Miscommunication

Now that Luke's talking more, I have so much more that I want to write here, if only to preserve it for myself and McMoose. Today, I was changing Luke's diaper and for the first time, he noticed my belly.

Luke, pointing: Mama biiiiiig belly!
Me: Mama does have a big belly right now. Did you know there's a baby in there?
Luke: Baby!
Me: Yes! *Pointing to my own belly* There's a baby in here.
Luke, pointing to Other Baby: That Baby OtherBaby. *Pointing to himself* I'm Baby Guk. *Pointing to my belly* That Mama biiiiig belly.

Thanks for clearing that up, Luke.

Tempest

It always starts the same way. A cheerful, smiling toddler is transformed in the blink of an eye to one whose little feet dance out a frenzied beat on the carpet, whose face contorts with the frustration of being misunderstood, whose arms swing out wildly. All this because a toy wouldn't stay balanced on top of a precarious pile of books, or because I cut up his fruit when he wanted a "big piece," or because Other Baby has a toy that Luke really wanted, but wasn't allowed to snatch.

I believe he thinks that if he could just make me understand what he wanted, he'd get his way. That if I could just understand how important it was to him to have that toy at THAT EXACT MOMENT, I might not stop him from taking it from Other Baby. That if I could just understand that he didn't want the blue bus, he wanted the purple bus and now that he can tell the difference, he isn't willing to settle for the wrong one, then I'd work harder to help him find the purple one. That if I just saw how much superior a WHOLE sandwich was to a sandwich cut in half, I would never pick up a knife again.

I believe this because I often think that if I could just explain to him why he can't have what he wants, that he'll understand and I'd get my way. That if I could make him see that his brown pants match the outfit better than the green, he wouldn't fight me on the issue. That if I could impress upon him the fact that taking toys from people does not engender good will, he'd wait more patiently. That if he would just grasp the concept of gravity, he could save us both a lot of frustration.

We're not so different, he and I.

See Guk's Red Diaper

I put a red diaper cover on Luke this afternoon and apparently, he can now correctly identify the color red, as evidenced by the following conversation:

Luke: Red diaper!
Me: Yes, you have on a red diaper. Let's put on your pants.
Luke: No! Guk red diaper!
Me: Yes, I know you have on a red diaper. Are you ready for pants now?
Luke: No! See Guk red diaper?
Me: Yes, I see Luke's red diaper. How about those pants?
Luke: NOOOOO! RED diaper! See Guk RED diaper! See? Seeeeee???
Me: Yes, Luke, I SEEEEEE your red diaper.
Luke: NOOOO! SEEEEEEE Guk red diaper! No pants! See!
Me: Ok. Let's break this down. You have a red diaper...
Luke: *Nodding* Hm.
Me: And you don't want to wear pants...
Luke: *Nodding* Hm.
Me: ...because...you want to be able to see your red diaper?
Luke: Yes! Good Mama.

I felt very proud of myself for figuring this out until I realized that the kid is training me like a cocker spaniel.

17 Weeks

When I was pregnant with Luke, I worked 20 hours a week and napped on the couch the rest of the time. I was always worried that the baby would suddenly die and for 39 weeks and 2 days, I lived in the fear that I would never get to meet the child I so longed for. Every day felt like it lasted for decades and I could. not. wait. until it was over and I could finally hold that baby in my arms.

Now that I'm pregnant again, I don't work at all. Except that in reality, I work about 120 hours a week and sleep for the other 48. When I sneak in a nap, I'm sandwiched between two dozing toddlers who snore and squirm and roll closer to me in their sleep, cuddling in as close as they can and drooling on my arms in the process. My common sense tells me that it's still a good idea to expect the worst and hope for the best, but I no longer have the time to dwell on doom-and-gloom scenarios and I no longer live in fear.

And this time, as eager as I am to meet this new person and hold him or her close, I'm aware that these next few months are precious. These are (hopefully) the last months during which McMoose and I get to have an only child, the last months during which Luke gets to be an only child. The last months when our plans revolve around one child's nap schedule instead of two. So while I count the weeks with excitement, I also hold my toddler-baby a little bit closer in anticipation of the time when I'll have to ask him to wait his turn for a hug or a story while I finish changing a diaper or rocking a newborn to sleep.

How We Sleep At Night

We've been helping Luke learn how to put himself to sleep. What this means is this: he now thinks bedtime is AWESOME. Since I had no interest in the close-the-door-and-let-the-kid-cry-til-he-falls-asleep method, we instead chose the completely ludicrous leave-the-door-open-and-see-how-many-times-your-kid-comes-running-out method. Yeah. (I'm pretty sure that Method 1 would have yielded faster results, but it would've provided far less humor for me and McMoose.)

We're on Day 6 of this foolishness. On Day 1, he came out 127 times. One. Hundred. And. Twenty. Seven. No joke. It took a total of 2 hours, but it was a lot less frustrating than it sounds because my kid? He's kind of hilarious. At least to me and McMoose, and since we were the ones returning him to his room 127 times, we're really the only ones who NEED to find him hilarious. So the first dozen times, he just ran out and giggled. And then, he started sloooooowly crawling out. And then, he jumped and twirled and danced and sang his way out. And then, he brought out various pillows, blankets, and books...I'm pretty sure he was trying to bribe us into letting him stay awake. And then, he tried lying down in the hallway just outside his door. Etc.

On Day 2, he came out 83 times. Still took two hours, he just spent a couple minutes by the window each time before running out. Day 3: 48 times and 1.5 hours. Day 4: 37 times and 1.5 hours. Day 5: 17 times and 25 minutes, which was only because we were out so late that by the time we got home, he was BEGGING to go to bed. And here we are. Day 6. 31 times. Less than an hour. I guess this ridiculous method is working after all, especially considering the fact that until 6 days ago, this child had never, ever fallen asleep in a room by himself before.

But McMoose and I are having our own difficulties adjusting. I'll admit, I miss the bedtime snuggles. (I don't miss sitting on a beanbag chair for an hour, patting a Small One while an Even Smaller One jumped around on my bladder, however.) Just tonight, we had this conversation:

Me: You think he's asleep yet?
McMoose: Yeah.
Me: Ok, I'll go check on him.
McMoose: Ok. *Gets up and starts walking to Luke's room.*
Me: I said that I was going to check on him.
McMoose: You just checked on him last night!
Me: So? I can check on him twice in a row.
McMoose: No. You can check on him after me.

Can I just say, if checking on our sleeping toddler is the highlight of our Friday night, we are sad, sad people who need to get a life.

Green

My pain has a color and it is green.

I thought I knew what pregnancy would bring, but this one brings with it headaches, which the last one did not. Headaches almost every afternoon, which last until I go to bed at night. Headaches that, most of the time, are just annoying, but which sometimes, like today, alter my world just a little bit.

I watched the sky turn from a calm blue to a frothy, restless green as I drove the boys to the playground. The sand in the sandbox felt like lime jello, soft and squishy instead of crunchy. I ask McMoose if he could be done with work closer to 5 than 6 and when he walks out of the office at 5:15, I think that this is the best present I've ever gotten.

I close my eyes and see waves of pain in shades of green colliding and bleeding into each other. I open my eyes and look into Other Baby's eyes, eyes that I know are blue but that look olive green. The effect is unsettling. I listen to the toddlers banging on the wall with their play hammers and the sound is sharp and neon green.

If my pain has to have a color, I wish it were blue.

Uncommon Sense

I figured that when you became a parent, you suddenly got some kind of Knowledge that you didn't previously have. I mean, parents know things that the rest of us don't, right? They know when a cough is just a cough and when it warrants a trip to the doctor. They know when it's cold enough for their kids to need a hat, even if they haven't been outside yet that morning. They know the nutritional value of every food on the planet AND know how to get their kids to eat their veggies. Right?

Turns out, not so much. Luke happily asks for extra veggies and then spends the next ten minutes feeding them not to the dog, but to ME. I never, EVER know when to take him to the doctor, so the end result is that usually, I don't. And then, when I finally do call them, they say something along the lines of, "Yeah, you should've brought him in two days ago." Oops.

But the worst one of all, the one that I really can't get a handle on is the weather one. My kid is CONSTANTLY the only one on the playground without a hat. Granted, this is partially because he only owns one hat that actually fits his head and we lost it sometime around November, but even back when it used to sit right beside his coat, he never wore it because...who wears hats? (Toddlers, apparently.)

A couple of days ago, it was sunny and wonderful looking outside, so instead of going to story time, we decided to go to the park. All I saw was the sun and the wonderful-ness and it just didn't even occur to me that it had rained the night before. When we got there and there were no other cars around, I should've been suspicious. I should've turned around and headed to story time. Instead, it took me until we actually walked onto a playground full of soggy, soaked equipment to realize that, huh--maybe not such a great day to be outside after all.

Of course, by that time, Luke and Other Baby had decided that playground + rain water = water park. So we went down slides and spun the merry-go-round and played on the swings and splashed in puddles and by the time we left, we all resembled drowned rats. That's when it occurred to me that the knowledge parents are supposed to have? Yeah, that's called COMMON SENSE. In which I am sadly lacking. But then again, if I'd had a healthier dose of common sense, we would have missed out on a lot of joy that morning.

(Plus, I was kind of scared we'd run into the crazy woman if we went to the bookstore for story time.)