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March 21, 2010

Feeling feverish

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I think Mads has Spring fever. Or maybe cabin fever. What's the one where you start acting like an insane person? The one that makes you start running into walls and yelling gibberish and diving at people pointy elbow-first?

I, meanwhile, am in no mood. This baby suddenly feels like it has dropped to about knee-level, like all it would take is a good sneeze to send it popping out into the world. The same could be said for my belly button, which is threatening to officially enter "outie" status. If that happens, I am warning you, I won't take it well. I have some belly button issues - few things gross me out as much as a finger in the belly button - and I absolutely could not handle it if I were to look down and find myself staring at the icky inside of my own navel. I will lose it.

I've reached the point where this whole thing feels less like an awe-inspiring miracle and more like some inhumane form of torture. I crash into bed at 10pm thinking, I could be staying up late drinking wine and eating spicy tuna sushi in my size 6 jeans (so I round down... from a 10) but instead I'm here, sober as hell and lying crushed under the weight of my own ginormous stomach. Then I see F slumbering peacefully beside me and I curse him. And then elbow him hard in the ribs. Because that's what marriage is all about.

To be fair, he has Mads outside at the moment running off some of those endless stores of very loud, very high-pitched energy - for the third time today - so that I can have a moment or two of peace. Which is exactly what I am going to go do right now. 

(Picture: Etsy)

March 21, 2010 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

March 19, 2010

SAHM-in-training

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Everything is quiet. The husband has gone to work, the child is still asleep, the dogs haven't yet started their all-day ritual of barking to get out and then barking to get back in. It's so quiet I can hear the clock on the mantle ticking away the minutes until the chaos sets in. Moments like this are so rare that when they do occur it feels sort of surreal, like maybe the world stopped spinning overnight.

I spent the last week at home with Mads - a week with just the two of us, before baby arrives and before I'm too fat and swollen to roll myself out of bed in the morning. While I am a bit ambivalent about stay-at-home-momdom - I am in love with my girl(s), but seriously, I tend to go a little batsh*t crazy without a daily dose of adult interaction  - it's been a really great week.

We made toilet paper roll flower art, shared salmon sandwich picnics at the nearby park, built structurally unsound Lego princess castles, watched The Wizard of Oz about 12 times, practiced bike riding and somersaults (her, not me), got lost - as always - on a mini road trip.

("Oh nooo, Mommy. Did you lost us again? But Daddy told you how to get there. Daddy told you!")

Everyone says that you love your second (third, fourth, etc) child every bit as much as you love your first, and I've absolutely no doubt it's true. But after weeks like this I can't help but think that Mads is a pretty tough act to follow.

March 19, 2010 | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack

March 09, 2010

I, I will survive

Olympic Mads


Seeing as Mads will be four in a few weeks (ack!) I guess I'm a bit slow on the uptake, but it's finally starting to dawn on me that this job of being a mom is never going to get easy. I've been telling myself that once she sleeps through the night/is able to walk/is potty trained/gets more independent it'll all be smooth sailing, but in reality every passing challenge is replaced by a new one that needs tackling. Case in point: After years of peaceful slumbers, my preschooler has stopped sleeping through the night.

It started one evening a month or so ago when she suddenly went a bit bonkers insisting that I read her bedtime story instead of Daddy. But it was Daddy's turn and we're sticklers for routine around our place, so I gently pried her off my leg and with a kiss on the nose and eyelids told her that I would read the next night.

Fast forward an hour to the sound of cries coming from her room: "My noise is too loud," she sobbed, pointing to her trusty sound machine, as I cracked open the door. That crisis fixed, I tucked her back in and left. An hour and a half later, more yells: "I have to go pee." A quick trip to the bathroom yielded two drops of pee and about 100 attempts at luring me into a conversation ("Where does the pee go? Where do the pipes go? What's a sewer? Remember that funny bathroom at the store? Why do bathrooms at stores have paper towels? Why do some have hand dryers? I don't like hand dryers, right? Remember that really loud hand dryer, Mommy? Remember Mommy? Mommy? Why aren't you talking, Mommy?") By morning we had been in and out of her room five times, every time for some non-existant reason.

It turned out to be the first night of an exhausting pattern. Sometimes it's only once, sometimes three or four times, but my girl who has always slept from night til morn is now up at all hours. If I wasn't so tired, the excuses would almost be funny: My pyjama sleeve is pushed up, I have the hiccups (when I pointed out that she didn't she said, "But they're coming!"), my finger hurts, my pants are all twisty, it's too quiet, bring that cup outside, I'm itchy.

At first I was ever the loving mom, soothing back hair with soft reassurances. But I've come to suspect this is less about fear and anxiety and more about a bad habit. And with a baby on the way in 7 weeks it's a bad habit that needs to be stopped. I tried to explain that night is for sleeping, and when that of course failed I tried to bribe her with fancy princess stickers, but that lasted for one night. So yesterday out came the big guns: A reward chart. A sad face means no TV and a week's worth of happy faces gets her a treat. I am happy to report that we all slept well last night - "I decided I wanted to watch The Music Man so I didn't cry," she said this morning - but that doesn't mean much. And even when we tackle this one, I'm sure the next challenge is ready and waiting.

March 9, 2010 | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack

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"Having a two-year-old is like having a blender that you don't have the top for." ~Jerry Seinfeld.

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