The Lost Art

So I've been a little blog negligent, not because of a lack of blog fodder. Trust, there is plenty of that around here. But I wrote a blog post in a draft email to myself on my BlackBerry and then, in clearing out over 100 emails en masse, deleted the draft.

To say I was deflated is an understatement. I cried. I lit-ruhlly cried. I'm sure the crying has nothing to do with a lack of sleep or my being crazy. But you guys, it was super funny (of course) and had all kinds of metaphors comparing Avery to weather. The violent, crazy kind of weather. Plus, it took me days to have the time to slowly cobble the post together during times I was feeding Owen and Avery was napping. (And it's taken me just as many days to put this one together the same way.) Because as you'll see in the first video, getting anything accomplished when both are awake is unlikely.

 My lap. And yes, Marti is burrowing.

We're adjusting to being a house of four and a Marti. Things can get crazy, like when Owen is crying, Avery decides to test out her scream while intermittently crying, Marti is barking, my shirt is half off, my nose is running and the toilet starts making an obnoxious high-pitched whining noise. Here's an 8-second sample of my days:



Looks fun, right? It actually is fun, and surprisingly, there are moments of calm between bouts of chaos. Avery is adjusting to big sisterhood. It's interesting that she got the big sister title right as she was hitting the Show My Independence Stage. The "I'm having trouble controlling MY EMOTIONS" phase. She will have moments when she's a holy terror and I think I'd be less afraid of staring down the barrel of a gun. Like when I was at the library and I started seeing little flashes of the fits she's thrown at home. Luckily this time, she only laid on the ground, refusing to walk, listen or cooperate. At home sometimes she'll just sca-ream for fun, so I was glad she didn't break out her vocals at the library. She's thrown herself violently to the ground several times, but after hitting her head twice she learned that the point is to get to the ground to actively tantrum, so she now charts a much safer and slower journey to get there. It's not the drama she hopes for, but it's the comedy her parents enjoy.

Luckily for us, these bouts of The Crazy are mixed with The Sweet and The Adorable and The Smart and The Funny.

The sweet? She'll come up and say "hug" to get hugs. She'll say please, thank you and "Bless you, Owen." She'll shove a pacifier in Owen's face. (Or rip it out, but whatever.) And give him extra jammies. And bounce him. Hard. Sometimes it works.



The adorable? She'll feed her dolly and take great pains to wrap her in a blanket.



The smart? Out of almost nowhere, she counted Alan's fingers to five and shortly after went to 10. And she started singing the ABCs and a song I made up for her. She's also reading which is a mix of The Adorable and The Smart. Smorable? She gestures, which is a total mommy move; I gesture a lot and am quite expressive if you've never noticed.



As for Owen, he's good. Really freaking adorable, actually. He's stopped screaming bloody murder for every diaper change; now it's just screaming bloody murder when I put him down. And boy, does he like to be held nonstop, which is great for the heart but not for the to-do list. I stopped even trying to get anything done during the day, as I even struggle to keep up the house with the two needy humans. I swear, I'm often better off if I accept the state of the house, as Avery destroys and unloads anything and everything if my attention is diverted even for a second. I've enlisted help, a sitter to come in twice a week to allow me to get a few work things done. Unlike some of the help we've gotten through Alan's work program, she showed up almost on time and is a normal human. I hope she keeps coming back.

But how could these two scare you away? (Just don't show her that first video...)

More to come soon, I swear. I will have two hands again some day.

Blessed

What do you say when Owen sneezes?

You Fools

Fools! Checking my mommy's blog. Like I let her have any time to blog!

Sometimes, instead of being innocent like this, I scream bloody murder just for fun. It gets me lots of milk and snuggles. Success!

Week One with Two

The first week with two kids under 20 months both eased me into double parenting and threw me into the pack of two wolves. I say it eased me in because I wasn't at home a lot of the time, so Alan and his mom did most of the Avery duty while I was at the hospital. And I say threw me into the pack of wolves because I got a good glimpse into the fun I'm in for.

Alan and his mom came up to visit at the hospital, bringing Avery to see me. I was in bed taking it easy but kept Avery with me, thinking I could handle her while they went to visit Owen. Well, I could have handled her just fine. We were happily watching Elmo videos on my iPad. But I couldn't handle the projectile vomiting everywhere.

Moments before projectiling all over me. At least she spared my iPad.

I first heard her cough. And I thought she was just gagging on a bit of saliva. In fact, I thought it was just a fluke puke until she threw up again the next day. But as we were sitting there, her cough turned into barf. All over me. All over her. All over the bed. All over the floor. I didn't know what to attend to first. I had nothing to clean with, a crying toddler and just...vomit. I called the NICU and told them to send Alan back to the room. I called the nurses and told them to send something to clean with. I took Avery's most offensive articles of clothing—her shoes and pants—off.

The nurses were great. They called in backup to clean and moved us to the room next door so we wouldn't have to sit (and eat) in a cloud of vomit smell. And I earned my Mom card by fashioning a pair of pants for Avery out of one of my shirts.

Poor thing.

Then? After another day of vomit, the Other End started having issues. And then she went from the runs to the...Full Stops. Poor thing couldn't get anything moving and would just stand, hug a loved one and cry while she tried to go. One night, I was sitting on the bathroom floor hugging her. Owen in my lap. Left boob out. Avery crying and crying because it hurt. I could have called for backup, but it just seemed like a mommy moment that was a rite of passage.

Two will be tough. Two kiddos with different needs at the same time. There will be days, I'm sure, where we'll all three be crying. But where's the fun without a little chaos? And what on earth would I write about without them?

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.