not that you asked...

Two children

So the old rumor is true: The second kid most definitely gets the shaft in a lot of ways. Lucy has no baby book. She is the subject of far fewer photos than her brother was. I have not recorded the date each of her teeth came in, or when she rolled over or crawled or walked for the first time, nor have I made a tidy list of her immunizations and illnesses. And perhaps worst of all, nearly everything I've ever written or posted about her consisted of nothing more than paragraph after paragraph of self-indulgent, whiny complaints about how nobody is getting any sleeeeeeeeeeep why won't this kid sleep OMG WE ARE NEVER GOING TO SLEEP AGAIN NEVERRRRRRRRRR.

However, despite a lack of tangible, documented evidence that we love this child, I don't think she'll grow up feeling slighted or second-best, as I absolutely cannot keep my hands, my arms, my lips off of her. I squeeze her and cuddle her and I spend 90 percent of her waking hours grinning like an idiot as she climbs up her nightstand or into her doll stroller, or when she brings me a book to read or fake sneezes to make me laugh. (I would do it 100 percent of the time if she'd SLEEP THROUGH THE NIGHT ALREADY.)

It's not that I love her more than I love Asher. But everything about parenting Asher at this age was new and foreign and I think, for one thing, I held back. I was intimidated. I reigned in my emotions and my urges to spoil him; I spent a great deal more time contemplating which t-shirt I'd cover his belly with, rather than blowing raspberries on it.

I think the other thing is that a lot of times (most of the time? all of the time?), a child's personality should dictate how you, as a parent, respond to them. And this is kind of a big DUH, but Asher was a quieter baby. He was happy, yes, but he wasn't much of a giggler; he was more serious, more serene. He never really RESPONDED to the raspberry blowing; he was never a silly baby. Truthfully, I don't remember his exact response to raspberry blowing, but I'm guessing it was in the Rolls Eyes arena. He is still rather shy and reserved, and even though Lucy is more than two years his junior, he is clearly her sidekick, not the other way around.

I guess it makes sense that I love her (and demonstrate it) the way I do because I see so much of myself in her. I see it and I know how to respond to it because I know who I am. She loves an audience, she's independent, she is also stubborn and demanding and sometimes VERY ANNOYING, like when I'm opening the refrigerator with her perched on my hip and she opens the freezer door above me and whacks me in the face. But then she'll grin at me and snuggle onto my shoulder and OMG YES, PLEASE, DELIVER ONE PONY TO THE DOORSTEP ASAP.

Of course, last night she bit me on the stomach and HELD ON WITH HER TEETH WHILE I SCREAMED FOR MERCY.

When you're pregnant with a second child, it is SO HARD to imagine a child different than the one you already have. Or is that just me? I mean, I only had intimate knowledge of ONE baby. It was really hard to imagine that a whole DIFFERENT kid was going to pop out of me; it was hard enough to wrap my mind around the idea of a GIRL, when all I'd ever known was boyboyboy. And then she got here, and every day I am just astonished at how absolutely and insanely UNIQUE she is. When I look at them side by side, I just can't believe how my body made two such delightfully opposite individuals.

And it doesn't end there, because now that I know my body can and will do such unbelievable things (MY GOD, IMAGINE A THIRD CHILD DIFFERENT FROM THE FIRST TWO!), I am faced with the bizarre prospect of parenting them differently. It never occurred to me that this would be necessary! And it's not that I can't do it or am flustered by it (ok, yes, maybe SOMETIMES) but it's just another of those DUH moments: I have two children. And I am no longer surprised that they aren't carbon copies of each other. Should I now be surprised that they may need different kinds of things from me? Such a simple concept, and yet it continues to blow my mind. 

Unrelated, but aren't you proud? Look who can write his own name, provided we draw boxes for each letter? (Otherwise he makes a capital A that takes up the entire page and cries about not having room for the rest of it.)

   

Seven Quick Takes makes a non-quick comeback!

ONE: The icicle I had picked out for Dave's untimely death has grown to gigantic proportions. I'm no longer certain about my ability to use it effectively. 

It is as thick as my forearm and probably close to three and a half feet long, and this means that should I feel the need to open the back door, I can't do it without worrying that I may soon be starring in my own episode of Grey's Anatomy. Remember that episode? The ridiculous one? HA! Right right right, sorry about that, I must be more specific since EVERY episode of Grey's Anatomy is ridiculous. Anyway, the one where Christina slips on ice and falls on her back and then BAM! Gets a very dramatic icicle through the heart. LIKE THAT COULD EVER HAPPEN. I can sense that you're joining me in a collective eye roll. Except... here I am, worrying that it might happen to ME. The good news is that after EIGHT DAYS of being stranded here without a car with four-wheel drive and two car seats, Dave finally gave me back the SUV and drove his own car to work this morning. The roads aren't even bad anymore, but this didn't stop him from muttering something about RISKING HIS LIFE as he walked out the door. If he keeps that crap up, I will find a way to use that icicle. AS GOD AS MY WITNESS. (Eight. Days.) (I mean, yes, my mom did come and pick us up a couple of times so we could hang out at her house, but somehow it isn't quite so freeing to get out of the house when you have to call your MOM for a RIDE.)

TWO: Lately I have a hard time walking anywhere without worrying that at any moment I'm going to get whacked upside the head with a tree branch and end up... mentally altered. My mother-in-law gave me a book a few months ago (actually, she said she was returning it to me because I had lent it out to her and I took it even though I didn't immediately recognize it because my superhuman talent is that I can read ENTIRE BOOKS and then get to the last page and think, hmmmm, that seemed somewhat... familiar, and then Dave will look at the cover and say, didn't you already read that? Why are you reading it again?) and anyway, one of the characters in it meets a tree branch that way and after her traumatic coma and losing her fiance, seems to tend. toward the loony. I don't even think I would have thought twice about it unless my mother-in-law had said, “It made me think of you, since you're always walking out there on those paths through the woods,” and so OF COURSE now I'm paranoid about things like BREEZES.

THREE: It doesn't appear that we're going to see our sidewalks again until July, so when I take Hambone for a quick walk in the evening so he can poop strategically into a snowbank, we have to do it in the middle of the street. I feel so REBELLIOUS walking in the street. I mean, how old are you when your parents start hammering it into you that the street is NO PLACE TO PLAY and that we should always be looking both ways and be very aware of traffic and the LURKING DANGER? I know I remind Asher about The Street every time we get anywhere close to a door. And now, even though I'm an adult, and even though I HAVE to walk the dog in the street because there is nowhere else to do it, I spend the entire walk slightly nervous. Because I'm breaking rules. And I get jumpy at the merest rumble of an engine, as if at any moment, someone might come tearing down the icy, snowpacked residential street at 60 miles an hour and barrel RIGHT INTO ME, like my parents always warned me they might. The reality is that very few people want to drive on icy streets after dark, and if they do, they don't come close to the speed limit so I have about... oh, TEN WHOLE ENTIRE MINUTES to drag myself and the dog into someone's driveway before they need to pass. But it FEELS dangerous.

FOUR: My mom and I took the kids to the mall this morning, since now the roads are clear. I had one measly goal: to buy a new pair of jeans. And I did, but the kids were unbelievably impatient about it. The most frustrating thing about this is that it's not like I dragged them through fourteen department stores and forced them to spend hours inside cramped dressing rooms: I tried on five pairs of jeans at GAP and then I tried on two shirts and a dress at Banana Republic and yet, it was about as relaxing and fun as getting hair plugs must be. I maintain that clothes shopping should always ALWAYS be done without children in tow, but I thought that I could get away with a couple of quick purchases this morning and that they might be reasonably fine with hanging out for a few minutes since they were getting so much in return. Because by the time we left the mall, they'd ridden a train and a full-sized carousel, had been given free balloons and had eaten soft pretzels from a kiosk and drank chocolate milk from Chick-fil-A. For crying out loud, my kids went to the mall equivalent of a CARNIVAL and all I got out of it was the opportunity break into a full-on SWEAT trying to pull on as many pairs of pants as I could in my three-minute time limit before everyone melted down and started throwing granola bars and rolling around in anger on the floor. UN-FREAKING-FAIR.

FIVE: I have avoided stepping on the scale for the last four or five months. The weather turned spotty right after I finished the half-marathon in October so I haven't exercised as much as I have wanted to, and I feel like I've eaten more chocolate and sweets and french fries than the Duggars do in a year. My personality is such that I tend to just avoid things that might bother or upset me, which means that I sometimes got to a my first class in a new semester before I had the courage to check my grades from the last one. But yesterday I decided it was unavoidable, and it would be healthier (both mentally and physically) if I was just aware of how much work I had to do to get back to my previous weight. I have been so nervous about knowing this new number that I've even been wearing ELASTIC WAIST SWISHY PANTS for the majority of the last two weeks – I'm too afraid to try on my jeans because I might find out that they won't fit. So I've AVOIDED THEM ALTOGETHER. (Swishy pants! Susan would be horrified!) But I bucked up and stripped down and stepped on the scale and... well, wouldn't you know. I weigh less in 2010 than I ever did in 2009. I don't know how this is humanly possible, especially considering the batch of cookies I baked last weekend and then ate BY MYSELF, in HANDFULS, but I'll take it. I guess I owe Jillian Michaels a thank you.

SIX: I know you're wondering if the potty is getting any action. Well, this is all I've got. And it ain't from the right kid.

SEVEN: And hey, while you're at it, you can enjoy this one, too.

Snowed in

We got well over two feet of snow over the weekend, and we are expecting another foot or so tonight. As a result, it has been brought to my attention that large quantities of snow in an area that doesn't see much of it seems to bring out the best and worst in people. NOT THAT I HAVE GOTTEN OUT OF THE HOUSE ENOUGH TO REALLY KNOW.

Grocery stores are good examples of this. Have you ever been to a grocery store a few hours before a giant snowstorm? On one hand, there's this general sense of camaraderie, a kind of we're-in-this-together mentality. People are striking up conversations in line and making jokes at the deli counter. The cashiers are complaining lightheartedly about the crowds and I even got some clearly-meant-to-be-friendly-but-just-sounded-bizarre advice while glancing over the hot cocoa section from a woman who clutched my arm, then leaned in close to my ear and whispered, “My kids like to mix the chocolate and the strawberry.”

Oh ha HA HA, how clever your children are, lady whose BREATH I CAN FEEL ON MY NECK.

Anyway, the grocery store seems all well and good and downright JOVIAL until you and someone else are both closing in on the last gallon of milk, because suddenly the same person who smiled and politely said “excuse me” while passing you in the soup aisle is ready to bludgeon you with a carton of orange juice and then suffocate you in an open bag of corn tortillas.

(My friend Christie ended up with FOUR GALLONS of milk in her fridge before the last storm hit. Not because she thought she'd USE four gallons of milk over the course of three or four days. Because this kind of crazy paranoia hits you in the grocery store when you're stocking up before a Big Weather Event and the shelves haven't yet been stripped bare. I didn't ask her, but I'm willing to bet she downsized to those four gallons. Ten bucks says she put at least one gallon back on the shelf. The pressure of not knowing when you'll be able to get out to the store again along with this feeling of COMPETITION with all the other shoppers turns normal people into complete and total FOOD HOARDERS. So Christie has four gallons of milk in her fridge and has to use her back patio as her auxiliary refrigerator. If you find yourself in my neighborhood, I know exactly where we can go to bum a few ice-cold Mountain Dews.)

Another good example is communal shoveling. We share a parking lot with at least 15 other homes, so after the snow blows over and the skies clear, everyone is out in the street clearing off their cars and their sidewalks. That part is kind of nice – you end up talking to neighbors you never see, and everyone kind of helps each other out and you pretend that it doesn't bother you that your next-door neighbor's dog has taken an enormous dump right next to your deck every morning for the last eight months. So Dave shoveled out both of our cars, then went back out the next day and shoveled out our 80-years-old-with-a-newly-installed-pacemaker neighbor's, too. Somebody else did the sidewalk in front of our house and someone else made a nice path to the mailbox cluster.

But there's this unwritten rule about parking lots and spaces after big snowstorms: If you do the work, you can claim the spot. Until it's melted.

And Dave came home last night to find someone in ours. GASP!

I'm all level-headed about it, right? I'm all, “Go door-to-door, and find the dude, and tell him you shoveled out the space and ask him to move his car. Can he say no to your face? And tell him he can park behind you.” I'm SO NICE, you guys. I mean, how do we know what this guy's deal is? Maybe he's visiting his girlfriend, and her mom just died, and he was in a rush and took the first parking spot he could find so he could CONSOLE HER and anyway, what if he has his own GARAGE or something, and ritzy garage-owning people don't know about the Law of Shoveling. Right?

But Dave's got steam coming out of his ears, because this is something people should just KNOW, OKAY? Like the Law of Shoveling is something you're BORN WITH, much like the way an infant knows how to find a NIPPLE. So out loud, Dave is considering all manner of things, none of which are what I suggested. No, he is suggesting getting out his nine-iron or leaving a note that starts with “Dear [VERY BAD WORD].” And THEN this morning as he is leaving for work and leaving me without a car and in this tiny tiny house with these two pesky offspring who are SLOWLY KILLING ME WITH THEIR DEMANDS FOR FOOD AND ENTERTAINMENT, he says, “Keep an eye on that parking spot. If that guy leaves, I might come home so I can get the space back.”

I don't know if you have ever been snowed in with two small children and have been, for the most part, sitting in the same room for four straight days, but the idea that my husband would leave work to claim a PARKING SPACE and not because I AM GOING TO DIE OF CHILDREN POISONING makes me want to stab him with an icicle.

The guy ended up moving his car about an hour ago, but I am still bitter. I have my icicle all picked out, just in case. Either that, or I'm going to continue with my plan to make this for dinner and not let him eat any of it.

Why yes, how'd you guess? ANOTHER POST ABOUT POOP

About five minutes ago, it was like someone swung a gigantic mallet at the Potty Training Gong hanging right beside my head. There are almost 200 collective comments on the three posts I've written concerning potty training my adorably infuriating son, and without going back and making a scientific study of it, I'd say about 85 percent of the comments that refer to difficulties with potty training are referring to the POOP SIDE OF THINGS.

Ok, so maybe I'm an idiot. I didn't read any books or articles or consult anyone who knew what they were doing before I started easing us into this potty training thing. We'd been talking about it and trying to drum up some interest but I hadn't really thought about our general approach or anything and then one day, Asher announced that he was pooping, and I asked if he wanted to sit on the potty, and when he didn't answer, I plopped him on it anyway and BAM! A turd! And he was proud of himself and we were proud of him and then we had general success with pooping in the potty for the next few weeks. However, I stress WE had success, because as I have said before, the most he ever did was announce that he needed to poop in the potty and we did the rest for him.

It seriously never occurred to me, NOT EVEN AFTER READING 200 COMMENTS ABOUT OTHER CHILDREN HAVING DIFFICULTY MASTERING THE BUSINESS OF POOPING, that we should have considered starting with the pee. I am slapping my forehead and MOANING over here. We haven't even ENCOURAGED peeing in the potty! WHY DID THIS NEVER OCCUR TO ME? I just figured poop would be easier to master because it's usually a once-a-day event that we could time correctly. And yet, it makes total sense that kids would balk at using the potty for number two: I mean, just for starters, my kid has spent the last two-and-a-half years of his life pooping STANDING UP. And now he's supposed to sit! I AM STILL SLAPPING MY FOREHEAD. If this isn't proof that parenthood = winging it, I don't know what is.

We did have a good moment last night, when I'd stripped Asher of his diaper after 14,000 false poop alarms and refused to replace it with a fresh one what with bathtime looming. I instructed him not to pee on anything while he played, and five minutes later he wandered over to the potty, sat down, and peed. We made a Very Big Deal out of it, and I suddenly felt like maybe it would all turn out ok, and that someday soon my child would willingly go to the bathroom by himself. And then we went upstairs for bathtime and on a whim, I pulled out a pair of the big boy underwear we had bought a while ago and got him all excited to try them on and then...

Oh, you guys. He looked so big and so different, all skinny arms and legs and I know it was just a pair of underpants and I am not usually the kind of person who would do this kind of thing but I... I burst into tears. He is not a baby any more. I knew this, but I hadn't seen it. I hadn't seen it. And right then it hit me, like a sucker punch to the gut, and Dave took the underpants off of him and started the bath and while the water ran in the tub, the kids ran around the train table naked and I curled up against my husband and wept.

It's not that I don't want my children to grow up. I guess I just didn't know it was happening. It made me think of something Amanda wrote a couple of years ago, when her son Alex was three or four, and about to start preschool. She said she was suddenly very very aware that she and her son were probably as close as they would ever be right at that moment, and that from that point on, he was going to start needing her less and less. I think that's what I saw last night, wearing underpants.