I’m a hormonal freak. Again. Still.

Cat in cage, not in bag. As previously explained.

So now that the cat is completely out of the bag, expect a surplus of pregnancy related posts… Mostly about how tired I am (which is a lot) and how I feel like I want to puke every morning (yay first trimester!) and how I am frighteningly hormonal.

And frankly, these hormones are a little scary. There might have been some out of control rage. I might have maybe stormed out of the house, slamming the door in my wake. Maybe.

And while trying to mentally remember my first pregnancy, I found that there are little to no memories remaining. Shock! Apparently, and for my own good, my mind has blocked out every unpleasant aspect of it. Was I this tired?? I don’t think so, but who knows? I could have been!

I do remember eating a lot of peanut butter and bacon sandwiches, uncontrollable urges for oranges and having a sore back. And then, magically I had a baby.

And most of the actual ‘giving birth’ parts are pretty vague too. Kind of like how your Mum might have glossed over that particular part when telling you as a child.

“And then you push and OUT pops the baby!”

Or kind of like I’ve had my memory wiped. I have to concentrate really hard to remember the specifics, but my mind kind of slips away from it. Deliberately distracted by anything else other than what it was aiming from.

Nature is helping me not get too freaked out about what we’ve gotten ourselves into…

And while Vince shrieks things like “I said get out of my room!!” and “Go away Mummy!”, I ponder the fun that baby #2 will bring. Vince thinks that the baby will be ready for playtime, as evident in this tasty piece of V-wisdom… “The baby’s gonna come and smash me on the head!!!” (and he sounded really excited about it).

In the mean time, I cannot wait until this awful exhaustion stops. It will stop right? Because it’s crippling me. And while we are at it, wouldn’t mind that nausea taking a hike too…

xoxo a.m.

 

Epiphany

A few days ago, I was driving  through the parking lot at Publix and I braked and waved a mum and her 2 kids across the traffic. Her hand lifted in a ‘thank you’ wave and then practically leapt down and latched on to her 4 year old’s hand. Her younger child had a pained look on her face and her little fingers twisted and turned and fought the grip her mum had on her.

I literally had an epiphany.

Oh my gosh. It’s not just me. My son is not the only child in the whole world that hates having his hand held. It is, in fact, all children everywhere in the whole entire.

Funnily enough, this was really a kind of shocking epiphany. I think as you are parenting, it is very hard to remember that what you are doing is what all parents are doing everywhere. Even though it very well may be the most frustrating thing ever, or the grossest thing ever. Or the sweetest thing ever. Whatever those things are, they are being repeated endlessly everywhere.

So two days of really awful diarrhea? Yup, that’s going on somewhere.

A 3 year old, running carelessly around the YMCA pool deck with his father shouting at him? Yup, that too.

Asking for a hug before bedtime and getting “No, maybe later Mummy” as a response. Most likely this is happening in every single home around the world simultaneously.

And just to complain for a second, I had to force a hug from my child tonight. First time. Every night I usually get joyous hugs and smooches, without  even asking for them.

Tonight, Edward picked up Vince, handed him to me and then placed his arms around my neck, mimicking a hug. Half a second later, V wiggled out of my arms and proclaimed it was Daddy’s night and essentially banished me to the living room.

Hm. It appears as if my years of overly loving on my son might be approaching their end.

Nothing like a little Angry Birds to relax...

But, at the same time, it really does help to have these epiphanies. Because honestly it is really easy to forget that you are not the only one going through all of this ridiculous, dramatic, wailing, flailing, smart-mouthed, talking back, pooping everywhere (or nowhere) life.

Everyone else is too. Don’t forget.

xoxo a.m.

So last week I turned 35…

Damn you Weather Gods!

I can no longer say I’m in my early thirties. I now have to use a term that I admit I am not too enamored with.

‘mid’

‘mid-thirties’

So there I was, mid-thirties and all, having a birthday. Helping to make it better, Vince proclaimed it was also his birthday. Repeatedly. Like this.

V: “Mummy? It’s your birthday! Happy Birthday. And it’s my birthday too! I made you a cake (he didn’t). I’m gonna eat it, in my tummy!”

That certainly took the sting out of the big 35.

Last year we hit up Disney World and stayed at one of the resorts for a few nights, having a sort of mini-holiday for my birthday. It was so amazing that we did it again this year. We checked in to the Caribbean Beach resort Friday afternoon, hitting up Epcot as soon as we were unpacked. It poured.

And by ‘pour’, I mean dumped. Yup. The weather gods took a huge poop on my Friday night. So big, we had to get ponchos. We looked properly idiotic and therefore blended in with all the other rejects we appeared to be surrounded by. It was a glorious parade of food-babies in wet white tee-shirts.

But I digress… We had a perfectly pleasant evening. Well, I did independently of my son while I was watching CAPTAIN EO!!!!!!!!

Yes, that’s right. I took a solo-trip back to 1991 and watched Michael Jackson crotch-whip an alien plant back  to life (or the 80’s, however you want to look at it).

And then I went and met up with E and V. And let me tell you, not only am I officially 35, but Vince is officially 3. And firmly in the middle of what is clearly ‘The Year of the Whine’. This holiday summed it up for me, if I was having any previous doubts of it.

Oh my lord. Last year, Vince was SO good during our mini-vacay. And this year, well… He was ‘good’ and holy mother was he ever whiny. I mean, I had heard this about that wonderful age of three, but this was my first full 3 day experience with it. And wow. WOW. We just constantly fought. About everything. Everything we said, he wanted to do the opposite of. And if we wanted to do what he wanted? He then wanted to do whatever was the opposite of that. But what was the most frustrating was how much he wanted to push his stroller around the parks.

Usually, not an issue. At Disney? Huge issue. He can’t see over the handles. He doesn’t care where he’s pushing it. And if you help him steer, he throws an enormous fit.

So please, picture us trying to cruise Epcot. Vince, pushing the stroller through the bag check, ramming it into posts. The girls at the gate, declaring him adorable because he told them “I’m just pushing dis ober there”. And then, every three steps, the stroller being rammed into something, occasionally people among other things. We ditched it in France and Vince cried for 10 minutes. And then was so poorly behaved I was just appalled.

He finally passed out hard. Apparently, bad behavior was a combo of exhaustion and being three. And post-nap he was angelic, proclaimed repeatedly “Mummy!!! I give you a kiss and hug!!!!

I can’t decide if it’s The Year of the Whine or The Year of the Bipolar Three Year Old.

Hopefully, its also The Year of the Extra-Patient Mummy. But, I think, isn’t it always that year?

xoxo a.m.

 

 

Please be my friend…

 

So since Vince turned 3 1 1/2 weeks ago, things seem so much different. I wonder if every parent notices this at this landmark age? And by landmark age, I simply mean a further continuation of the hell that was 2 that has now become 3.

But by hell, I really mean ‘fun’ and ‘awesomeness’.

Three is terribly interesting. Three means rather a lot of interesting conversations about a lot of interesting things.

Sometimes it’s about dinosaurs:

Vince: “Mummy hurry! The dinosaur is gonna get us!”

Mummy: “Oh my gosh, it is? What should we do?”

Vince: “We gotta hide!!”

Sometimes its just random arguments, politely worded..

Vince: “Mummy, I’m just gonna do this ober der, ok?”

Vince: “Mummy, I’m just gonna stand on dis right here.”

Vince: “Mummy, I’m just gonna take this from here.”

Mummy: “No. Vince, please don’t do that/take this/stand there.”

Please don’t open the fridge and try to pour your own milk. Please don’t carry my weights around the upstairs and state “Mummy!! I’m stronger!!” Actually, its OK that you do that. I love it. Please don’t sweep my floors. Please don’t pull the dogs tail, he will bite you for sure. Please don’t cry, I know the dog just bit you. Please talk to your Nana on Skype. Please say ‘hi’ to your Grandparents on the phone. Please, please, please…

It is just a huge, endless session of ‘please’. Mostly followed by ‘no’. Interspersed with dinosaurs and frogs attacking whomever is nearest. Frequent exclamations of “Mummy! I did a HUGE poo! Come see!” (and subsequent clapping).

Is this starting to sound like your life? Are you me? Are we the same person?

Not that I dislike it, it’s new and interesting. I like new and interesting things. I like Vince. Hence, I like this new path of ridiculous.

Today as a Lexus van drove slowly past our family walking, I thought “Based on seeing us, they probably are not going to move here”. Vince in a wife-beater with a monkey, combat shorts and dinosaur rubber boots, Edward in practically his underwear and myself in a tank-top I used to wear when I was hugely preggos and capris printed with flamingos…

Don’t you want to be our neighbors and friends? Don’t you want to share the joy of ‘3’ with us? Aren’t you already doing the same thing that we are?

We are JUST down the street. In fact, we are your neighbors already.

xoxo a.m.

Extended lifecycle

 

Somehow it ended up happening. Our son’s life cycle extended itself another year… Despite somehow running into every wall known to man, sliding along surfaces on his stomach that are not the least bit slidey and those periodic weeks where he ate nothing at all… He is still alive.

He (we) survived.

Today, Vince and I hit up the pediatrician for his 3 year check. Every year is something different. Year one and Year two were mainly about shots. That I remember, anyways.

This year I actually had to get him to pee in a cup. Oh all that is holy, why, why  is this even needed?! Five minutes in the potty with Vince was required. I had to count to ‘almost three’ several times, hold the cup inside the potty for potential aiming purposes and thI literally had to ‘place’ the cup in the area. There was ‘cupping’. And with cupping, suddenly came pee. So much, in fact, that I was afraid that the cup would not contain it all.

V: “DADDY!! I pee in a cup!!”

Daddy: “Good job Little Man!”

And that really was the highlight of the afternoon. Peeing into containers is an awesome symbol of mans achievement. And peeing.

Post-pee, Vince was surprisingly cool with everything his doctor could throw at him. Check my ears? Sure! Listen to my heart? Why not! (All I could think during this mostly was ‘who are you?!”) Look in my mouth? No. No, actually, you cannot do that. And don’t lie about counting my teeth like Mummy said you would. BULLSHIT.

But I have no issues with you checking out my scrotum. At all. Typical.

Anyways, the verdict is he is huge. 75th in height and 95th in weight. And, flatteringly enough, she said his developmental skills are genius as is his verbal communication. And then he was cheeky and said a couple smart comments to her which made her laugh.

Yay Mummy and Daddy. I guess that’s what you get when you have two English Majors that marry each other and then procreate. And, post-creation, epically push books slash reading at every possible moment.

So it’s good. V is clever. V is amazing. V is Awesome. V: Genius.

Clearly I gave birth to the James Bond of pediatric yearly follow ups. Nice.

Nice work V!!!

xoxo a.m.