One of Many Reasons I Love my Redding

When I went to get Red from his nap this afternoon he points to a book he was looking at and says, "What is Leo doing?" I think he was being obtusely instructive, as we frequently are. He'll ask a question and we'll put it back to him, "Well, what do you think?"

So I said, "Looks like he's making something."

Redding says, "Yes, he baked a cake. We can bake a cake. We'd be just like Leo."

Seriously? With a lead-in like that? How could I ever say no?

I asked, "What kind of cake would you like to bake?"

After a little consideration, he replied, "Orange."

Thinking to myself that I can not make an orange cake, mostly because I've been out of red food coloring since Andrew requested a red velvet birthday cake, LIKE TWO YEARS AGO... I have some kind of mental block about picking up food coloring of any variety, but especially red. OK?

I said, "I don't think I have a recipe for that. There are lots of different kinds of cakes I do have recipes for chocolate, yellow, spice cake, gingerbread, pumpkin, even coffee cake."

He picked coffee cake. Then he got giddier and giddier as he asked me what we'd put in it and I listed off the potential ingredients.

The boy is deliriously happy. I love it. As someone how genuinely enjoys baking, not just for the end product, but just because it is a little bit magic, I can't tell you how pleased I am that he is so interested.

The funny thing is? He probably won't eat coffee cake, or any other kind of cake. He doesn't like bread, most crackers, eats only the frosting off of cupcakes, won't touch the chocolate chip or pumpkin muffins I make all the time...

He is an interesting child, but he's all mine and I couldn't possibly love him any more.

Buying A Crib

Once upon a time, Andrew and I had a baby. The baby was so early that Andrew and I had purchased exactly nothing. Not a single item. When you have a baby that is born 14 weeks early, you also tend not to give a whole lot of thought to purchasing things while they are in the hospital fighting for their lives.

Nope.

So, when we finally got around to buying a crib, it was maybe a few weeks before Annabella would be coming home. We had been gathering tidbits from other parents, magazines, websites, nurses, and doctors about what we needed. Then the deciding factor: The neonatologist, Dr. Sunshine told us that we better get our act together because before long, our girl would be home.

When you go to buy a crib, be sure to give yourself 6 - 8 weeks lead time for delivery of the crib. When you don't have that kind of lead time, you find a specialty baby store with cribs in stock. These stores can be very hard to find, but they are out there.

Why, oh why, am I writing about a crib? Because the crib that we finally selected is now completing its circle of life, as Annabella's bed frame.

Yes, once our beautiful girl was done with the crib, and toddler bed, we moved her brother into the crib. Now that he is done with the toddler bed, Annabella gets a beautiful big girl bed, as she puts it.

In all seriousness, buying the convertible crib was the best furniture decision we've ever made. I highly recommend it.

Great Day

Almost by sheer force of will, it was a fantastic day today. Annabella was back at school. Redding had a great time at the Y. I got to go to yoga. We even made some yummy minty cookies to decorate. All good stuff.

Realizing that I haven't put up any new pictures lately, I had to come up with a post today, just to get this one up.

I freakin' love my kids.

Out of the Mouths of Moms

The last week has presented certain challenges. There's the trauma of having a child hospitalized. There's the lack of sleep for worrying and cries of, "Mom!" in the night. There's the constant nagging to get fluids into your child.

All that. But none of those begins to touch on the challenges faced by Redding. First, his sister gets loads of attention. She's got mom and dad following her around with bowls, towels, cool cloths for her head... Loads of medicine and tons of sippees of juice, ice water, Gatorade, Pedialyte, anything she will drink. Redding wants a bowl for in his bed. He wants "puffers" like Annabella's. He wants a sippee, which thankfully he can have. He wants whatever she is getting.

So Friday morning, I called the grandparents to enlist assistance in watching Red while I took Annabella to the pediatrician. Poppa was at our house a few hours later and Bel and I were off. Red wanted to see the doctor. I figure, why take a healthy child into the waiting room full of miserable illness?

The doctor briefly examined my normally perky girl. Based on her coloring, lethargy, tender abdomen and the fact that she hadn't kept much down in 2 days, she sent us to the hospital for IV fluids to treat severe dehydration.

So, we stopped home to pick up some necessities. Poppa was out shoveling the driveway and Red was out with him, playing on a sled. I was already weepy over putting Bel into the hospital. I was overwhelmed with gratitude to find Red happy as a clam and my driveway being cleared. Then I had to humbly ask what he had planned for the rest of the afternoon, as I had to go put my girl... And the tears flowed.

Redding winds up spending the rest of the day with Poppa and Gragra at our house, then going to their house for dinner and a sleepover. He gets all the attention of two very doting grandparents. But there's a problem. He doesn't understand why Sissy gets to go to the doctor, to the hospital, gets medicine, etc. Poor guy. Plus he's missing Annabella, Mom and Dad. Poor, poor sweet boy.

Saturday evening Annabella got to come home, but wasn't very interactive with Red. Still she's getting lots of attention and fussing over. Medicine, puffers, all that jazz.

Sunday night at dinner we were discussing how he'd been saying things all weekend like, "I hurt myself, I need to go to the hospital." And, forced, fake cough, cough "I'm sick, I need a puffer."

Annabella hops up from the dinner table with a panicked look on her face, shouting, "I have to go potty, NOW!" She races to the bathroom.

Redding is hot on her heels, "Oh! I have to go potty now, too!" Which is funny because he's not potty trained. He feels using the potty once a day before nap is plenty.

Someone commented that he just wants to have and do everything just like his big sister.

I replied, "Yeah, won't he be surprised when he gets his first period."

Soccer Mom

I just signed Annabella up for a short 3 week soccer clinic. If it goes well, she will join a local U8 soccer team and play a season from the end of April through the end of June. There are two evenings a week, one for practice, one for a game.

You may be witnessing the birth of a soccer mom. Now, will I have to trade in my (RECALLED!?!?!!!) Matrix for a minivan?

What's That Noise?

I swore I'd never be that parent that needed to force their child into silence when they were crying. Bullying, cajoling, forcing, somehow, that child to stop their fit, silence their sobs, and cease the waterworks.

Certainly, I'd never intimidate them through gritted teeth, telling them, "Stop your crying or I'll give you something to cry about!"

Yet there are moments. Little pieces of time when the whole infinite universe shrinks down to that one tiny voice in the dark. And the noise coming out of them? Well it just makes my head crawl and my teeth clench, and every nerve in my body shrieks, "MAKE THAT CHILD STOP MAKING THAT NOISE!!!"

That's when mommy needs a time out. I look away, take a breath, go to another room, say calmly, "That's enough. Pull yourself together, or..." whatever fun thing we had planned will no longer be happening.

Yep. Means be damned, I'm that mom.

Crap.

Recess

One of the things that I looked at when we wanted to move Annabella to a different school was recess. I know that a number of people thought this was a funny priority. My other priorities were things like art and music. I would love for Annabella to be in a school with a drama program as well. But, given dwindling budgets, the current moil of our present school district, and everything else, I was happy to find a school that offered 2 recesses in the Fall and occasionally through the year, during prep para time, as well as art, music, and an enrichment program for gifted students.

Now, my quest for recess is vindicated by Harvard! Check it out!

Now it is time for us to reapply for our indistrict transfer that allows Annabella to attend a better school, closer to our home, with more recess time, more art, and music. Unfortunately, because the district is losing students, there are school closings. One of which will add as many as 70 students to the school Annabella is currently attending. That means that once we get our yearly paperwork in for the indistrict transfer, this year there will be a LOTTERY. A lottery, only those who have previously had an indistrict transfer to the school will be eligible, to determine who gets to attend.

Priceless.

Now, we received a letter stating that per the most recent attendance area redraw Annabella will have to return to the school she attended for Kindergarten. I think not. So we fill out the paperwork for the indistrict transfer, which asks us to list our TOP 4 choices. Seriously? Yes.

Now, there are other schools in our district on par with the one Annabella attended this year. They are a little farther away, we don't know any neighbor children who attend them, and that would mean 3 elementary schools in 3 years. All while we live in the same house. I was moved a number of times as a kid, but this is ridiculous.

What length will we go to to get her, or keep her, in a good school?

Redding's First Haircut

On Saturday, December 19, 2009, Redding had his first haircut.

Here we have the "before" shot:

Here we have the "after" shot:

In between we had a lot of wailing and some consoling. You can use this as a life lesson, don't wait until your child is 2 1/2 to get their first haircut. Or you can look at it as typical toddler / preschooler behavior. They don't like change.

I would like to thank my dear friend Mindi, who let us tag along with her and her three boys as they went in for their regularly scheduled and wonderfully handsome haircuts. From her oldest, who just turned 5, to her youngest who is about 6 months younger than Red, they did a great job.

Once again, my very capable friend not only managed her highly active brood, but somehow also held my hand while I felt like the meanest mom and in the end helped me get my kids coats on them. I don't know how she does it. She is supermom.

Redding likes his hew hair. Everyone who knows him is shocked by the change. He seems so grown up, somehow more well-behaved. It is bizarre how appearances set expectations. He's not a baby anymore.

Goodbye my bohemian baby boy. Hello my sweet well-behaved little boy.

Just Like Me

Annabella has always been a very physically active child. Strangers everywhere across this nation have remarked that if they could "bottle just half that energy" they could be rich or better yet, enjoy the kind of positive outlook Annabella has.

Having been present for every one of her physical therapy sessions, having literally worked with her on building strength in her legs on countless playgrounds, and having gotten over a little of my own fear of horses to take her to hippotherapy, I am acutely aware of when she falls down.

Over the years I have begun to think that she falls only a little more often than most children. I wonder sometimes if it is because of the way her muscles developed due to her prematurity, if perhaps she just inherited a bit of clumsiness from her mom, or even if she just falls a bit more often because she is in perpetual motion. More movements overall lead to a greater number of falls, if not an overall greater proportion.

Most of the time I am able to look at any guilt I have over her prematurity and shake my head and push it away. The cause of preeclampsia and HELLP Syndrome are unknown, so 90% of the time I let myself off the hook. The lack of coordination? That is all me. I have long had such a strong tendency to run into things that someone once said to me, "It's as if your brain has no idea where your body is."

I think I was hurt at the time, but it is quite accurate. I trip walking up stairs that I walk daily. I miss obvious visual cues that tell others to step over things. That is just me.

Annabella? Most of the time she likes to do her own thing. I try not to tell her she is just like me. Just as I don't want to put the limit or excuse of her prematurity on her, I also don't want to lead her to believe that my life is all that there is in the world for her.

Then, while I'm deep in a spiral of this circuitous thinking, over analyzing and fretting, Annabella walks into the kitchen. Utterly unaware of what I am doing, I continue as I say, "Hey sweetie, what's up?"

Her eyes are popping and she's stopped dead in her tracks, "MOMMY! How do you do that? Can I try?"

I am standing at the counter, cutting carrots with the sharpest paring knife in the house. Against my thumb. Over and over the paring knife goes through the carrot, stopping before it hits my thumb and the carrot slice falls into the bowl.

Looking down I realize what I'm doing and I start to explain that it is dangerous. I get out a cuttingboard so that I can show her the right way, but she's not interested in the right way. And now I'm getting annoyed because the stupid carrot pieces are rolling all over the place. The moment is lost, she's already moved on to something else. I start to think that maybe next time I'll ask her to cut them for me, using a cuttingboard of course.

The real point is that I need to be living in, present in, and focused on right now. The things I am doing at any given moment. Then maybe I won't fall down so much.

Down To My Very Foundation

Like it or not, as a parent you are your child's first Philosophy professor. Whether you talk about ideas and life and big pictures or not, you communicate to them about how life is, how things work, how to be in the world.

Then they go off to school and get all kinds of other messages. Not a bad thing, all in all. But certainly something that opens your eyes to the messages you send.

Annabella opened up this conversation when she was done eating dinner, waiting for dessert, the day Andrew left on his trip. "Mom, what happens when we die?"

Yep.

So I started in with how different people believe different things. The concept of heaven, reincarnation, themes of rejoining our ancestors...

Then, in a complete surprise to me, after listening patiently to all this, she says, "No, Mom, what REALLY happens?"

To which I could only reply, "Nobody knows, honey. That's why so many different cultures around the world have spent so much time thinking about it. Everyone would like to know, but nobody really does."

"Believing something that you can't prove or know for sure, that's called faith."

I know I had a similar conversation with my mom. She being raised Catholic had no trouble giving me a firm answer. No maybe's. Maybe my mother is where my belief in a higher power came from. Probably. But my own dismay at organized religion of any stripe is entirely my own.

So, I'm a free-form deist married to an avowed athiest. Teaching a mini-course, ad hoc, on comparative religion.

"But what do YOU think happens Mom?"

"Well, as I said, I don't know for sure. I like the idea of reincarnation a lot. First, because it encourages us to have greater respect for all living things. Second, because life is so full of amazing things and people, we couldn't possibly understand or experience it all in just one lifetime."

Did you just hear that?

It is Summer still and accordingly, I like to walk around my house barefoot.

OK, that is my custom. It is not actually something I like. I don't tend to like it because somehow my kitchen floor is always sticky. That and my feet, the callouses and the dirt. The horror, people, the horror.

But it's my home and my horror, so I will go barefoot. Thunk, thunk, thunk, all the way across the floor, thank you very much.

In typical fashion, I would like to thank the two small children who live in my house for making my floor sticky. I'd also like to thank the previous owners who installed semi-hideous faux slate vinyl flooring in shades of brown and grey. Which really doesn't look THAT bad, and does an amazing job of hiding dirt...

But I digress.

You see, this morning, I swept, vacuumed, and scrubbed the floor. And the children haven't been anywhere near it. I scrubbed the floor with hot water, a lot of vinegar, and a tiny bit of soap. On my hands and knees. Really.

So, can someone please tell me what the freaking hell is up with my feet sticking to the floor right now? Directly in front of my computer? Where I know I scrubbed thoroughly?

Since I clearly can not be at fault here, I blame the sneaky floor-stick-gnomes. I heard them snickering when I finished vacuuming the dining room.

There's nothing systematic about my desensitization

It seems like at least once a day, for the last two weeks or more, Andrew winds up translating something one of our children said for me. Many times he is just repeating for me, more loudly, what one of them has said.

I was beginning to think that I need to go get a hearing test. But here's the thing... I hear just fine. Seriously, 99% of the time, when I am away from my children, I hear great. I hear the phone ring. I hear knocks at the door. I hear the garage door open. I almost never have to ask and adult or someone on the phone to repeat themselves.

There can be only one logical answer. I've begun blocking out the sound of my children's voices.

When I was but a single gal, auntie, I used to marvel at how mothers could simply ignore their children desperately trying to get their attention. Mommy! Mommy! Mom-meeee!!!!!!! (I'm not naming any names, and I think I managed to keep my mouth shut and not judge. Here's hoping.) But now I totally understand.

There seems to be a limit to what I can or am willing to listen to on a daily basis. In the morning, when we're getting ready for the day, I am mommy-on-the-spot with all kinds of helping hands. By dinner time I am reduced to someone who not only can't hear when one of them is talking to me, can't always distinguish one voice from the three usually going at the time... And I am even sometimes sloppy about responding. Sometimes I respond to what I think I heard and don't bother to clarify.

Fortunately for me, however, I have a built in hearing aide. How so? Each evening Andrew comes home for dinner and steps in to filter whatever important is being said up to me. How can he do it after a full day of work? Perhaps sometimes the voices of small immediate needs are much more enjoyable to hear.

For me, silence is golden. It revives me and charges my batteries. Someday when too much of my time is full of this golden silence, perhaps I'll miss the cacophony. For now, even I have limits.

Is it me?

If I ever wonder aloud how I got such a Pollyanna child, remind me that I almost started crying while coaching my daughter how to be tough this morning.

In fact, I did start crying when asking one of the teenage counselors to watch out for the bullying. But not until I was walking away.

Avoiding blaming the victim at all costs, but encouraging my girl to stand up for herself is hard, OK? I kept making suggestions and all she would say was, "Mom, I don't want to hurt his feelings."

The fact that he's hurting hers? That doesn't seem to matter so much. Except that she mentioned possibly not going back to camp today. Grrr!!!

Finally, I got her to agree to say, with force, "If you can't be nice, you can't be my friend."

Let's hope that helps.

Now, really, who's surprised I'm entrusting my $1.25 million former micro-preemie to teenage YMCA counselors anyway? I know I am! Not that there's anything wrong with them, just that I am a freak.

Somebody Save Her

If I can't save the world's biggest wide-eyed Pollyanna from a boy who professes to be her friend but insists on terrorizing her... What good am I, really?

Loads of Photos on Flickr

I'm way behind. Go look. Over two full pages of park-y goodness.

Dreaming

In our latest round of "What School Should Bel Attend?" I was struck with one thought. Part of me would love to put her in front of Sponge Bob for hours a day. Let her eat nothing but junk, never read a non-fiction book, buy her every 'of the moment' outfit and accessory, fill her ears with Hannah Montana, and never ever talk about the real world.

The goal of which being? Part of me longs for her to have a life of the carefree masses. The ones who think our politicians vote representing the constituents who elected them. The ones who don't think lobbyists make a mockery of the concept of 'greater good'. The ones who think our planet is not in trouble. The ones who don't recycle, save water or energy, and feel nothing as they toss yards of plastic wrap in landfills every day. The ones who think we have a strong justice system. The ones who think, or rather the ones who don't think. Not often and not for themselves.

Then again, I don't think even aggressive attempts to turn my girl into a flibbertigibbet would make a difference in the end. She's pretty smart and tuned-in for a 5 year old. She finds her own humor and lightness in the world, drawing it out literally from the people around her.

Cribs for Preemies (And All Precious New Babies)

While browsing an old copy of Parents magazine this morning over breakfast, I was stopped in my tracks by a crib recall notice. An astounding 600,000 cribs of the model being recalled had been sold. The flaw is that the drop side can come loose and entrap or suffocate the baby.

Having happily and successfully used a very simple crib for two preemies, I'd like to urge all parents to seriously consider a convertible crib whose sides do not move. You lower the mattress height as the baby grows and develops skills, like sitting up or standing, so you don't really need drop sides. You don't need moving parts in your child's crib.

What you do need? A carefully assembled, well-made convertible crib. A mattress that fits the crib tightly, with no gaps (Now, consider a low or no VOC option, please or make sure you air it out really, really ridiculously well before you bring baby home.). Several well made fitted sheets that fit very snugly and won't bunch up no matter how baby wiggles. Some sleep sacks.

That is it. Sounds stark, doesn't it? Try thinking of it as safety baby feng shui. Bumpers, pillows, toys, even lovies can all pose danger to babies, and increase risk of SIDS. Baby sleep safety goes way beyond Back to Sleep.

For me, as the mom of two tiny preemies, it was such a triumph to get them home from the hospital that doing everything possible to ensure there safety at home was a no-brainer. But all babies deserve extra thought given to their safety. For more infant safety information you can check out the March of Dimes website.

[The March of Dimes - March for Babies is coming up the end of April. Please consider sponsoring our walk, it will be our fifth time walking, here.

Beyond safety, there is the beauty of re-use. The one crib we purchased has served as crib, toddler bed, now crib again. In the next two years it will have another round as toddler bed and finally head and foot boards. Now that is good for the baby, good for the toddler, good for the child, good for the wallet, and good for the planet.

Mommy Wars

A confluence of sorts has occurred and I can't stop myself from writing about it.

As I've said a million times, I just didn't get or get into the whole 'blog' thing until Andrew showed me Dooce. This woman was hilarious and real. Messy, but fun. Having worked from home since becoming a mother, that blog provided me a much needed window into the life of another mom. A contemporary, even. So, I've been reading Dooce almost as long as I've had Annabella, which seems like just about forever.

Well, Heather, the writer of Dooce, was on Oprah yesterday. The topic wasn't blogs, mommy blogs, or anything really computer related. It was just about being a mother. It was full of mother confessions. So, what's the big thing? Well, it seems that the big confessions of mothers across the country are pretty universal. Moms feel alone, isolated, they feel like they have unreal expectations for themselves, they are overtired, under-sexed, and shining it on.

One of the topics that resonated most with me is how they felt the need to present themselves as together, having it all, loving it, and in control. It may not seem like it, but I definitely feel that pressure. Particularly since I am a SAHM. At the gym, at Bel's school, when talking to mom's in the mom group or my friends who are moms... I feel that because I don't work 40+ hours outside of the home, I should have everything else in the lives of my family perfectly in order. And if you've ever read what I write here, you'll know that I don't. Even if you've read every word I've ever written here, you don't know the half of it. So, actually managing to seem half way together is kind of a stunning achievement for me.

But even more than among strangers, among friends old and new I also feel this pressure. Recently on FaceBook, there was a survey for moms. You answer the questions and post it.

In it, I confessed that although we'd been trying to conceive for 4 months, when I finally got a positive pregnancy test, my first thought wasn't, "Oh joyous day!" Oh, no. Far from it. My first thought was, "Oh crap, what have I done?"

Yes, married, trying to have a baby, doting Auntie, lots of friends with children, that was me. Even so, there was for me a shocking difference between desiring something in theory and the wake up call of finding out it would be so in point of fact.

Maybe I'm way too honest. Maybe I'm an over-sharer (obviously, this is true, I'm still writing here). But I was really surprised with the canned, generic answer of every one of my friends to the same question. What was your first reaction, upon finding out you were pregnant? Happiness, joy, excitement...

Really? I'm the only one who hesitated? I'm the only one for whom reality wasn't a little bubble of giddy perfection? I think not.

You can still be happy, pleased, and all that jazz and still wonder at the mystery of "Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it."

Even winning the lottery isn't 100% awesome 100% of the time.

Conferences

Last night we went to have a conference with Annabella's teacher. She is a very likable person. Annabella likes her a lot. I like her. I think Andrew likes her just fine.

We have a pleasant time when meeting with her. But I'm always left wondering a little just what child shows up at school. Surely not my child.

When the teacher says, "We'd like the kids to be able to count backward from 20 by the end of the year." I smile and nod. Hopefully I don't make the, "Are you kidding me?" face, because I've heard her do that, at least once when she was 3. Then I get home and ask her, and she does it, without help, correctly.

She was tested on her number knowledge, she missed 14. She said forty instead of 14. She's expected to know up through 30 by the end of the year. Yeah, she can read and write numbers up through 100. Probably higher, we've never tried that with her. Oh yeah, she can add, too.

She pointed out that Annabella had trouble remembering to point to the first letter in the word she doesn't know. Apparently that is the required step before they sound out the word. She noted though that Annabella could easily sound out a 3 or 4 letter word, because she knows her letter sounds so well. But she loses points because she doesn't point.

Actually, she can sound out 7 or 8 letter words and frequently does when she reads with me. Am I concerned about this arbitrary requirement? Not so much. Does that make me a bad mom?

Well here's the thing. Am I bad if I reinforce disrespect for arbitrary requirements? Clearly my child doesn't need to point to read or sound out difficult words. So...

Yeah, I guess I'll remind her, now that I know the rule. But really? I don't care.

Being a Mother

One of the thoughts I've had about being a mother, over the last year, is that I deserve some kind of metal for deciding to have another child. Having Redding was kind of a gift. It was the gift of a sibling for Annabella, hopefully he will be someone she can face the challenges of the world with. Someone to rely upon in the best and worst of times.

A gift to me, in that I am getting to experience what having a full-term child is like. Yes, Redding was born at 33 weeks, but you'd never know it. It is an amazing and precious gift to have a baby that is healthy, that you can read books about without terrifying yourself, that meets common milestones, that is snuggly and affectionate.

Really, though, I owe a great debt of gratitude to the love, support, well-wishes, and even prayers of my family and friends. Without their moral, and outright physical support, there is not way we would have made it to 33 weeks. Hell, without their support, I don't know that we would have made the decision to go forward.

I am grateful to each and every person who loved and supported us through the last 3 years that got us here.

Where is here? Redding has shed his infant persona and is just an amazing little boy. Annabella is no longer a little girl, but a curious, confident big sister. Everyone is healthy, bar the usual coughs and colds, things like that.

For me to survive preeclampsia and HELLP Syndrome twice, well I am shocked by my own strength. HELLP can be fatal, in most cases the thing that kills is permanent liver damage or failure. In both cases, the symptom that signaled it was time to deliver was excruciating liver pain. The day Annabella was delivered, it had started as a nagging pain, which I tried to ignore. I didn't know any better. I was already hospitalized and felt like I was safe. Foolish me. With Redding, it woke be up the night before he was born. I feared it was the same pain, but was unsure because I wasn't out of my mind this time. I got up at like 4 a.m., had some breakfast, called my doctor. She told me to get to the hospital as quickly as possible. I said, "Can I wait until Andrew and Annabella wake up?" Yes, I did. She said that would be fine, as they would have to wait the surgery until they were certain I had digested my english muffin.

OK. Crazy. I also how fortunate I have been to have been under the care of some amazing doctors and nurses. (And one bad nurse who my doctor let have it. Post-partum is when the rest of the HELLP symptoms hit me, and I was on dueling IV's of pitocin and magnesium sulfate. I was retaining every ounce of fluid they let me have, meaning my kidneys weren't functioning. My head was pounding, I was weak. Not to mention that my abdomen was killing me, what with the fresh incision and all. And I could not stop throwing up. Laughing hurts with a fresh incision. Imagine throwing up. So, I push the nurses call button for maybe the third time and crying I tell the nurse, "Please help me, please give me something that will make me stop throwing up." She calls the doctor to tell her what whiner I am. The doctor reads her the riot act saying, "This woman is a trouper, she's been in pain for months now, and this is the first I've ever heard of her complaining. If she needs something, get it for her.")

I digress. That seems like a million years ago. Like it happened to someone else. Other people. Other tiny babies.

It's strange. For me, there's the idea of the baby, that lives in your head while you're pregnant. Once you give birth, that baby disappears or is reformed to coincide with the actual baby before you. For us, there is the tiny, fragile baby in the NICU. That baby disappears slowly, as they become ready to go home. There's the bigger (still tiny), less fragile baby you get to take home. The whole evolution of a person is so amazing to witness. I feel so amazingly fortunate to be able to witness and nurture them along.

One of my personal traditions is to thank Annabella and now Redding on Mother's Day. I thank them for making me a mom. They don't quite get it, yet. But it just seems like the right thing to do.

"Before you came along, I wasn't a mom. Now I am. You helped me to find the most amazing adventure of my life so far. Thank you."

Ouch

Never in my life did I think I would repeat the phrase, "Get off your brother." so many, many times. Between pushing him out of the way with her foot, "accidentally" laying on him, taking toys away from him, taunting him with things he can't have, complaining to me that his baby food looks gross, and generally being jealous of any time or attention we give her brother, Annabella is actually glad to have a sibling.

How can I be so sure?

It is the way she quietly holds his hand when he falls asleep in the car. It makes my heart hurt, from sweetness.

On Being a Mother

Some days it amazes me that I am a mother. That there are now two people in the world who will look to me for love, support, kindness, knowledge, maybe even some insight into what it all means. At very least they look to me for milk and chocolate, dry clothes and a twirly dress, a good swaddle and a story before going to sleep.

On short sleep, it seems much easier to take care of the daily general maintenance. Hopefully they'll wait a few years, until I am getting a decent nights sleep again, before they ask me about the meaning of life.

Making a Mom

This afternoon at lunch, Bella reminded me of something I told her last Mother's Day. I told her that she made me a mom. Yes, I told her that once, almost a year ago, when she was 2. Watch what you tell your children, they remember.

We've been having lots of life lessons lately. Some growing pains. The normal exertion of self that happens around 3 years old. It isn't always pretty and it isn't always fun.

Yesterday, Bella and I went for a walk down to the beach. Really. A little over a week after major abdominal surgery and losing most of the platelets (the stuff that makes your blood clot, people) in my body, I took a willful 3 year old on foot, down a steep hill. Alone.

This is the picturesque part of the trip. Nice, huh? We played happily in the sand for some time. The wind died down a bit while we were there and we started to get a bit hot, really. So we decided to roll up our pants and go down and put our feet into the cold Pacific.

Bella loves the beach. She loves the water and asks to go in every time we go, regardless of temperature, and it's been a long time since we have gone in. So she had a great old time. We splashed around, got really a bit more wet than we intended. Laughed. I held her hand the whole time, to keep her feet from coming out from under her. Once, or maybe four or five times, she yanked her hand a way and tried to make a break for the deeper water. Scared me good, but I caught her.

Before she turned blue I talked her into joining me for a snack, back on the beach. We snacked and warmed up and went back down for a final dip before heading home. All those tricks of preparing her for exactly what would happen, so there was no meltdown, etc. Yeah, all that stuff doesn't work anymore.

We had meltdown. When it was time to go, there was screaming, crying, and massive stubbornness from Bella, plus huge amounts of frustration for both of us. I had a hard time getting her out of the water. I can't pick her up. I can't pick up anything over 20 lbs. Picking her up is my last resort after reasoning has proven ineffective.

I tried giving myself a timeout. I told her I was very frustrated with the way she was acting and I needed her to stop for a few minutes so I could have a time out. This almost made her hysterical. Not the desired effect. In the midst of my own exhaustion and her hysteria, I found tough love.

We were far enough away from the water now, the bag was packed up. It was just a matter of getting her shoes and socks back on and getting her to actually go with me back to the house.

I said, "Fine you can walk home barefoot. Let's go." And I started walking.

Much to my amazement, she kept crying and wailing, but she started to follow me. Soon she was asking for her shoes and socks, please even.

I told her if she could calm down and sit down when we got to the steps, I would put them on her. She did. I did. And we walked on. There were a few more minor incidents on the way up the hill. She decided to 'run away' from me, uphill, and she yanked her hand from mine and did so. She fell almost immediately and was most put out, though not really injured.

Instead of getting sucked into the 'ooh poor Bella' attitude we usually take when she hurts herself, I said, "Running away from mom was a bad choice. Sometimes when we make bad choices we get hurt." She apologized and took my hand the rest of the way home.

She made me a mom. She helps to make me the kind of mom I'm turning out to be, every day. Which isn't to say she is the responsible party. I make my choices, some of them are good and some of them are bad. Sometimes people get hurt. Sometimes we both learn a little something.