Attention Divided, Love Multiplied

When I got pregnant with Owen, I seriously wondered how I could love another child as much as I love Avery. People always say that your heart makes room for all the kiddos after your first, but what they don't tell you is that not only do you love the second insane amounts, but your love for your first grows too. I didn't really think I could love Avery more, but I do.

Avery has been a trooper during the recent upheaval in our steady routine. I was away at the hospital quite a bit, she came down with a stomach bug and a new tiny but demanding member of the family arrived. She's taken it all in stride though and thanks to grandmotherly distractions, I don't think she's noticed that I'm busy with another little one.

We visited Owen in the NICU, where Avery met her brother for the first time. She immediately called him a dolly and reached down to touch him.

I'm not blocking his boy parts, my hand is just in the way.

Arriving home with Owen was one of the best days ever. It's such a relief to finally get a clean bill of health, and it's nice to get back to the comforts of home. It's especially nice to have both of your kiddos under one roof.

We walked in the door with the car seat and I have an image of Avery in my head that will forever bring tears to my eyes. Alan took the car seat around to the front of the couch and Avery followed him, clapping her hands with excitement. Excitement to see her brother. She peeked in to see him with the most innocent curiosity.


She's been really good with him, even though she's not always careful so we have to be careful for her. She's taken to the pacifier 19 months too late and gnaws on it like a teether. She grabs bottles and takes them to Owen. She's curious about his hands and feet, points out his eyes, nose and ears and gives him lots of kisses. She holds him. She loses interest quickly, but while he's in her arms you can tell she thinks he's something special.

Ever ready with the middle finger.

The baby sleeps a lot, but she's always wondering where he is. Today I forgot to close the gate to the office and Owen was in his bassinet on the floor. I walked in to find Avery carefully perched inside, at his feet, studying him.


I loved my time with Avery as an only child. But I don't think I'll miss it. Because seeing her as a big sister to a sweet little brother is like getting even more of the best gift.

If you turn your monitor upside down, you'll see she's grinning ear to ear.

Owen's Arrival

And history repeats itself.

This pregnancy had me nervous from the start. As the days and weeks passed, I was both relieved and increasingly anxious. Every pang or movement I'd feel had me worried. But even with my mounting anxiety, I was convinced I'd go to term. Not to my due date, but I really hoped to make it to 37 weeks. After Avery's stressful NICU stay, I wanted the standard baby-in-the-room two-day hospital stay with this one.

I'd been watching the calendar and I had 35 weeks marked. I was ready to write a cute blog post on that Tuesday about how Avery had arrived at 35 weeks but Baby 2 was hanging in there. Little did I know that baby would be hanging out here and not in there.

Avery woke me up at 6:15 on February 27—34 weeks, 6 days—and, hoping she'd go back to sleep, I rocked and snuggled her. She was being so cute, unknowingly enjoying her last moments as an only child. While rocking her, I felt a cramp. Then another. When the third one hit, I knew it wasn't just a fluke. I made Alan get up and take Avery. I called the doctor, who suggested I lie down, keep track of the contractions to see if they subsided. When they remained steady, I started Alan on the process of getting a bag packed. With our crazy history of barely making it to the hospital, we weren't going to hang around. We grabbed a few essentials and hit the road.

The doctor called as we were just blocks from the hospital and said that I should head in. When checked, I was 4 cm dilated and 100 percent effaced. The baby was definitely on the way.

I labored along just fine. Alan was timing my contractions and watching the monitors. He would see a contraction coming and then I'd feel it. I had some uncomfortable ones, but they were totally manageable. By 10:15 or so, I was a 7 and still not in a ton of pain. The doctor had offered to break my water earlier, but I'd wanted to progress on my own for awhile. So I finally opted to do it to speed things along.

Me joking about being in pain. It's all fun and games until shit gets real.

Boy, did they speed along. She told me I hadn't progressed much past 7 as she was breaking my water. As soon as she was done, I felt an immense amount of pressure and the point of no return; this baby means BUSINESS. It reminded me of the Charlie Bit My Finger video. Where it's all fun and games until it really starts to hurt. Ouch, contraction, that really hurt.

I had to pee, so I managed to get to the bathroom and go. On my way back I stopped with the worst pain. Like I had to push. I sent Alan to get someone, anyone, and got in bed. My body pretty much took over, and I was pushing as the doctor and nurses rushed back in. They were in a scramble, and I felt like no one was even paying attention to me. They didn't have time to break down the bed. I was just pushing, and my legs were shaking out of control with nothing to brace against.

I had a moment where I wondered what on bloody earth I was thinking not getting an epidural. I remember thinking that there was just no way this was happening and that they'd better just knock me out and get the baby because I couldn't do it. And so I told Alan I couldn't do it. His response? "There's the head." And seconds later, there was Owen Matthew. A surprising 6 pounds, 13 ounces and 19.5 inches of cute baby boy.

I got to hold him for a minute exactly and they whisked him away to check him over because he was preterm. I knew we'd get the NICU stay, and low glucose levels confirmed it the first day. After that, we battled jaundice and finally won our freedom.


Having been there, done that with Avery, it wasn't nearly as stressful this time, and I didn't have a panic attack that landed me in the ER. Ah, the relaxation that comes with experience. Plus seeing some of the nurses was like seeing old friends.

Although we weren't laying floors in the kitchen, we are in the middle of a basement renovation. Contractors had just wrapped up a project the Friday before. Saturday, as we were buying paint and finalizing our carpet order, Alan and I were struck by how similar it was to Avery's birthday, with a couple of Home Depot runs and construction going on. (And isn't it weird that Panera was the last meal I had before both kiddos were born? I eat there fairly frequently but not so much that that's not a little strange.)

He thinks the van is pretty sweet.

Like Avery, Owen has his daddy's chin and crazy pinky toe, his mommy's dimples and is pretty much perfect. Unfortunately, I didn't get that 37-week delivery I wanted. But I did get a beautiful, healthy baby boy. And as it turns out, that's all that matters.

Random Musings of a Pregnant Crazy

It continues to surprise me how different baby No. 2 already is from Miss Avery. Whereas Aves was bumps and thumps when she'd kick, this one is all body parts. I swear I can actually feel specific limbs. The foot is up in my side ribs, and I've not only had to push it back into the confines of my body, but I can also tickle it, I swear, and get a reaction. This one does get fairly regular hiccups like Avery did, which never cease to amaze me.

I'm very angry about the Giants winning the Super Bowl because our front runner for our boy's name was Eli and now Alan is convinced that everyone here in Giants country will think we named a boy after Mr. Manning. So thanks, Eli Manning, for being too awesome.

Having a mini van is way more awesome than I'd anticipated. Because of our less-than-reliable Saturn, Alan and I would basically trade the Honda, meaning I didn't always have a car. Besides the freedom to not be home bound, though: OMG THE CARGO SPACE.


I threatened Alan with violence via cursing text the other day. Violence may not be the answer but threatened violence from a pregnant woman might get results. The problem? Our recycling is under the kitchen sink. And the cabinet is pain-in-the-ass baby-proofed. And apparently it's a lot to ask of Alan to put his Coke Zero cans under the sink. We had a standoff wherein I refused to do anything with them, so his one-a-day habit grew on the countertop until it looked like we could be on an episode of Hoarders. He finally took care of it when even he started thinking it was a bit ridiculous. We laughed about our stand-off and I was like "Alan, seriously" which, read between the lines: "Don't let that shit pile up again." So this happens:


Enough to drive a pregnant woman running on four hours of sleep to threaten violence, am I right or am I right?

I still haven't accomplished much in the baby's room because for now we still have to use it as a guest room. Also a dresser drawer came broken, so it's on order—pushed to end of March. And speaking of threatening violence, getting the crib was about the most ridiculous fiasco in the world. But third time is a charm. If I can find energy and time, I'll report.

Sweet. You can't see my double chin!

Apparently around 33-ish weeks is when I start to become so large people are taken aback by my belly. Going out in public invites people to be either a) visibly appalled or b) start to obviously whisper about me or c) both. People, I'm pregnant, not blind and deaf. I can see you talking about me and sometimes hear you as well.

If your kiddo wakes up sounding like a seal barking: steamy bathroom for 10 minutes, outside in the cold for 10. Repeat if needed. Ahhh.

Toddlers are passionate when they have opinions. Also, irrational.


Ellen's Clumsy Thumbsy segment? Cracks me uppy! (Yep, that's totally an Averyism). We can't even count her words any more—we get exhausted when we hit like 50. We've got a talker on our hands. Some defy logic—uggies are glasses—but we know exactly what she means.

I had a dream that someone left a bunch of baby animals in our backyard and we had to get them to the proper authorities and get them taken care of. One bird's egg fell on the ground and cracked and we were so nervous, but even though it was early it was perfectly healthy. You don't exactly have to have a psych degree to figure out the meaning of that one.

18 Months/32 Weeks

Celebrating 18 months of the cutest kiddo:

Not liking things in her hair. (I'll keep trying, Nikki!)

But loving the snow!

Giving Marti the eye after a couple of knockdowns.

"I'm merely tolerating this flower, Mom."

"Woman, would you stop putting things in my hair?"

And 32 weeks of pregnancy:

I'm freaking glowing. And covered in snot.

Lessons in Discipline

So disciplining a toddler is interesting to say the least. You're basically trying to teach someone whose mind is so taken over by learning words and animals and colors and climbing that there is just no room left to learn appropriate behavior.

Unfortunately for us parental units, there is plenty of room left in our brains for frustration the millionth time a sippy cup gets tossed to the floor or a toy gets thrown in Marti's direction. We don't need to pay for mental hospital bills when the sippy-tossing makes us insane or neurosurgery for the pug's damaged brain, thus discipline must happen.

Discipline with a toddler is not always effective, but we're at least trying not to let our daughter run around like a heathen. This means stern talking-tos and sort-of timeouts.

The other day, Alan and I were hanging out in Avery's room. She was terrorizing Marti, and toys were getting a little too close to the pug for our comfort. So we were redirecting her attention and telling her not to throw.

A note on Marti: She's gotten her tail pulled and gotten bonked by books a time or two, but we've avoided real harm. And she's an equal player. She hassles Avery and steals crackers. She is also more than able to go elsewhere to save herself but most often is right in our faces and right in the path of destruction. I mean, Avery was lying down, kicking her feet the other day and Marti was close enough to the feet that she had to flinch during each kick but refused to move farther away.

But back to our discipline. As Toddzilla Avery is being a menace, Alan is barely able to contain his laughter. Seeing him trying not to laugh only makes me want to laugh, so I was doomed from the beginning. But the hilariously bad behavior necessitated a timeout.

I pull Avery to the side. She's standing in front of her bedroom door. This face is standing in front of the bedroom door.

The stern talking-to goes like this.

Me: Avery. You cannot throw things at Marti. You sit here—[cue my inner monologue: "Crap. She's standing. I don't want her to get sitting and standing confused."]—or stand—until I say you can play. That was not nice. You don't want to hurt Marti. So you just sit here—[ah! I did it again!]—or stand—for a minute.

Cue laughter from the backseat parent, and I just couldn't keep it together. Needless to say, Avery did not exactly have the most difficult 10-second timeout in the world. It's truly so hard to be tough when you're being a moron and the kiddo is just so darn funny.

She's really picking up on the things she shouldn't be doing. It just doesn't stop her from doing them. Hence, she knows how to correctly respond to my seriously stern Mommy voice:





As Avery would say, "Oh boy." It's going to take some practice to be tough when we're up against this sweet little face.

Weapons of Choice

Remember how I told you about Avery's violent streak? We're working on it. She's really not trying to hurt people or pugs, she has just figured out that she can get people and pugs to react to her actions and she thinks it's the funniest thing ever.

The kitchen drawers I have refused to baby-proof are the ones that hold utensils. I don't use all of the utensils all the time, but I like having access to them should I choose to go all Betty Crocker. (It could happen.)

But Avery is using the utensils as pug-chasing weapons.

First, a strainer. On a scale of I to V(iolent), it ranks low.


Once I took that away, she opted for a spatula, the better to scoop Marti up. How cute.


Then? Well, then she really went for it.


I hope she's still interested in it in a few years when I want her to help me tenderize some non-Marti meat.

Some Days, Some Weeks

In the parenting world, some days and weeks are more challenging than others. Tuesday, my first day "back to work" as a solo full-time toddler caregiver was one of those days I wanted to crawl in bed at 5 pm.


On Tuesday, after having two weeks of Alan off work and extended family around, I was back on my own. Avery grabbed a bag of tortilla chips off the kitchen table—by the wrong end—dumping the entire contents. She thought she struck it rich, Marti scrambled to get some and I had to corral both of the under-3-foot terrors, Marti outside and Aves in her playpen.

That day, Avery discovered the reaction-getting fun that is hitting, pinching and head-butting. Then she opened the warming drawer on the oven and smashed my foot. Then a plate shattered while Avery was barefoot and hungry and dinner was on the stove. This was after an entire day of running after the Tasmanian Devil with ADD that Avery now is. It was one of those days you want to do a Zack Morris-style timeout and stop everyone but you in their tracks.

Desperate for a minute to unload the dishwasher, I encouraged her to chase Marti with her dino, a la this:



Poor Marti.

On Wednesday, Avery added biting into her bag of tricks. Hilarious too, she thinks. We have this heavy-duty musical stacker and after trying to slap me, she grabbed it like a bat and looked at Marti. Like, "What will happen if I bash Marti over the head with this?" Luckily for Marti's small head, I stopped this train of thought in its tracks.

None of this madness is helped by the fact that my pelvis feels like it's breaking in half and my stomach is making putting on my shoes a chore. Thank goodness for the thumps and bumps that remind me that a real person is in there.


All of that's not to say that Avery isn't just the cutest thing in the world. We're finally getting back into the groove today. Her vocab is exploding and I can't even keep up with a list. Despite her violent streak, she's learning manners and now says thank you when she gives or receives anything. She says a version of "airplane," "da-dat" is very specific to cat and anything round or clock-like is a clock, without the L. Her "eye bow" discovery is really cute when it doesn't turn into her pinching your eye lid or gouging your eye out. She's also started climbing up and down stairs on two feet, although she thinks she's way better than she really is. Gotta love confidence in a kiddo.



First haircut was Wednesday and she was a champ. Not her favorite life experience but it was over pretty quickly and she only cried a bit. It wasn't nearly as traumatizing as the pictures make it seem. I was sad to see those baby locks go, but the time had come to get rid of her "party in the front, party in the back" baby mullet. She looks like such a big girl now, and now it can all come in evenly instead of scraggly city.


These are the weeks when I don't know how it will be adding number two into our world. These are the weeks that scare me. But then Avery will practice her "I I ooh" (I love you), Alan shows up home an hour early and Avery runs back and forth between us at bedtime giving out drooly open-mouthed kisses and I remember why we're doing it all again.