Knocked Up

Practice Practice Practice

2009-11-20T19:11:00Z

Learning to talk is hard work. My boys like to practice. I think this means that they are going to be big talkers, like their dad, and I am going to be surrounded by a chorus of male voices and will have to slam my hand on the dinner table to have a chance to ask someone to pass the potatoes.

Right now, I've got a bad cold that, overnight, snatched away my voice, so I'm talking less than usual. I'm trying to communicate important concepts to Axel like, "No climbing on the bookshelves!" with body language - arm waving, head shaking. Yeah, it's not working. If I was trying to tell him that I was trapped in box and had a jaunty beret and some white face paint, perhaps it would work better. Miming just might be an effective tantrum prevention strategy.

Between two kids, work, flu and cold season, and the incredibly germ-spreading abilities of toddlers, it seems that one of us has been sick every week since I've returned to work, and most often that one of us is me. Hmmm...wonder if my body is trying to send me signals through the snot, like, "Hey! Slow down, lady. Take a nap!"

While I'm talking less and using a word or two in place of a sentence just like a toddler - cheese, nap, hot, no! cough cough cough - the boys are talking more.

Jonas' practicing takes the form of a near-constant gurgle and coo. It sounds like a cross between a cat purring and a lawnmower heard from three blocks away, with a heavy dose of saliva. Geee geee rrrrrr geee gee rrrr, bubble bubble bubble.

Axel chants and chatters to himself while he's playing, and then self-corrects. "Co. No. Cow. Coowwwwww. Yeah. Cow." It's his own dress rehearsal for a big farm animal conversation. He cooks, and says to himself, "Cook cook cook. Cookie. Noooooodle. Sooooouup. Cook cook. Spoon. Spoon. Yeah!" The baby monitor plays the sounds of Axel reading books aloud to his pair of sock monkeys, complete with sound effects, "Truck. Daddy! Light, light, light. Weeee ooooo weee oooo. Roar! Booberries. Mmmmm." The story is not always clear from the monitor - is that an ambulance going to save a lion that runs into an overturned farm truck carrying a load of fruit, or a fire truck that has been attacked by a mutant lion on the hunt for blueberries?

Though I can't comfort Jonas very well right now - rasping out lullabies is not soothing - Axel has taken over that job. He walks over to his crying brother, pats him on the back and says, "T' okay, Yonas. T'Okay." Then, he insists that the two of them sit next to one another in the upholstered rocking chair and sings, "Rock bye baby Jos! Rock bye baby." Jonas likes this, until Axel begins to throw himself against the back of the chair and the force of the rocking makes Jonas slump over onto his nose and fear that he is going to fly off of the chair.

The speed of language aquisition astonishes me. One day it's Jonas' coos, and a short year and a half later it's "More pretzels please."

Ten Ineffective Tantrum Strategies

2009-11-16T14:59:00Z

Axel, at two, has discovered the awesome power of the Tantrum. He explodes in a Hulk-like transition, going from a cheerful kid to a red-faced demon. I have discovered that, in the face of the Tantrum's ferocity, both reasoned and thoughtful strategies and unreasonable spur-of-the-moment approaches are repelled by an invisible, spitting and crying forcefield. Here, in no particular order, are ten strategies that have failed, at least once and often multiple times, to stop the dreaded Tantrum in its path of destruction.

1. Raising one eyebrow and look at the tantrum thrower like he's a lunatic. It may be true that screaming at a piece of toast that your mother gave to you after you said, "Toast please," instead of chewing on the toast, is not rational, but the eyebrow trick only exacerbates the yelling. Saying something like, "Seriously? The toast is right in front of you." is equally ineffective. Unfortunately, this is the most natural tantrum response for me - I am usually so surprised by the tantrum trigger (mittens being too mitten-y, or the water cup that was perfect yesterday being intolerable) that what I'm thinking (What? Huh?) immediately shows up on my eyebrows.

2. Providing a choice, ie, "Would you like to walk or ride your trike?" You might assume that a two-year-old would choose one of the options offered, as the parenting books that suggest you offer your child appropriate choices would like you to think. You would be wrong. The two year old, at least the one who lives in my house, will choose an option not offered, ie, "Carry! Carry! Carry!" and do an angry fire ant-stomping jig whilst insisting on this non-offered option.

3. Offering help, when help has not been explicitly requested. Once a child turns two, offers of assistance are likely to be met with roaring and gnashing of teeth. Two year olds prefer wrestling matches with their truck-covered pajamas over being disentangled from their cotton straitjackets by a parents' hands.

4. Suggesting a nap, nutritious meal, or deep breath. These strategies may work if you can ease your child into them, but if they are suggested outright in our house, ie, "You might feel better if you eat some lunch," they will be met with kicks and shrieks.

5. Using a timer for "time in" or to designate when an activity will start, as in "We'll do whatever you want for the next ten minutes, until the timer beeps!" or "When the timer beeps, I'll play the Elmo game with you." Some books suggest the timer has magical powers in the world of people under four feet. Axel does not respect the timer's authority - unless the timer is telling him that cookies are done baking, in which case the timer is the bomb. But if the timer suggests that something fun is over, the timer is clearly mistaken.

6. Describing something, matter-of-factly, as a rule - "Oh, we have to wear our coats when it's cold outside. It's a rule." Just as Axel does not color between the lines (what toddler does?), he does not think that rules should be respected, even when I tell him that his favorite people follow those rules. Grandpa wears his shoes outside? Ha. Axel will believe that one when he sees it, and he would like to see it right now, even (especially) if it is 6:30 in the morning and Grandpa is in California.

7. Time outs, when given by me. When Axel chooses to put himself in time-out, it works. When I put him in time-out, it works for a few minutes at best. I usually feel better after the deep breaths I take while he's in his room, though, so I guess I'd call it a semi-effective strategy.

8. Reason. Explaining why something is OK does not work, because Axel lives in bizzaro world. He told me yesterday that having one snap on the bottom of the leg of his overalls unfastened was not OK, in those words; when he dropped a bowl on the floor and it broke, and I told him it wasn't OK to get down because he'd cut his feet, he laughed. Cuts on feet - OK. One snap unfastened - not OK. What I think of as reasonable is not reasonable, and, thus, my explanations suck. Maybe I should try reverse explanations, like telling Axel that we have to take baths because if we don't we'll get beamed to the moon and have to live on cottage cheese and fruitcake.

9. Ignoring the tantrum. Turn and walk out of the room, and a wailing toddler will often follow you. Sometimes this one works, but it has something to do with the phases of the moon and the reproductive cycle of the groundhog, neither of which I understand, so I can't predict when it will and won't work.

10. Trying to distract the tantrum thrower. Present a cool truck, and you've just given the toddler a new projectile. Try to sing a song, and you will find that your voice, the same voice that once soothed the child to sleep with endless rounds of You Are My Sunshine, is now the worst sound in the world.

Tantrums are unpredictable and capricious. Some days, we escape without a significant meltdown. Other days, Axel has a breakdown because he wants to be at the park, then he wants to get to the park but not in his stroller, then when he's at the park he wants to be in the swing but not in the swing that he is sitting in at that moment and hell no he does not want to be pushed in the swing in the manner in which he is being pushed, then he loses it because he wants to go home and, of course, when he's on his way home, he cries that he must return to the park, but not before shaking hands with that working tractor down the street and having anything other than what is offered for his snack.

Against the Tantrum, I am like a rhythmic gymnast trying to kill a 500-lb fire-breathing dragon with my twirling ribbons and hula-hoops. Luckily, it follows a better to burn out than to fade away sort of a strategy, and, just as quickly as it comes, the Tantrum retreats, leaving a happy moppet in its place.

4 Winks

2009-11-12T21:13:00Z

I've reached that point where I'm so tired that I don't even feel tired anymore, just queasy and confused. I'll think, "Hey! I slept for three hours and look how well I'm doing!" and then I step of the curb into oncoming traffic and have to be saved from an oncoming truck by a quick-thinking, more well-rested friend.

Most days, I can keep it together until about 5:30 pm, at which point I begin mumbling and have a hard time tracking the...wait, what was I saying? Right, sleep. I need some. Today, I haven't even made it to happy hour. At about 9:30 this morning, I realized that I had spit-up down my back and had misbuttoned my cardigan and I was late for a meeting. Then I walked off without my keys and fell down a few stairs.

People keep on telling me that I look well-rested (nobody has said that to me today, though, because I'm crumbling now); it's not rest. It's a combination of golden eyeshadow and way too many soy lattes. There's been no solid sleep in our house since the croup attacked a few weeks ago.

You know that thing I said about Jonas sleeping? Apparently, it offended him to be called a good sleeper, so he's now trying to compete to be the King of the Sleepless Babies. I am not supportive of his quest to win this trophy. I am tired and weepy, jittery from too much caffeine, bruised from the clumsiness that comes when you're exhausted.

Now, I'm trying to devise a plan of attack. The problem is that it's hard to create a coherent plan when you forget to tie your own shoelaces. Basically, my plan is this: the baby will sleep more, and I will sleep more. I'm keeping it simple.

Adventures in Milk Production

2009-11-11T14:23:00Z

Now that I have over a year's worth of combined milk production time, between both boys, I feel like I'm something of a lactation specialist. So let me share what I've learned with you, the sort of things that I did not read in the La Leche League manual:

1. The Eating/Milk Connection

You are what you eat. Thus, your milk is what you eat, and since your baby has your milk, your baby is also what you eat, and your baby's poop might smell like your dinner. You've probably heard all about eating beans and giving your baby gas, or the spicy food/fuss connection, neither of which seem to have had any effect on my nurslings. But what you eat does get into your milk, and into your baby. Even if what you eat is a chewy gob of high fructose corn syrup.

The day after Halloween, I was sitting on the floor, playing with Jonas. Something smelled sweet. Like candy. It seemed to be coming from Jonas' rear. Had Axel shoved some of his candy down his brother's diaper to save it for later? Did Jonas decide to do some late night Trick-or-Treating of his own? I opened up the diaper to check and, instead of finding a shiny yellow plastic package, I found mushy yellow poo.

Poo that smelled exactly like Swedish Fish.

Exactly like the Swedish Fish I'd gobbled up the night before. The Swedish Fish that went from my mouth to my stomach to my milk to my baby to his poop.

Yeah, it was both creepy and delightful. If you've got to change a poopy diaper, it's a little easier if the air is filled with the scent of gummy red candy.

Though I have eaten beets, they did not turn my milk red, as I'd heard they would - that one seems to be an urban lactation legend. But I have experienced firsthand the interaction between candy and breastmilk. I think I might make Swedish Fish a regular part of my lactating mother's diet, right along with the prenatal vitamins and organic apples.

2. The Milk Production Excuse

Nursing is much better than homework-eating dogs. I wish I'd discovered this earlier. A telemarketer calls, and I say, "I'm sorry, I've got to go. I'm making dinner for my son." There's no protesting, no "Please, just give me one minute to tell you about the super terrific Blasto Vac."

It could be any time of day, and this would be true. The thing about breastfeeding is that you're always making your baby's next meal. Therefore, you've always got an excuse about why you need to hang up the phone. I think I'm going to keep on using this one for the next dozen years. People don't seem to question baby-related excuses, especially when you throw in a word that makes many people uncomfortable, like breast.

3. Milk expression will occur in the strangest places.

When Axel was tiny, I tried to confine nursing and pumping to private, calm spots. I avoided being out of the house when I thought he might get hungry. I tried to pump behind closed doors in my office, further barricaded behind a nursing cover and a wall of bags, because the blinds on my office windows are wimpy. I told myself that I would make sure I didn't have to nurse in public, not because I was against public nursing but because of my own discomfort. Well, life, as they say, happens. Eventually, I had to nurse him on a plane, in a (parked) car, in a house, with a mouse - our own Green Eggs & Ham lactation adventure.

With Jonas, I started out having to be a more public nurser. Axel needed to get out of the house, and I needed to take him and take the constantly hungry baby, too. While I try to be discreet and remain draped in a nursing cover, I've found that I've gotten surprisingly used to potential exposure in public. Now I've pumped in the jury commisionner's office (lactating isn't quite a good enough excuse to get out of jury duty), in my car, and in various office building bathrooms. Baby's got to eat, so a mama has to get creative.

Jonas is earnestly training for a staring role as Baby Zombie King in the next George Romero flick, drooling heavily and gnawing on his knuckles with as much ferocity as can be mustered when you weigh less than the cat. Time for another milk feast.

Brotherhood

2009-11-08T20:27:00Z

In toddler world, older kids are gods. And in baby world, toddlers grace the cover of the baby version of Tiger Beat. Jonas is lucky - he's got his very own toddler idol rooming just down the hall.

Sometimes, as parents, we delude ourselves into thinking we're important. I give Jonas milk - not just give it to him, I make it. I change his diaper, I wipe his butt, I bathe him in the sink without bonking his head on the faucet, I smile and laugh with him. Those things seem pretty important. Life-sustaining, even.

But I'm nothing compared to a walking, talking, be-bopping older brother.

If there are six people in a room, Jonas will seek out Axel and follow his every move. If Axel moves out of his line of sight, Jonas will start screeching until he's turned around and can see Axel again. When Axel plops down next to him on the floor, Jonas grins; when Axel gives him a hug, Jonas tries to slobber on his head. When Axel reaches out to hold his brother's hand, Jonas grabs right back.

I often admonish Axel to be gentle and not smother the baby, but Jonas doesn't really seem to mind. Unless it's a full out smackdown WWF move directed at the head, Jonas seems pretty happy just to be near his brother, to watch him stacking Legos and nibbling on pretzels. He sees Axel as the best source of entertainment around, and the most important resident of the house. He looks at him and thinks, "Wait a second. That guy, he's only got 10 lbs on me, and he's --- WALKING! Did he just grab that block and stack it on top of that other block without hitting himself in the eye? He has teeth and he chews up his food and keeps 80% of it in his mouth! He's a genius!"

Axel returns this adoration. He tries to shove pieces of salami in the Jonas' mouth, both real and imaginary. He runs over to Jonas and does an interpretive dance that involves chanting the word bus and doing the wave with his arms before spinning around, falling on his stomach, and crying out, "Oh no!" before desolving into giggles at his own antics. Jonas is the perfect audience for his one man physical comedy routines. The two of them are already starting to work on lady killing - Jonas will let out a coo, Axel will wave and grin and announce "Brother", and check out ladies will swoon and offer free snacks.

As much as they love each other, I adore watching them together. This brotherhood stuff? Apparently, it's pretty good.

The Discerning Toddler Palate

2009-11-04T17:06:00Z

Sean and I are amateur foodies. We like our prosciutto and cheeses from the $3 bin at Whole Foods. We watch Top Chef and bake bread and experiment with kale and bacon and capers. This food fetish has gotten a little stronger since we've had kids, though admittedly more home cooking than seven-course degustation focused. We almost never go anywhere, I fall asleep during movies, and so all we have left is adventures in home cooking to save us from the endless reptitions of Old Macdonald.

Somehow, we've ended up with a toddler who likes to try new things, just like we do, and who isn't too picky. Sure, he's got a fickle appetite - he'll eat a gallon of guacamole one night, and then nothing but two peas the next - but he eats almost everything.

Examples:

Sean pan-seared some fancy schmancy hen of the woods mushrooms. I gave one to Axel, assuming he wouldn't really like it and that would leave more mushrooms for me, hurrah! Alas, he ate it, and demanded more.
Axel had a tantrum at the thought of having to share his vat of guacamole.
His favorite food is risotto with peas.
I got myself some citrus salmon for lunch, and got Axel some macaroni and cheese. He ate my salmon. I ate the macaroni and cheese.
He loves soup. Loves it. Especially navy bean with bacon. A coworker of mine sent home some chicken stew with lentils in it, and he got one look at it and started jumping up and down. For lentils, people. He jumped for lentils.

Lest you think he is a pod person, let me tell you that he also jumps for M & Ms, and invented a little Halloween night jig that included shoulder shimmies and head bobbing and twirls to get more candy to cram into his chocolate-smeared mouth.

We also feed him chicken nuggets (the organic ones from Whole Foods, but still breaded bits of poultry) and macaroni and cheese from a box and fig bars, because those things are delicious. That fake orange powdered goop? It's just plain good. I try not to think about it too much when I eat it, and just enjoy the deliciousness - kind of like a good old Cup O Noodles. Even though Sean has banned high fructose corn syrup from his own body, Axel has candy now and again. Basically, we offer him whatever we're eating, and then we let eat (or not eat) whatever's offered at that meal. He likes broccoli and bacon and beans - anything that starts with a "b."

Now that's officially two, though, I'm starting to wonder if this will end. Will he start demanding only pink food, and survive on Jello, strawberries, lox, and yogurt? Will he suddenly want nothing but Ritz Crackers? Is it inevitable that all two year olds believe that anything green is laced with arsenic? It's nice that the dinner table hasn't been a battleground. Sure, food is thrown from time to time, and Axel has had a fit or two because he can't have a steak knife, and there's often gentle encouragement to eat a little more or to drink whole milk instead of water (because I would like his pants to stay up), but it's minor.

I cook, he usually eats. It's a nice arrangement. I hope it sticks. Even more, I hope it rubs off on his younger brother, and that we can all happily feast on roasted brussel sprouts, lamb stew, and homemade blueberry pies.

Birthday Parties - Who Needs Them

2009-11-02T03:08:00Z

Today, we got to sing Axel's favorite song, Happy Birthday. And not just because I didn't want him to land a kick in my stomach during a diaper change or because I was trying to keep him awake in the car - it was because it was his actual birthday.

He's old enough now to demand multiple cupcakes, to refuse to peddle a tricycle, to cook imaginary seven-course feasts, to finger paint all green masterpieces, to announce to the world when he's pooped, to command that I sit down next to him, to build wobbly twenty-brick towers of Legos, to adorably mispronounce his brother's name (Nonas), to take flying leaps off of the couch into my arms, to have conversations (even if they generally center on heavy machinery), to understand that Trick or Treating means the chance to grab fistfuls of candy, to bestow hugs on all his friends and family, and to say his age - "Two!" while holding up a single index finger.

He's two. Two! He went from this...

To this...

...in two years. Yesterday he was a zygote, and today he's two. Maybe that's why I'm so tired. Well, that and the blizzard and the sickness and the birthday party at the zoo. I would write witty things here, but I really need a nap. Birthday parties are exhausting. Last year, I went all out. This year, I thought I could handle a very small party at the zoo, bringing nothing but ourselves and delicious cupcakes from a local shop, and keeping the guest list very small. And, while Axel had fun seeing the elephants and riding the train in his train engineer costume, I still came close to having a tired and hungry meltdown on our way out of the zoo. "Cranky" was not the adjective I wanted as a mother on my oldest son's birthday.

This makes me wonder why I do this - throw birthday parties. It's not like Axel asked for a birthday party this year or last year. He certainly doesn't know the difference between a small celebration at home with his family and a party with ten of his closest friends. He had a good time at the zoo, and I think the few guests we had enjoyed it as well. I think that the thirty or so people at his first birthday had a nice time, too. But I think he would've had a nice time with just his family at the zoo. I think that his guests would've had a nice time if I hadn't decided to put together favor bags with six things in them, or if we'd had a party at our house and I didn't vacuum the floors before the party and had nothing but pizza to feed them.

I found myself getting angry at my husband because he didn't send out the evites/decide on the cupcakes/pick up things for the favor bags/put together favor bags/etc./etc/etc. In our house, birthday parties fall firmly into my realm of responsibility.

And then I realized - wait a second - NO ONE NEEDS TO DO THIS CRAP. Not Sean. Not me. No one is judging us on the quality of the favor bags and, well, if they are, I don't think that's the sort of person whose opinion I care about anyway.

I'm the one who has a standard of child's birthday party perfection of mythical origin in my head. And that's why I'm the one who doesn't really have much fun - because I'm too worried if everyone else is having a good time and if we had the right kind of a party and if the cupcakes are smushed and if we have enough healthy snacks to balance out the sugar.

Birthday parties are supposed to be fun. Primarily fun for the birthday kid, but at least a little fun for the birthday parents. This whole birthday extravaganza perfection pressure is nonsense. And, worse, it's nonsense that I've created for myself.

The next cupcake occasion will be Jonas' first birthday. That party is going to be a first for me, too - first child's birthday party at which I relax and enjoy. Maybe we'll have just family. Maybe we'll invite friends to help celebrate. Maybe I'll attempt to make a zebra-shaped birthday cake from scratch, just because it seems like fun and like something the boys would like. But either way, there will be more celebrating than cleaning, and more playing than attempts at perfection.

Happy birthday, kid. I love you.

Coughing in a Winter Wonderland

2009-10-29T02:29:00Z

First swine flu. Then croup and baby's second hospital visit. Now a blizzard. It's been a busy week.

Axel has made a full recovery from the bug.

Jonas was then struck down by what I thought was the swine flu. Turns out it was regular old seal-bark cough, gasping for breath croup. Croup, like the sort that Axel had a minor interaction with last year, that I thought I could handle. Croup that landed with such force that an all-fronts croup attack plan - steamy bathroom/cold night air/humidifer - was no match for it. It quickly turned into stridor, into noisy struggling for breath, into nightime panic, and we had to make a 3 am visit to the hospital yet again.

The only good thing about two hospital visits in less than four months is that you don't have to fill out all of the paperwork the second time around - you're already in a database you don't really want to be in. Oh, and you know the best place to park. Other than that, I can't really recommend it.

After a breathing treatment, a dose of steroids, and a comfortable nap in a set of warm arms (for Jonas) and an uncomfortable sleepless night trying to settle in a stiff chair or on the exam bed (for his mother), we got sent home. We didn't even have to stay a full day. No offense to the warm and friendly nurses and doctors, but I'd rather not see them again. Ever.

Two days later, Jonas has again mastered the art of breathing. Breathing, as any asthmatic knows, is not something you want to have to think about. One croup attack before six months sometimes means that more are coming. I hope that Jonas hasn't inherited my sometimes faulty lungs along with the reddish blonde hair. He can have my hair, he can have the same dimple, and he can even have my deep adoration of the brownie, but my lungs? Take after your father on that one, kid.

On a much more cheerful note, we're ending the week with a blizzard. A little snow is good for the soul - and a little cold air is good for a recovering croupy kid. The world gets colder, cleaner, slower, quieter.

On our agenda for the rest of the week: first snowman of the year, attempt at making snow angels, mugs of hot cocoa, first time demanding candy from neighbors and strangers, and Axel's second birthday. Good things.

And no more sickness. We've had our allotment of germs for the year, I think.

The Swine Flu Ate My Weekend

2009-10-25T19:07:00Z

We've been Swined.

After our close brush with H1N1, we relaxed. We thought we'd escaped, we thought that our obsessive hand washing and use of sanitizer had worked. We were wrong. There's no escaping germs in the slobbery illness haven of the toddler room. While we haven't had the test to confirm that it's the Swine and not the non-pig flu, all signs point to pig - confirmed exposure at daycare, a CDC survey that says one in five kids has had swine flu this month, bacon cravings..

First, the swine flu tackled Axel and gave him a fever and a bonus dose of boogers. It was the weirdest sickness - a fever of 102, super cranky, then spastic couch jumping and handstand attempts. Axel felt worse when he had an ear infection and when he had strep throat. He's been disconcertingly cheerful. The sickness cycle has gone like this: fever, child curled up on the couch and a little extra weepiness, does of baby ibuprofen, happy toddler jumping up and down and madly giggling. It's more exhausting to try to coerce a sick energetic kid to rest than it is to give a sick, tired kid extra cuddling, juice, and Elmo.

On Saturday, Axel was fully recovered, still spastic but without a fever, cough, or aches.

Then, it came for the baby.

Though I tried my best to keep the two of them separate and to get Axel to cover his mouth when he coughs, it didn't work so well. Axel remembers to cover his mouth on his second cough - good, but not good enough to prevent the spray of germs from cough no. 1. He likes to lick his brother's cheek the minute I turn my back. He also thinks that he should test out Jonas' teething toys with his mouth - sort of like a food taster for a king, only by gnawing at a giraffe. I hosed down all the toys and the kids, but it seems I am no match for H1N1 combined with a toddler determined to kiss his brother.

It's not treating Jonas as gently as it treated Axel. Jonas has developed a croupy cough, a concerning case of stridor while he cries, extended naps, and a sad little fat lip. He's still nursing, smiling here and there, and slobbering on his hands and feet. He's still OK, just a little sick, and now living in a world full of humidifiers on full blast, steam-filled bathrooms, and Kleenex attacks. I really hope that this is as bad as it gets, and that the story we tell our grandkids about the Great Swine Flu Epidemic of 2009 goes, "Yeah, we had it. It wasn't really so bad."

And now, I have to go - we need more supplies to fight off this flu beast.

Things My Sons Have Taught Me

2009-10-22T13:52:00Z

Construction work is not an inconvenience. It is free entertainment.

The human hand is a miracle worthy of intense study.

Do not underestimate the importance of regular sleep and a regular bedtime routine.

Deep, meaningful interaction can consist of nothing but an exchange of smiles and coos.

Many hurts can be alleviated by a simple acknowledgment of the source of the pain and a hug.

Jumping and spinning in circles is a good time.

Sometimes, you want one cookie. Sometimes you want four. And sometimes you want to feed your cookie to the dog. That's OK. Well, if you're a toddler. It's not so great if you're on Weight Watchers. Or diabetic. OK, scratch that one.

Each time you re-read a book, you will discover something new. Something new might be the richly colored strawberries in The Very Hungry Caterpillar, or it might be the steadily increasing desire to light up a book in flames so your toddler will never be able to read it again, but that's still new.

Getting dressed is a lot harder than it looks. Pants? Those suckers are tricky. Don't even get me started on the complexity of buttons on some footed sleepers during three am diaper changes.

The people who are most important don't care that you have boogers on your face, that your shirt doesn't match your pants, or that you haven't combed your hair. Well, they don't care if you're under three. Even so, it's a good idea to wipe your face.

It won't happen if you don't try.

And you'll probably fall on your face the first time you try.

For some reason, when something's hard, grunting often helps.

We all get a little cranky when we're hungry, tired, or wet. It's just natural. With a good meal, a nap, or dry pants, it will pass.

Being tiny and adorable gets you free stuff. Enjoy those boxes of raisins and restaurant crayons while you can, kids.

Sometimes, a little time alone can help us be civilized, nonviolent members of society, including the miniature society that is the table at dinner time.

Having kids is likely to make you become a person who does and says things that would embarass your teenage self, and things that will eventually embarass your future teenagers. (Previous level of cool) / (Number of times reproduced + aging) = Current level of cool as measured by the unwashed hipster barista kid who gets your latte

Being helpful is very satisfying, even if all the help you offer is a tissue for your baby brother's nose.

People are mostly good, most of the time. People are also a little crazy.

The moments

2009-10-19T03:31:00Z

When I ran the Big Sur Marathon, I was tired. My legs hurt, my lungs hurt, my eyelashes hurt, my fingernails tingled. It's 26.2 miles and a whole mess of hill climbing. I almost cried because I really, really wanted a Snickers bar, and could think of nothing else. In the middle, I wondered why I was running a marathon, and whose crazy idea this had all been and exactly what I needed to prove by running a second marathon and why I'd willingly gotten out of a perfectly fine bed at 4 in the morning - and it's quite possible I cursed my husband, who was running with me. And then, I looked out at the blue gray of the Pacific Ocean, at the water crashing against the winding cliffs, at the way the earth fell off into the sea, and it was worth it. My lungs filled with deliciously cool air, my legs no longer ached, and I felt blessed to be in such an awe-inspiring place, running into the wind. I remembered how much I love Sean. And I almost forgot about the Snickers bar.

That's what my life is like again, except without the aid of orange Sport Beans and cheering volunteers handing out cups of water. I am tired. My feet hurt. My back has been thrown off by a combination of excessive Baby Bjorn use and hunching over a computer and pushing a double jogging stroller and picking tumbleweeds of dog hair off the kitchen floor. I can't remember when I ate a meal. I'm rough and cranky and have lost 90% of my perspective after a succession of broken plates and skipped naps and dog poop and tantrums. I wonder what I'm doing and why I'm doing and what's the purpose of it all, and where's my Snickers bar, anyway.

And then, in the middle of my funk, moments like this:

Anxiously trying to get both boys read for bed, I prop up Jonas in the chair in Axel's room while I wrestle Axel into his pajamas. Jonas grabs at the buttons on his footed sleeper, lets out an excited ooh, thrilled by the existence of metal snaps. Axel climbs up in the chair next to him, gripping hold of the soft yellow blanket my mother made him, and says, "Book! Book!" I sit on the floor in front my pajama-wearing boys, and open up a Curious George book. As I flip through the pages, Jonas grins and coos. Axel curls up in front of his brother and gives me a kiss. I shiver at the sight of them. I think of getting the camera, but don't because leaving them for a moment may ruin it, and I may return to one brother smothering the other instead of the two of them sitting peacefully together. Instead, I recite what I can remember of the story, keeping my eyes on their round cheeks and cotton-covered feet, on Axel's hair still damp from the bath and the little spot of drool bubbling out as Jonas does his wide open gummy smile.

This, this is what I am supposed to be doing, feeling love and gratitude in these moments, aching to etch them in our memories

Afterward, when both boys are asleep, I return too quickly to the bone-deep exhaustion, to thinking about grocery lists and email and bills.

A Room of His Own

2009-10-14T14:51:00Z

My boys both slept through the night last night, and the night before. Not a creature was stirring, except for the constantly hungry cat, from a little after ten to 5:30. I should be happy, right? Perhaps I've got a slumber hangover - you know, when you feel like crap because you've rested too much after your body has become accustomed to a frequently interrupted night of sleep - because I'm not. See, three month old Jonas slept both of these nights in his own room. It was the end to cosleeping.

Until two nights ago, Jonas snoozed in a bassinet at the foot of our bed, or in bed with us. Sometimes he snoozed. Other times he rolled around and squawked. Sean and I got used to whispering. I got used to tiptoeing about, trying to stay quiet, and then stumbling over a laundry basket/toy tractor/stray boot/cat because of Sleeping Baby Law No. 23 that goes something like, "The harder you try to minimize noise, the more the jackhammer will slam and the rooster will crow." It follows Sleeping Baby Law No. 22: Whenever you tell someone the baby slept through the night, he will fail to sleep through the night on the following evening, and right before Sleeping Baby Law No. 24: When you most want the baby to sleep, the baby will sleep the least. When you want to keep the baby awake, the baby will want to sleep. Then there's my current personal nemesis, Sleeping Baby Law No. 37: The minute you pour a glass of wine and relax, thinking the baby is finally, really, truly asleep, the baby will start crying again.

After a few nights of regression (Sleeping Baby Law No. 1: As soon as you think you've got the schedule figured out, it will change), I decided it was time for Jonas to go out on his own, his own in this case meaning a room down the hall. The night wakings were increasing, not decreasing, and I'd had enough. He moved to what we're callling the boys' room, the bedroom across the way from Axel's. Once Jonas is sleeping more regularly, we'll probably combine the boys in this room and return Axel's current bedroom to an office. It will be nice not to have tomato sauce splattered on my laptop, now squashed in a makeshift kitchen counter pile of clutter/office/work type space. But, I'm not going to risk having one boy wake up the other one during this precarious sleeping stage, if I can help it. Thus, the separate rooms for now.

That first night, our bedroom was quiet, even though we could talk loudly. I didn't cringe at each shake of the cat's collar, or hiss at him to be still so he wouldn't wakt the baby. I listened to the humidifers swoosh on the dual baby monitors, thinking I'd heard nonexistent squawks.

Sleeping through the night is a good thing, and the kid does seem to sleep better in his own room. It was time for him to sleep in his crib. We'll both rest better this way. But I missed hearing his little snuffles and staring at his chubby cheeks when our room is flooded by the neighbor's overactive motion sensor security light. Our bedroom felt empty, even though our cat was trying his best to crowd me out of the bed. I told Sean that the boys were growing up. He laughed because Jonas can't even roll over from his back to his belly. My overactive imagination was leaping from moving out of our bedroom to moving out of the house, fast-forwarding the next 18 years. Obviously he hasn't left yet.

He's just down the hall.

Who Needs Parents?

2009-10-11T23:47:00Z

Axel's becoming an independent, self-regulating, me do me do little person. His most recent accomplishment? Putting himself in time out. Yes, that's right. I am out of a job. He wipes his own nose, he can use a spoon with a 72% success rate, he can unzip a hoodie and take it off, and he disciplines himself.

One night, while my parents were over for dinner, Axel had finished his usual four minute meal and proceeded engage in post-meal hyperactive toddler feats of strength, like hoisting his brother's bouncy chair over his head and attempting to throw it down the stairs. I, inspired by a recent tip from a random parenting book or magazine, said, "Axel, you can either play out here with us nicely, or you need to go to your room. What would you like to do? Do you need a time out?"

"Yeah!" said Axel, before calmly putting down the chair, walking through the kitchen, going to his room, and shutting the door behind himself.

It is possible that my jaw dropped and drool hit the table. It got better - when I opened the door, he was not attempting to climb his dresser or tearing all the pages out of The Lorax or eating his shoes. No, he was sitting on the floor, holding his stuffed cow puppet, and reading Blueberries for Sal. He likes to point to a picture of Sal standing on a chair and say, "Noooo. Noooo," to demonstrate that he knows the rules; he knows not to stand on chairs and is grown up enough to share that information with others.

I thought it was a fluke, or a demonstration of being a perfect child in front of the grandparents to inspire more gifts and cookies, but then it happened again. And again. And again. Since that time, he's given himself a time out at least four other times. He'll be going nuts, hitting the dog or his brother, and, I'll ask him if he needs to be alone, and he will walk to his room, shut the door, and read. The classic one-two-three has also gotten results - he'll get down off the kitchen table by two and a half.

Of course, he's not always able to follow through with his attempts to be an adult. He tries to help with the laundry, but help often means taking all the clean pajamas out of his drawer and mixing them in with his dirty laundry. He likes to read to Jonas, first tucking a blanket around the baby, but the blanket often ends up on Jonas' face. He likes to push Jonas in the swing, but he pushes him with such force that Jonas stiffens with fright and his happy goo-goo-goos turn to anxious squawks.

The other night, I looked into the living room and saw him grunting, pushing down his jeans. I suggested he take off his shoes first. He shrugged, and continued to push down his pants, ending up with his pants around his ankles and his blue shirt around his head, rolling on the floor. This did not bother him, even though I was snorting over the leftovers I was heating up for dinner. He simply pulled his shirt off of his head, yanked his pants up around his knees, and hobbled over to his toy box and pulled out his toy ambulance. He crawled on the floor, a little slowed down by his manner of wearing pants, and went Wee ooooh Weee ooohhh. Eventually, I asked him if he'd like help pulling up his pants and he agreed to some assistance.

OK, so I'm not out of a job quite yet.

Pre-K to College

2009-10-08T20:01:00Z

The preschool duck duck GOOSE has begun. We're exploring all the ducks out there, and they seem to be multiplying.

Axel's at a childcare center/preschool that we like. We like his teachers. We like the other kids, and so does Axel. He has fun, he learns, he plays, he eats, he naps, he works on important things like sharing and waiting his turn. We like (most) of the other parents. When Jonas is old enough, I'd happily send him there, too.

Except it's just a preschool for kids 18 months and up. It doesn't have K - 5. That doesn't seem like a problem at first glance because the boys aren't yet 5. They don't need the three Rs, or dodgeball, or to learn to play the theme song from Top Gun on the recorder with 24 of their closest friend.

It is a problem, though, when you start to think about elementary school. Because to get into some elementary schools, you need to have enrolled in their preschool programs. To get into those preschools, you need to be on the waitlist. In two years, Axel will be ready for a three/four classroom (with a November birthday, he's one of the older kids). For some of the schools, we are late coming to the game. I should've been on waitlists while I was still pregnant. Maybe I should've been on some of the wait lists when I was still in high school, or at least narrowing down the options. Why weren't they telling me about that in Home Ec, instead of having me cart around a fake baby doll and make imitation Orange Julius?

It started with a tour of the local preK - 8 Catholic school. I heard I needed to tour early, if I wanted to get on the waitlist for preschool. Then I thought, if I tour this one, shouldn't I tour all the options? If I am OK with Catholic school, then why rule out other (highly priced) private schools without actually checking them out in person? And hey, what's wrong with public school? Didn't I turn out OK, with a suburban public school education? Don't I believe in high quality public school for everyone? So why wouldn't I send my boys to public school?

What I thought at first would be a fun, informative tour of local preschools is now filling me with anxiety. In picking his preschool, we must think of elementary school. When thinking of elementary school, we must think of middle school and, thus, high school, which bleeds into college and career and good lord my oldest child still wears diapers and has tantrums because he's not wearing a shirt with a picture of a tractor on it.

Deep breath.

Here, in no particular order, are our options (just for pre-K - 8. I'll hyperventilate if I start thinking about high school, and AP classes, varsity sports, growing armpit hair, SATs, etc. etc.):

Respectable neighborhood elementary school (with paid pre-K), bad middle school, unless the boys get into magnet schools or are lucky enough to get into a charter school, and do I really want my sons' eduction left to to the lottery gods when I don't even play dollar slot machines?
Nice, high-quality Catholic preK - 8, which means we must join the Catholic church to get in, though I am Lutheran. Luckily, Sean had some devoutly Catholic grandmothers so the Pope sort of approves of us. Affordable private school, with a Montessori track for the wee ones.
A few private school preK - 8s or preK - 12s, with gorgeous campuses on rolling hills and well-groomed children with admirable test scores and tuition higher than my private college education (which we can't really afford for two children)
Amazing neighborhood elementary school (after pre-K elsewhere) still in the city, not so good middle school, have to buy a new house (which we may not be able to afford, ever) to get in that neighborhood elementary school
Good public schools from elementary to high school. Have to move to the suburbs. Have to pick which suburb to move to, among the many overwhelming suburb options.
Other local preschools, like the co-op yoga preschool or the Montessori schools or Axel's current center, and one of the above options starting in Kindergarten

There are also the local Waldorf option and home schooling, but I already know those aren't for us. It's nice to have something that's ruled out, however minor. I'm overwhelmed by all the choices.

This picking a school? It's a fulltime job in itself. when I can barely handle the actual paid job I've got now. What will we do? How do we pick? How can we, without knowing what will be the best fit for our kids in kindergarten, let alone the best fit ten years from now?

At this point, a safe place with loving and effective teachers, low ratios, delicious snacks, a nice playground, and a little fingerpainting works for us. Soon enough, though, we'll need more.

Having It All

2009-10-05T01:34:00Z

"You can't have it all. They told my generation that you could, but they lied."

So said a mother of a friend of mine, a woman with five grown children and a career.

I wanted to say that it wasn't true. I wanted to tell her how I am having it all, with a cherry on top, and that I can juggle six colicky babies while balancing my checkbook using my toes, inventing clever bedtime stories about chubby hamsters, and creating exciting PowerPoint presentations that defy the drool and snooze-inspiring nature of PowerPoint.

But I couldn't, because I think she's right.

I used to think I could have it all, I just had to redefine what I meant by "it." I could have a fulfilling career, a pampered baby, luxurious shampoo commercial hair, and a loving husband, but would have to sacrifice walking the dog daily, eyebrow waxing, and ever again catching Saturday Night Live live.

That's not redefining. That's nibbling around the edges, giving things up that were no sacrifice.

Now, my definitions of "it" look more like this:

Impressive performance at work, stimulating conversations with hot spouse, well-mannered children, live off of chicken nuggets and cheese sticks and get three hours of sleep per night

Train enough to qualify for the Boston Marathon, family trips to Argentina, make it to work on time, child thinks nanny is Mama

Brain boosting vegetable stamping art projects with children, homemade dinners every night, stimulating side business selling original handknit Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, get pneumonia, wear dirty underwear

Try to wedge it all in, and at least one part of "it" collapses, or ends up being something nobody wants to catch.

For me, the "it" came most recently with a bout of mastitis. Fever, chills, clogged up milk duct swooped in on Friday; thankfully, it went away as quickly as it arrived, with frequent nursing, rest, massage, and warm baths. I thought my first week back at work had been a success, that I was juggling it all with grace (if not clean kitchen counters, homemade meals, or mascara on both sets of eyelashes), until I got sick and my husband threatened to handcuff me to the bed or cart me off to the hospital to enforce rest and recovery.

I'm not very good at balance, at pacing myself, at listening to my body, at breathing deeply. My style is more stick your fingers in your ears and sing la la la la la over the aching quads or growling stomach until you throw up. It's not, as you wise people probably know, a very successful or sustainable approach.

But here it is: I can't do it all. Maybe other women can. I thought I was one of them. I'm not.

"It", here, means having a job I like; performing well at that job; feeling like I'm spending enough time with my children for all of us; regular nights out with my husband; having a clean enough home where I can actually find things; having mental and physical energy to do creative things with my boys; exercising a few days a week; the luxury of a few extra clothes and books and a vacation; keeping up with basic hygiene; writing; fitting into my pants; paying enough attention to the dog that he stops his indoor jealousy pees; reading books that don't have lift-up flaps; going to church; finding time to sit and breathe; spending time with my extended family; going shopping with my mother and talking with my sister-in-law for more than five minutes at a time; taking my sons to the mountains; making homemade baby food and trying new recipes that don't involve a microwave; volunteering at Axel's school and in the community; going to the library; brunch or wine with my friends on a regular basis; frequent hugs and trips to the park; finishing the baby sweater I started knitting when I was pregnant with Axel; knowing I still have an ounce of patience left for a driver that cuts me off or a check-out clerk who moves at a the pace of a sloth or tackling potty training. Oh, and doing it all without getting sick.

I can't earn a 10 in work, motherhood, friendships, family, and the throwing of dinner parties. I can't even get a respectable 7.2 with a gold star for effort in all of them.

And I don't want to be exhausted and make myself sick because I stubbornly keep on trying.

The Bedtime Routine

2009-10-01T18:16:00Z

Finally, after thirteen weeks, we've landed in a sort of a bedtime routine. There's a semi-predictable pattern. I can think one or two steps ahead, rather than just sprinting from one task to the next, juggling whatever baby/toddler/dog/food-related mini-emergency arises.

Here are the parameters: one parent, two children, one dog, and one cat. Yeah, basically, I'm on my own at bedtime. Sean's on shift and, thus, sleeping, or not sleeping, at a fire station ten miles away, and, when he's not on shift, he's now in this little thing called paramedic school, which demands his presence at least three nights a week. So, any bedtime strategies have to be doable by one parent, because we've only got two parents at home two, sometimes one, night a week.

(Note: while I have had my selfish woe-is-me moments, like when I've just been puked or pooped on by Jonas and Axel is yelling, "Dog dog dog dog dog," while waving his arms over his head in a booga-booga fashion and chasing the dog who is barking and who just finished eating the dinner that I foolishly put too close to the edge of the kitchen table, I recognize that we are very lucky. Sean has not been deployed overseas. Neither of us is struggling with a serious illness. I am not actually a single parent, even if I am alone with both kids most of the time that I'm not at work. It's just a bit of a rocky transition, from a 65/35 parenting split to something more like 80/20 or, as it will be in some weeks, 90/10.)

Anyway, here's what a typical evening is starting to look like at our house:

4:20 pm: Get home. Relieve nanny, who stays with the boys a couple days a week. Put bottles of expressed milk in the fridge. Wave goodbye to nanny.

4:30 pm: Strap Jonas into the Baby Bjorn. Play outside. See tractor. Wave to tractor. Chase Axel down the street after his long lost love, big yellow tractor. See bus. Wave to bus. Prevent Axel from running into the street to declare his love for the bus and all its passengers. See mail truck. Wave to mail truck. Follow mail truck down the street. Wath Axel cheer, "Mail mail mail mail mail!" Think how nice it must be for the mailman to have a fan club.

5:00 pm: Pick up the mail. Tell Axel it's time to come inside. Chase Axel. Let out best horror movie heroine scream as Axel approaches dog poop and kneels down, apparently considering scooping up said poop with his bare hand. Get everyone one foot from the doorstep, only to hear a battle cry of, "Cat cat cat cat," a la Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's, as Axel chases cat off the porch (bobbling on the steps and inspring visions of a head injury), across the neighbor's lawn, and under a bush.

5:15 pm: Tell Axel again that it's time to come inside. No. Yes. No. Yes. Tractor? Yes. Inside. Pick him up. Go inside. Let Axel give Jonas one gentle kiss, a kiss that quickly morphs into a full-face slobber that stuns the easily shocked Jonas. Encourage Axel to play with set of wooden animals. Do not put on an Elmo video. Consider making something for dinner, like chicken pot pies from scratch! Wouldn't my mother in law be impressed! Realize that the fridge does not contain any of the ingredients for chicken pot pie, except for a few wilted carrots. Change someone's diaper. Change someone else's diaper. Notice spit up stain on shirt that was clean two minutes ago. What was I thinking about? Oh, right. Dinner.

5:23 pm: Floor is now covered in Legos, which Axel is happily pushing as far from the Lego box as possible while singing a little tune. This makes the dog bark. Jonas decides he is ravenous. Dinner is still a mystery, at least for the members of the house who want more than milk or Kibbles & Bits.

5:30 pm: Put on an Elmo video. A few minutes of Sesame Street can't hurt, right? Nurse Jonas, while Axel watches Elmo and Elmo's slightly creepy friend Mr. Noodle talk about pets and pulls all the cushions off of the living room furniture, replacing them with stuffed animals and blankets.

5:45 pm: Hear a crash in the front of the house. Pick up Jonas, who is still nursing, and walk to the front of the house, where Axel has climbed up on the double jogging stroller and pushed the mail off of the dresser just inside the front door. Remind him that jogging strollers are not jungle gyms. Comfort Jonas, who is offended that his meal has been interrupted by the walk across the house. More climbing - onto my bed, into Jonas' Pack and Play, on top of the coffee table - but, luckily, no crashing. Strategically deploy raisins.

6:00 pm: Feed pets. Pull out leftover frittata, random assortment of fruit, frozen chicken nuggets, and pretzels. Nuke it. All food groups are represented and an applicance has even been used to prepare the meal, so this is an adequate dinner. Tell Axel he must eat sitting at the table, while I snatch bites of chicken and fruit (standing up) and wash off breast pump parts. Put Jonas is bouncy chair. Sit for a few minutes, trying to engage Axel in conversation about his day, which revolves around the words truck, boom, paint, Daddy, baby, no no no, and cat.

6:07 pm: Axel climbs down from his chair, done with dinner. Clear plates. Go into basement, where Axel cooks an imaginary feast and eats a mound of imaginary food, which is apparently more satiating than real food. Keep Axel from tackling Jonas and dragging him across the floor to his lair, where he insists he wants to play with baby, except that "play" means "Test to make sure his ears are securely fixed to his head." More playing, more pooping, more nose wiping, more reminders not to chase the dog, more smiling and cooing at Jonas, more reading of books.

6:40 pm: Give Axel his dessert of graham crackers and milk. Change Jonas into a footed sleeper. Return to the kitchen in time to prevent Axel from feeding the dog a second graham cracker. Clean up toys. Cheer when Axel puts a single truck back in the toy box.

6:50 pm: Fill up bath. Try to find a happy place for Jonas. Fill up humidifiers (for white noise). Undress Axel, put him in the bath. Rock Jonas, sing to Jonas, or nurse Jonas while sitting on the toilet lid, next to the bathtub. Avoid the enthusiastic splashes coming from the wrecking of the S.S. Axel, which seems to have been submerged by rare teamwork from an octopus and a baby duck. Soap up one boy, sing to the other. Remove toddler from the tub. Hold him down and brush his teeth.

7:05 pm: Dress Axel in his pirate PJs, which results in lots of "Arrrggghs" all around, including from Jonas. Rescue Jonas from the bathmat. Rock Jonas. Try to keep Axel in his room. Read books that involve heavy machinery or cows. Read over wailing baby. Rock more. Two more books, a little water, and lights out.

7:25 pm: On to bedtime part two. Change Jonas, swaddle him up, nurse him while sorting through mail and singing snatches of lullabies.

8:00 pm: Put Jonas down in his bed, tiptoe out of the room, and finish eating dinner. Boys are sleeping!

8:05 pm: Jonas wails. Arrrgggh. More rocking, more singing, more snuffly little snuggles into my shoulder. Repeat, as necessary. Go into Axel's room, after a post bedtime poop, and ensure him that, yes, everyone he has ever met is sleeping, and thus he should sleep, too.

8:15 pm: Boys are sleeping! For real! Now comes laundry, kitchen clean up, dishes, packing things up for the morning, checking email, a few sit ups, the last ten minutes of Top Chef, showering, earnest thoughts about vaccuming and toilet cleaning that aren't followed through.

9:30 pm or beyond: Fall into bed, sometimes after another nursing session. Pledge to cook an actual meal for dinner again. Sometime. Eventually.

I think there's room for improvement.

All the Live Long Day

2009-09-29T21:00:00Z

Once again, I have returned to the land of copy machines, cc'ing, and mysterious year-old science project yogurts stinking up the community fridge. Yes, I'm back at work, after 12 weeks of maternity leave, during which I (again) planned to do lots of ambitious, vitally important things, like get the dog groomed and finally get rid of all those literary theory books I have from grad school and organize our cupboards with all the dry goods in cunning glass canisters and make homemade Halloween costumes, and (again) got nothing done except occasional vaccuming. I didn't even get the oil changed in my car. So, I've got nothing to show for all those weeks except for this:

(Jonas, just before he again put his hand in his mouth and just after he gave me this very important message: ooooh aarrrrr yiiiii.)

(Axel, doing his biggest "Say Cheese" smile, and me riding the train at the zoo.)

I guess that's not nothing.

"How does it feel to be back?" people keep asking me.

"Ask me when I've been back longer than two hours," I say.

Mostly it feels...weird. In almost three months, not much has changed. I had hundreds of emails to delete about events that have already happened and now-resolved crises with the shared projector. Sure, some people got haircuts and some people quit smoking or took up smoking or lost weight or gained weight, and projects have been completed and work accomplished and papers filed. Money has come in the door and gone back out. But it is still, mostly, the same place, except now I need a special code for copying.

And I still am, mostly, the same, except that am no longer wearing maternity clothes and am now wearing my fat pants and things with a stretchy waist. I was gone. Now I'm back. I had one baby. Now I have a baby and a toddler. I was tired from end of pregnancy bloat and sleeplessness. Now I'm tired from nighttime nursing sessions (Jonas wants me to take back what I said about him being a good sleeper) and a toddler with a minor digestive issue that makes him poop a few times a night and gives him a big bad case of diaper rash (but no swine flu, hurrah!). It's sad, but it's an accomplishment that I've made it to work two days in a row, in a mostly presentable state, and then carried on coherent conversations.

I think that's it - I'm too overwhelmed to even realize I'm overwhelmed. There's no time to stop and think about how I feel. There's only time to get everyone up and dressed and clean out my inbox and decipher a spreadsheet and add something else to my to-do list and order more diapers and add a picture of Jonas to my bulletin board and think that I really should get on planning Axel's 2nd bithday party and try to remember to pump before my shirt gets stained with milk in the middle of a meeting.

So how does it feel? Ask me in a few weeks.

H1N1 0h No

2009-09-25T16:41:00Z

It's happened: a confirmed swine flu sighting at Axel's daycare. Now I'm just checking my stash of flu-symptom fighting supplies, and waiting for the big one to hit. For the next 24 hours, we'll continue on high flu symptom alert, watching every little cough and sneeze.

It's possible that we'll escape unscathed. Possible, but not likely. Axel shares a classroom with nine other slobbering, drooling, nose-picking, toy-chomping toddlers. They spend all day putting blocks in their mouths, cramming their boogery faces into stuffed animals, and slowly learning to cover their mouths when they cough. Sure, they wash their hands frequently, but then the kids stick their fingers up their noses two minutes later. Unless each kid is outfitted with a hazmat suit, germs will be shared, generously and quickly.

A room full of toddlers is H1N1 paradise.

Before the exposure, I invested in three different kinds of hand sanitizer. Many people with regular old flu, swine flu, and countless other colds and sicknesses are walking the streets, and I tried to create our own personal impenetrable superstrength germ shield. We've got portable alcohol-free sprays in cars, strollers, and diaper bags. There's hand sanitizer pumps on changing tables, counters, and next to the sink, along with good old and frequently used soap and water. We've already gotten regular old flu shots. The threat of swine flu has already cracked and dried out my hands from all the hand washing.

But I don't think it will save us from a battle with the dreaded pig bug. Hopefully Axel will have a minor case, and Jonas will escape without more than a minor sniffle.

Sleep, The Second Time Around

2009-09-23T15:50:00Z

When Axel was a baby, I was obsessed with sleep: who was sleeping (not my baby), who wasn't (me), how to get him to sleep (nursing, rocking, singing), and how to get him to stay that way (prayer and voodoo). When you don't sleep, it's all you can think about. Babies, I realized, are crazy. I even viewed all mothers who claimed their babies slept with some suspicion, especially those who slept through the night by four months - were they lying to me? Had they just forgotten, five or twenty-five years later? Had sleepy little aliens snatched away their human babies, replacing them with identical pod babies who snoozed for twelve hours straight?

Well, now I know the truth. They weren't lying. It's not aliens. There are real, live human babies who sleep more than two hours in a row. One of them lives with me.

I've been afraid to tell you this, for fear it might jinx it. I'm rubbing my luck rabbit's foot and knocking on wood and providing offerings of pink marabou-trimed slippers and expensive organic cotton mattresses to the sleep gods as I type this. But here it is: my youngest son actually sleeps.

Jonas consistently sleeps a six to eight hour stretch, and then he'll go back for another three or four hours. He sleeps until 7:00 or 7:30 in the morning. Even more amazing, I can put the child down while he's almost asleep, and sometimes he'll actually sink into slumber. His slept through from 9 pm - 6 am a handful of times.

I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. After my wakeful older son, I assumed that any child with my genes would be up three or more times a night and wouldn't sleep through the night until he was a year, or older.

I'm not quite sure why Jonas sleeps so well. He's living on mama's milk, just like Axel. He's about the same size. We turned Axel into a burrito with swaddling wraps every night, just like we do with Jonas. Both have loud humidifiers for white noise. Jonas sleeps in the top of the Pack N Play in our room, as Axel did. The one main difference? I can't always come running right when Jonas squeaks and cries, especially on all the nights that I'm alone with the two of them. So, Jonas has been given a few minutes here and there to put himself to sleep, not out of any master sleep plan but simply because I can't be two places at once and I don't yet have Go-Go Gadget arms. Oh, and I got an earlier start on the one thing that seems to have worked for Axel (who is now, at almost two, finally a sleep champion) - a more consistent bedtime routine, although calling it a "routine" is a bit of a stretch.

Mostly, though, it's luck. Jonas came wired to sleep a bit more at a younger age. For that, I am deeply, deeply thankful. It might not last, and there will be nights of frequent wakings from teething or illness or the boogieman. I'm savoring all the shut-eye while I can.

He's a Lover, Not a Fighter

2009-09-21T00:21:00Z

Even before Axel was a year old, he was smooching on the other babies at daycare. He's become even more of a kisser and a cuddler since Jonas has arrived. There's lots of positive reinforcement for the adorable sight of a toddler kissing his wee baby brother - oohs and ahhs and giggles of delight from the adults at the sight of the kisses.

Now, the kissing has become a bit more aggressive. Axel's love will not be denied. He wants to kiss Jonas, and, in response to "He's sleeping," or "Not right now, Jonas is unhappy. Let's save the kiss for later," Axel starts wildly gesturing at his mouth and saying, "mmm mmm mmm bis bis bis BIS BIS," ("bis" means "kiss"). He will throw a tantrum if his love for Jonas is thwarted.

Since his love is not always appreciated at home, he's taking it on the road. He hugs and kisses his neighbors goodbye. He valiantly attempts to capture the cat with a overzealous cuddle. He winks, smiles, ducks his head in false modesty at the grocery store, then launches into conversations about his favorite topics - trucks and cheese - in an attempt to win over check-out ladies and all other people in a ten yard radius. Now he throws in references to baby, pointing to Jonas, who does a toothless grin or lets loose with a little drool. Yes, his baby brother is his wingman.

Apparently, he's also become the lovemachine at daycare, making eyes at kindergartners as he walks down the hallway and running into the girls' bathroom to wrap his arms around the legs of a certain young woman who has gained his affections. These hugs come with nose wipes, so you might also get a booger streak on your shoulder along with a warm hug, but that's the price you pay for love.

When I picked him up at daycare a few days ago, he walked over and slowly wrappes his arms around of the boys in his class, a sturdy kid with wavy brown hair and an earnest expression. At first, the other kid froze, not quite sure what had happened; he wasn't prepared for a 4 pm lovefest. Then, the boy hugged him back. They separated again, and returned for another hug. And another. And another. Then came a kiss. During the hugs and kisses, both boys had very serious expressions. Cuddling is nothing to smile about.

Awww, young love. I almost melted. The only thing that would've improved on the scene is if they'd been in a field of wildflowers and, you know, skipped off together while holding hands to save a labradoodle puppy from a swarm of rabid varmints.

Well, that might've been too cute. I might have thrown up. They are real boys, after all, and so, in the style of real boys, the kiss was interrupted by a sudden, intense need to slam the bell inside of the basketball hoop that sits in the corner of the room again and again. Then two other real boys got in a wrestling match over a particularly attractive truck that to the adult eye looks exactly the same as all the other trucks in the room but to a nuanced toddler's eye is clearly superior, especially when held by a fellow toddler. Hugs and kisses to smacks, in less than five minutes.

Cuteness Interlude

2009-09-17T03:13:00Z

I think it's time for an update on the most recent adorable sayings and doings of the boys. Well, mostly the older boy. Jonas is cute, but there's only so many ways to write smile, coo, tiny baby, awwww. Here, check out this picture:

As for Axel, he currently enjoys putting things on his head, like paper bags and backwards helmets, and then going about his business. Perhaps I shouldn't encourage bags on the head, I know. It's hard to stop laughing long enough to say, "Bag off the head, kid," when a munchkin is hopping around doing his best siren imitation while wearing a paper helmet. I'm thinking of investing in a variety of headwear, like a viking helmet and an electric blue hairpiece, so he'll have more options when he wants to put something on his noggin.

Axel's new words:

Ah-oh-nuts (Astronauts) and Ah-oh-puss (Octopuss)

It's as though he's worried about any creature that's not living on the land, from the ah-oh-puss of the ocean to the ah-oh-nuts orbiting the Earth.

I try to get him to repeat these whenever I can. We'll be talking about what to have for dinner, which goes something like, "Hey, Axel, do you want dinner?"

"Yeah!"

"What do you want?"

Blank stare.

"Do you want...cheese?"

"Cheezzz!"

"How about some...beans?"

"Beans! Yeah!"

(Note: we do not eat a diet of only cheese and beans; it's just that these are two of his favorite things to cook as the daily specials at Axel's Imaginary Food Gourmet Restaurant, where lactose intolerant people end up with lots and lots of post-meal flatulence.)

"Ummm, what do you think astronauts eat for dinner?"

"Beans. Rice! Chezzzz."

"Can you say astronaut?"

"Ah-oh-nuts. Yeah! Ah-oh-nuts."

"Yeah" is also a big favorite, though it's usually used in response to crazy things, as in, "Axel, you ever been to Bolivia?"

"Yeah!"

"Axel, have you finished choreographing your original lyrical jazz routine to 'Under Pressure'?"

"Yeah!"

"Axel, will you help clean up your crayons?"

"No!"

He's not even two and I can't trick him.

Axel's also starting to figure out rules, and helpfully sharing those rules with friends and strangers. Example: coffee is hot. We do not touch coffee or hot things.

So, we are at a coffee shop. He points to my latte and says, hopefully, "Juice?"

"No, it's not juice, it's coffee. It's hot. It's not for Axel. Your juice is over here."

He waves his arm at the coffee and says, "No. Noooooo. Hot. Nooooo hot."

"You're right. It's not OK to grab hot drinks."

Then, he turns to the barista and waves his arm and says, "No. Noooooo. 'S hot. HOT."

Yes, it's very helpful to tell people who make coffee for a living that they should not touch hot coffee. He also shares rules about throwing rocks, eating play-do, and hitting the dog as often as he can, generally with people who are not likely to do any of those things.

Unfortunately, his ability to share the rules does not mean he actually follows those rules.

Baby Fat

2009-09-14T15:53:00Z

Not the fat on the baby. The stuff that's left on me. I know the saying - nine months on, nine months off. Yeah, I should be patient. Yeah, I should be in awe of the fact that my body nurtured and sustained an entire little person who is still living off of milk that I'm creating. Yeah, I should be thankful that I have two healthy boys and that I'm healthy and strong. Yeah, I should remember that the last time around, I didn't lose all of the weight until I stopped nursing. I know. You're right. Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.

But right now, I am selfishly focused on my desire to zip up my pants without having that little (and sometimes, depending on the pants, and assuming I'm able to actually zip them up, pretty big) bulge over the top. I want to wear a shirt that doesn't have an empire waist without feeling self conscious. I don't want to look like I'm carrying baby number three. I want to fit into my work clothes and be able to button a blazer without the buttons threatening to pop. I want my boobs to return to the size of a more decorous fruit, like an apple, rather than rivaling mutant cantaloupes. Most of all, I want to stop having the disconcerting experience of catching sight of myself in a shop window or in the mirror and thinking, "Oh my lord, that's my body? Seriously?"

There's another mother in my neighborhood - a lovely woman who I truly like, despite my postpartum body envy - who is the around the corner version of Heidi Klum walking in a Victoria's Secret show two months after having a baby. This neighbor had a baby around the same time I had Jonas, also her second, and if I hadn't actually seen her pregnant, I might not believe that she'd been with child just a few months ago. OK, so I haven't seen her in a bikini, and she says she still has a few pounds left to lose, but the girl looks amazing. I'm pretty sure she looks better now than I looked before I got knocked up. It should be motivating to me to see her walking around looking fabulous, but the only thing it inspires is a frustrated desire to eat a brownie because my body is just not programmed to shrink down that quickly.

I'm working on my body after baby. I'm exercising - sort of. I get out for a slow run a couple of days a week, chase a toddler everyday, and squeeze in stomach crunches and lunges between naps and feeding sessions. I'm eating well - sort of. I eat lots of fruit and vegetables and try to have regular meals, but will succumb to M & Ms and pretzels during late night moments of weakness and exhaustion. By 7 pm, my patience and willpower stores have been used up. With little time and less energy and my body's own personal timeline that won't be rushed, it will take awhile. And I probably need to lower my standards. Afterall, I didn't exactly have abs of steel before bearing two children.

My mantra: be patient, it will happen, skip dessert.

Or just eat one small serving of dessert. I guess that makes the mantra a little clunky.

Hey, I'm breastfeeding. I need a little chocolate.

The Angry Pterodactyl

2009-09-11T17:25:00Z

Vocal chords. Good, generally, but not always used that way when in the hands, or throat, of a toddler.

Axel has decided that screeching at the top of your lungs, like a pterodactyl's battle cry, is super cool. Here's what happens: he gets excited. He yells. Sometimes he adds in arm waving and running and head shaking. The dog also runs, wagging his tail, and barks. More yelling. More barking. More barking and yelling. More yelling and barking. Yell. Bark. The cat - smart creature that he is - sprints out of the room, which of course inspires more running and yelling and barking. Sometimes there's crying, usually from Jonas. Then I want to cry. It's loud. It's hard to think. My head hurts.

The yelling has also occured in a busy restaurant; Axel heard a kid at another table yell, and decided that it was a good idea to see if his screams could also be heard above the clinking of silverware and chatter of other Labor Day diners. Yeah, they could. The screams were very audible. The other diners were not all that impressed, except for the fellow toddler yeller at the other table who challenged Axel to an early morning yell-off over eggs and pancakes. I couldn't tell you who won. My ears were ringing from all the yelling.

Here's what I've tried: whispering when he yells. I think I read somewhere that whispering entices toddlers to quiet down and listen up. I might have misunderstood, because whispering does no such thing in our house. Then, I tried talking about inside voices and outside voices, and the general statement, "Axel. We do not yell." Axel yelled to show that, contrary to what I'd said, one of us does yell. A lot.

So, how do you stop a toddler from yelling, or at least turn down the volume?

The Naturally Occuring Fauxhawk

2009-09-09T20:17:00Z

Well, here's one way Jonas is different than his older brother: he sports a naturally occuring fauxhawk. The morning after his bath, the hair in the middle of his head curls up in the middle of his head into a fauxhawk. Yeah, he's tough like that.

Can't you tell from that grin? He's a hooligan in the making. He may be two months old, but he's tough. That little pug nose is nothing to sneer at.

Today, Mr. Fauxhawk had his two month appointment. In addition to trying to out-cute his brother in grocery stores and see who can woo more strange women, he's also trying to catch up with him in the weight department. At two months, Axel hadn't quite reached ten pounds. Jonas is ten pounds eight ounces. So, yeah, not exactly the baby most likely to be the fat man at the circus, but bigger than his brother at this age.

(This one's Axel, at two months.)

Now, the current two month old is having a bit of post-shot fussiness, as we try to get his room ready. Yeah, he's two months old, and his room still isn't ready. He's been sleeping in our room in the Pack and Play, and, despite all my firm promises to get the room fixed up and cleaned out, it's still a guest room/random clutter storage extravaganza. Maybe by this time next month he'll be sleeping in his crib, underneath the framed giraffes torn out from an old Goodwill-purchased children's book. With two kids, my to-do list is twice as long, but I move through it half as quickly...

The Little Guy

2009-09-07T20:22:00Z

People keep asking me how Jonas is different than Axel. Well, obviously, he's smaller. His hair's a little more red. His hand-eye coordination is not so good. It's pretty easy to tell them apart. What they really mean is how's Jonas different than Axel at the same age. And my answer, which I am embarrassed to say as a younger sibling who understands how important it is to take lots of baby pictures of both children, is that I'm not quite sure.

Truthfully, Axel's very recent babyhood is already a fuzzy memory. It's an impressionist painting. When I look to close and try to pull up details, like when exactly he started sitting up or eating solid food or sleeping through the night, I find nothing but a slippery, vague answer that would earn me a big fat F on a Major Baby Milestones Pop Quiz. That's why people have baby books, and why I should really try to fill in the blanks for either of the boys' books before they graduate from high school and I find myself making it all up, swapping between a blue and a black pen so it doesn't look like I've done a last-minute baby book cram session.

I recently offered my sister-in-law finger foods for her not quite seven-month-old daughter, and she looked at me like, "Wait, don't you have two small children?," though she was too polite to say as much. Yeah, I should remember things like when kids start with Cheerios and when they start going to a two-nap-a-day schedule, and I don't, though I was certain I'd remember every single moment and milestone. That's why I now turn to Google and my pediatrician's helpful well check hand-outs for a little developmental info.

As I'm having such a hard time remembering Axel's babyhood, all baby stuff, including the babies themselves, are merging together into one mostly adorable, cuddly lightweight mass of urges and bodily fluids, Baby with a capital B. This is why my father can't always tell baby pictures of my brother and I apart. This is why parents mix up their children's names. If this is happening to me with just two children, how does Michelle Duggar keep her 18, soon to be 19, kids straight? George Foreman's family of Georges doesn't seem so crazy to me anymore.

Back to the boys: there are a few differences that come to mind. Axel had colic. Jonas, while he's got his fussy periods and has reinspired the 5 - 9 pm sway, shush, and shuffle routine, does not have colic. Both boys hate (or hated) tummy time, but Jonas hates it a little less than Axel, the raging on his belly master, hated it. Both moved and thrashed like mad, out of the womb and within, and rolled from tummy to back before they were two months. Neither is or was what you would call a mellow Buddha baby, but Jonas is probably a little more relaxed than Axel. Both of them tell you immediately, with very little build up, that they are starving or tired. We do not have much in the way of early hunger signals in our house; Jonas, especially, will go from sleeping peacefully in my arms to screaming and sobbing with starvation in twenty seconds. Crying is not, as all the literature will tell you, always a late hunger signal, unless sleeping peacefully is Jonas' early hunger signal..

At just two months, Jonas' personality is only starting to emerge. At not quite two years, Axel's, too, is still taking shape, changing and evolving each day. I'm just getting to know Jonas, and I'm learning more and more about Axel. Their differences will become more apparent over the years. I'll learn if Jonas shares his brother's bottomless love of anything with four wheels and a motor, or if he prefers to read and re-read books about butterflies instead of tractors. He'll become more Jonas-y, whatever that means, as he gets past the newborn blob phase and becomes a more interactive little person. While this part has its benefits - I get to hold Jonas as long as I want to, he's pretty portable, and he never tries to do a love throw-down and tackle my legs with a hug like his brother does - I like the next part more, when the kid is moving and talking and learning and becoming whoever he is.