well, she gets her bottle.
Julian screams at the top of his lungs and Adrienne cries because it hurts her ears. I say, "IGNORE" to Adrienne, and Julian screams louder. They sit together at the table and throw Fruit Loops at each other (Julian gets Fruit Loops while his eatmeal is cooling.) By the end of breakfast, the kitchen floor is littered with smashed Fruit Loops, lumps of eatmeal and drippy sippys. Julian has red burns on his chin from the eatmeal, Adrienne has chocolate milk down the front of her shirt, and Izzy has puked on herself, or me. So we change. We all change.
Somewhere in there, I try to get my coffee. And when I do, and feel sick and jittery because I haven't eaten, I throw two frozen waffles in the toaster. And it's 7:30 a.m.
It's all in a day, Part 2
So, it's 7:30 a.m. and we all need to change. Give that a good 30 minutes. Adrienne wants to dress herself, of course. Now if anyone is reading this, if anyone is out there, and you have, have had, or know someone who has a three year old girl, getting dressed is a fiasco! If I know we won't be leaving the house for over two hours, go for it girl. Find every pink, floofy, fluffy, skirt, flowery, necklace, pink thing you can find and put it on. And your Hello Kitty socks. They are sitting at the foot of my bed with blackened bottoms and sandy innards. Gotta have those.
Julian, a little less maintenance. Shirt from drawer, over head, arms through. Pants on.
Izzy is like a revolving door when it comes to clothes. Clean on, dirty off, clean on, dirty off, dirty on when I get too tired.
As for me, I throw on the one pair of jeans that somewhat fit and hope they don't have visible puke or jelly on them and whatever shirt is in view in my room. On the bed, floor, closet, doesn't matter. Seeing a burnt toast, mom's last kind of theme festering? Me too.
Okay, we're dressed. For the first time, at least.
Julian, a little less maintenance. Shirt from drawer, over head, arms through. Pants on.
Izzy is like a revolving door when it comes to clothes. Clean on, dirty off, clean on, dirty off, dirty on when I get too tired.
As for me, I throw on the one pair of jeans that somewhat fit and hope they don't have visible puke or jelly on them and whatever shirt is in view in my room. On the bed, floor, closet, doesn't matter. Seeing a burnt toast, mom's last kind of theme festering? Me too.
Okay, we're dressed. For the first time, at least.
Monday, September 29, 2008
George Jetson meets Wilma Flinstone.
What an embarrassment I must be to my husband. From a technology standpoint, he's George Jetson, I'm Wilma Flinstone. Let me explain.
BJ has been savvy since I've known him. But as technology advances, get this, so does he! My husband is the guy sitting in the coffee shop with a laptop (oh my gosh, I don't think they are even called laptops anymore!) in front of him, who appears to be talking to himself, but after taking a closer look, he has some kind of communication device in his ear and other various multifunctional devices in front of him at the table. He's always connected, always working, always online. Email, gps, calendar, all a click away, or a touch away on his Iphone. The guy was working at a company with 'blog' in the name before I even knew what a blog was.
As for me, I'm very 'old school'. Age 28, college graduate, former high school teacher for five years; one might think I would have some blogging experience, or at least knowledge. Oh, who am I fooling, it's not just blogging that I'm a little slow with. You could pretty much categorize it as technology altogether. If this doesn't give you enough insight, let me also express that as recently as last year I was teaching 'photojournalism' with 35mm manual cameras, black and white film and a darkroom. No, that's not a joke.
My level of technological understanding rests comfortably somewhere in the middle of the 1980's. I can proudly type nearly 70 words a minute. I can address an envelope like a pro, and know the current cost of a postage stamp (42 cents). I am quite comfortable with email, and thought I was perfectly fine until people started talking facebook, myspace, blogging, ipods, iphones, ibooks, ihavenoideawhatyouaretalkingaboutpeople.
So, my George comes home every once in awhile with a new gadget for his Wilma to try out. The first thing he got me was a cell phone with a querty keyboard, which I used to send my first text message. That was, oh, about two years ago. Next he gave me his 'old' ipod. This tiny little clip of a thing plays more songs than I would ever listen to at one time. I still don't really understand how to put songs on it. I know it is George's greatest desire for me to just get it already, but there is a big chunk of my brain that is missing, I guess, because none of it makes sense to me.
So, George brings home an iphone for me last month. Holy technology at your fingertips! As amazing as it all is to me, and as fun as it is to get email to my phone, I'm a little freaked out that I am a little blue dot on the screen and when I go to the bathroom, the dot moves. I'm truly convinced that we are nowhere near as 'alone' as we sometimes think we are. So anyway, George asks me if I've synced it up lately? What language of the future are you speaking to me? Dumb it down, Jetson!
Am I proud of this lack of withitness? Not really, but I'm not really ashamed of it either. Because I don't really like it. We don't even talk to each other anymore. We text. We don't have to figure it out 'old school' anymore. We google it. We're lazy. We're privileged, spoiled, linked in, connected, and a little less real, in my perspective.
BJ has been savvy since I've known him. But as technology advances, get this, so does he! My husband is the guy sitting in the coffee shop with a laptop (oh my gosh, I don't think they are even called laptops anymore!) in front of him, who appears to be talking to himself, but after taking a closer look, he has some kind of communication device in his ear and other various multifunctional devices in front of him at the table. He's always connected, always working, always online. Email, gps, calendar, all a click away, or a touch away on his Iphone. The guy was working at a company with 'blog' in the name before I even knew what a blog was.
As for me, I'm very 'old school'. Age 28, college graduate, former high school teacher for five years; one might think I would have some blogging experience, or at least knowledge. Oh, who am I fooling, it's not just blogging that I'm a little slow with. You could pretty much categorize it as technology altogether. If this doesn't give you enough insight, let me also express that as recently as last year I was teaching 'photojournalism' with 35mm manual cameras, black and white film and a darkroom. No, that's not a joke.
My level of technological understanding rests comfortably somewhere in the middle of the 1980's. I can proudly type nearly 70 words a minute. I can address an envelope like a pro, and know the current cost of a postage stamp (42 cents). I am quite comfortable with email, and thought I was perfectly fine until people started talking facebook, myspace, blogging, ipods, iphones, ibooks, ihavenoideawhatyouaretalkingaboutpeople.
So, my George comes home every once in awhile with a new gadget for his Wilma to try out. The first thing he got me was a cell phone with a querty keyboard, which I used to send my first text message. That was, oh, about two years ago. Next he gave me his 'old' ipod. This tiny little clip of a thing plays more songs than I would ever listen to at one time. I still don't really understand how to put songs on it. I know it is George's greatest desire for me to just get it already, but there is a big chunk of my brain that is missing, I guess, because none of it makes sense to me.
So, George brings home an iphone for me last month. Holy technology at your fingertips! As amazing as it all is to me, and as fun as it is to get email to my phone, I'm a little freaked out that I am a little blue dot on the screen and when I go to the bathroom, the dot moves. I'm truly convinced that we are nowhere near as 'alone' as we sometimes think we are. So anyway, George asks me if I've synced it up lately? What language of the future are you speaking to me? Dumb it down, Jetson!
Am I proud of this lack of withitness? Not really, but I'm not really ashamed of it either. Because I don't really like it. We don't even talk to each other anymore. We text. We don't have to figure it out 'old school' anymore. We google it. We're lazy. We're privileged, spoiled, linked in, connected, and a little less real, in my perspective.
George and Wilma have a baby.
Our first offspring definitely has daddy's genetics. Not only does this little creature look like a mini-me version of her father, except with long curly hair, she shares daddy's love of adventure, zest for life, and technology.
Oh, technology. I watch as this child plays with daddy's iphone during Sunday mass. She is pinching the screen to shrink the image and pulling her fingers away to expand. Um, she's three. I sit her down in front of the computer to nickjr.com, Nickelodeon website, and she can navigate herself around the site for up to 20 minutes. She is completely engaged, learning on many levels, and certainly entertained. At one point, I walked up behind her and found her watching video clips. I think to myself, How in the hell did she get here?
Our children are worlds away from our childhood experiences. Yes, we always joke about mom's arm being our seatbelt, running around in the neighborhood until dark, and generally just living a much more play-dateless life than our children lead now. But are our kids smarter than we were or just more technologically advanced? Or does one produce another?
My daughter is so smart. I keep thinking, You've only been on this earth for three years! You have learned a hell of a lot more in three years than I have, little one. But I guess this is the point: This is what we want, what we strive for as parents. We want our children to be smarter and better off than we were. We hope, pray, and do our best as parents to see that it happens.
Oh, technology. I watch as this child plays with daddy's iphone during Sunday mass. She is pinching the screen to shrink the image and pulling her fingers away to expand. Um, she's three. I sit her down in front of the computer to nickjr.com, Nickelodeon website, and she can navigate herself around the site for up to 20 minutes. She is completely engaged, learning on many levels, and certainly entertained. At one point, I walked up behind her and found her watching video clips. I think to myself, How in the hell did she get here?
Our children are worlds away from our childhood experiences. Yes, we always joke about mom's arm being our seatbelt, running around in the neighborhood until dark, and generally just living a much more play-dateless life than our children lead now. But are our kids smarter than we were or just more technologically advanced? Or does one produce another?
My daughter is so smart. I keep thinking, You've only been on this earth for three years! You have learned a hell of a lot more in three years than I have, little one. But I guess this is the point: This is what we want, what we strive for as parents. We want our children to be smarter and better off than we were. We hope, pray, and do our best as parents to see that it happens.
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