the pieces of my life

I had some things I wanted to post, but the sounds of a no-napped, milk-refusing, won’t-eat-dinner, doesn’t-want-to-wear-his-pajamas-or-diaper toddler chased all thoughts from my head. So now I sit here with a sleeping newborn on my lap as Adam tries to get the aforementioned child to bed in a peaceful manner.

What was there to say? My mother, aka Nana, made it safely to Boston. Suffice it to say, in a mere few hours, she proved herself to be the superior caregiver. She not only calmed children, did food shopping, but in her down time she… painted our new shed. Thanks for the help, Peter, but let’s face it: someone who both changes dirty diapers and does manual labor wins hands down (although, come to think of it, Peter, I don’t believe you changed any diapers).

Of course, she hasn’t always been the most positive influence on my older child. Nana enjoys a single glass of red wine with dinner. Which would be fine if on Friday nights, we didn’t have our Shabbat juice–grape juice in a wine cup–and allow Doodles to have a sippy of juice (don’t tell him but it’s actually about 1/4 juice and 3/4 water). When Doodles saw Nana with her wine, he got very excited. “Shabbat juice! Shabbat juice! Doodles Shabbat juice!” Nana is now forced to sneak her wine in the kitchen before her meal to avoid the Shabbat juice meltdowns.

Nana also turned my child onto ice. Nana requires copious amounts of ice for both her water and her ever-present Diet Coke (note to Nana: I believe there are twelve-step programs that can help you. Repeat after me, “My name is Nana, and I’m a Diet Cokeaholic”). Doodles now requires ice, which to his chagrin I will only allow in a sippy cup (I’m afraid of him choking on it if he has it in a big boy cup). However, Nana has been a huuuuuuge help and I live in fear of the day (which is one week from today) that Nana goes home. How do people do it with two kids? HOW? (That is not a rhetorical question: please tell me!)

And on a related note: a happy birthday to Nana, who turns, um, 59 again, tomorrow! Yeah! Happy birthday!

What else to report? Sweetie Pie is not sleeping even remotely through the night. She has horrendous gas, and I’ve given up eating, well, just about everything. But she had her one-month doc visit today and the doc said that if the gas hadn’t improved after my being off of food for just about a full week now, then it probably isn’t caused by anything I’m consuming and I can go back to eating. It’s most likely simply an immature digestive system. However, there’s no worries about Sweetie Pie getting enough to eat; the roly poly cutie pie is about 25th to 40th percentile for length and a whopping 95th percentile for weight. If there’s one thing, apparently, that I do well, it’s make milk. Mooooo!

This isn’t at all what I had meant to blog about, but for the life of me, I can’t remember what I had intended to write. I’m so far beyond tired that I can’t even think what would be beyond tired. Last night, I had every intention of going to bed at 9 p.m. Let me rephrase that. I had every intention of going to sleep at 9 p.m. Because I did go to bed. I just had to get out of it to walk Sweetie Pie who decided she wanted to be gassy and tired until close to midnight (although in all fairness, Adam did much of the walking). Man, does that kid have lungs! I hate it when she gets gassy and upset, but I have to confess, I think she’s so cute when her little face scrunches up and turns bright red and that tiny mouth opens wide. Okay, I must be getting delirious. Time to rest before the next round of Sweetie Pie’s gas.

(P.S.–I finally posted a bunch of new photos! If you need the password, drop me an e-mail.)

My father wants to me post how he is an inadequate caregiver. Because of my c-section, we arranged for help up until my postpartum appointment. My mother was supposed to come in last Sunday, but due to a family emergency, she was unable to come and sent my father in her stead. She’ll be arriving tomorrow night and my father will take his turn dealing with the family at large. Anyway, I made the mistake of telling one of my father’s friends, “Yeah, Peter is here. But we’re really waiting for Nana to show up,” to which Peter took great offense.

To set the record straight, my father is a fine grandfather. However, his idea of activities for Doodles include quizzing him on prime numbers (the kid still can’t count past ten) and games that involve Doodles running into him and getting trapped in his legs. Just the kind of calming activities I’d like to help my son unwind from his day. And when Doodles does go wild, Peter flops on the couch and says, “Doodles! Come to me. I’m too tired to go up the stairs after you again.” Have you tried telling a hyperactive two year old to simply stop running and come to you? Yeah, it works well. Oh, did I mention that Peter also sings Christmas carols to Doodles? When it comes to Sweetie Pie, I think Peter’s afraid of breaking her. He treats her so gingerly, as if he’s afraid to hold her any other way than on his chest, her head on his shoulder. Which would be fine if it weren’t for the panic-striken look on Peter’s face. He’s great with toddlers, scared of newborns.

I only air this to the world, because Peter said to me this morning, “I can’t wait to read your blog about how you want Nana here instead of me.” So yes, we’re looking forward to Nana’s visit. Because Nana puts things away after herself, changes diapers, and focuses Doodles on calming activities like coloring. Don’t get me wrong; we’re thrilled Peter is here to help. But in the grand scheme of things, give us Nana any day.

How to blog when sleep deprived? Have caught few catnaps on living room chair with Sweetie Pie draped across my lap… she sleeps the same way Doodles did… touching a human being or not at all… I’ve had minor success getting her to sleep in the car seat, which she is doing at the moment, so I had better type fast.

Sweetie Pie does differ from Doodles in one major way: she’s a screamer. Sweetie Pie has exactly two states of being: asleep and crying. Her cries are significantly louder than Doodles were and they are much more frequent. Because I’m not a paranoid first-time mom, I’m taking this to be a good thing. My daughter is expressing herself and demonstrating her assertiveness. I’ve got a great little vocal feminist in the making. She’s going to let you know exactly where she stands.

Strangely enough, as hard as it is to wrangle two kids and as much as I think I’ll move to Australia, it really is so much easier the second time around. As tired as I am, I simply don’t care the same way. After all, I know this is temporary. At the most, I have just five more months of no sleep. I can do that for five months. Adam says, “Don’t you want to try putting Sweetie Pie in the cosleeper?” and really, I don’t, because soon she’s going to be this mobile, opinionated little girl who won’t just curl into me and look at me as the person who can make all her problems (you know, hunger, dirty diapers) go away. I don’t stress over her dirty diapers (“oh my G-d! He peed! Change him, fast! before a rash sets in”); if a baby is happily asleep, I’m not going to disturb her for a little wetness. I only check her to see if she’s breathing every ten minutes as opposed to every five. While two kids are harder, the adjustment from one to two really isn’t so bad. Going from none to one is such a huge life adjustment; going from one to two, well, we already have all the paraphernalia, we already don’t go out anymore, and we already know what to expect.

Of course, I write this right now, today, when Doodles is in day care. Yesterday, when he rebelled in the middle of music class (decided he was “all done music” with twenty minutes left in the class; this is after, of course, he had asked for days, “music class! music class!”), had a meltdown in the library (“play with ‘puter!! [meaning computer]), refused to nap, and then had four–count ’em four–time outs in succession for hitting me, I was singing a slightly different tune.

Ah, our Sweetie Pie. We thought we gave birth to a beautiful little girl. Turns out we spawned an angry seal.

Most newborns mewl. They make these soft, pathetic little cries that break the hearts of new mothers everywhere. Not my child. My child squeaks. And barks. And snorts. And groans. If you close your eyes, you’d think you were in the aquatic section of the zoo. Unless you’re hearing it at 2 a.m. In which case, you think you’re trapped in a very bizarre David-Lynch type nightmare from which there is no escape. Which, I suppose, there isn’t.

There are those who believe the “f word” is the dirtiest word in the English language. Still others think it’s the “c word.” Other don’t believe there is such a thing as a “dirty” word. Well, they’re all wrong. There is a single word that is the nastiest word known to mankind, the word that strikes fear into all adult members of our household.

That word is… “other.”

Yes, that’s right. “Other.” As in, “No, no, no! Other cereal bar!” when we have already laid out every cereal bar we have in the house in front of our tantruming toddler. “No, no, no! Other fish!” when really, we don’t have that many kinds of fish in our house (either of the crunchy edible kind or the stuffed animal variety). Whatever it is our child has, he wants “other.” Of course, we never seem to have whatever “other” he is looking for, which leads to a shower of “No no no no nos,” which of course devolves into a meltdown.

Luckily for us, our child isn’t yet the brightest bulb in the socket. I have learned a very magical trick that sometimes works. When I’ve gotten yogurt approval, for example, and opened and “swooshed” the yogurt for him, only to have him suddenly demand, “Other yogurt!” I quickly agree. I grab the yogurt off his placemat, bring it into the kitchen. I open and shut the fridge door, announce, “I’m getting a different yogurt! I’ll swoosh it here for you!” stall a few seconds, and then bring out the very same yogurt, which will then, generally, be eaten.

This technique also works for the lesser nasty, but still dreaded, “more.” Occasionally, after I’ve filled his plate with Veggie Booty, the child will demand, “More Veggie Booty.” So right there, as he watches me, I take all the Veggie Booty off his plate and return it to the bag. When his plate is empty, I then repour the Booty out and say, “There! More Veggie Booty!” at which time he eats.

So if you come to visit our house, feel free to say what you’d like… however if we catch you uttering the “o word” or the “m word,” we’re gonna wash your mouth out with soap.

I’m back to where I was not quite two years ago–forced to blog with a sleeping child on my lap. Sweetie Pie and I are in the nurse-fall asleep-transfer to crib-wake up-nurse-fall asleep… You get the idea. Sweetie Pie is definitely her brother’s sister.

I’m torn about what to write. I have quite a number of friends who are pregnant and expecting their second children right about when their first kids turn two. So while part of me wants to be as honest as I can, I don’t want to frighten my friends. Because I have to say, having two kids, well, no way around it. It’s scary!

Having two kids makes me wonder, what the hell was I complaining about when I had just one baby!?! Today, for example, Doodles is at day care and Adam is at work, and things are quiet and easy. But when both Doodles and Sweetie Pie are home…watch out! Doodles is a little too enthusiastic about Sweetie Pie. “Cuddle Sweetie Pie!! Hug Sweetie Pie!!” as he tries to climb up to wherever we’re sitting, elbowing me in my incision or engorged br*easts on the way. Remember when you had one child and you could leave the child in his play gym? Not so with the second child. Because that first child has the play gym turned upside down over his head as he tries to yank all the toys off. Or you could plop the baby down on a blanket for a little tummy time or just to hang out with a change of scenery? Not so when the older child is getting on his chair and seeing how far he can go as he yells, “Jump!” Remember when your baby was hungry and you fed him? Not so when the older child is throwing a full-fledged temper tantrum on the middle of the living room floor because he’s refusing to take his nap. Remember how when your baby kept you up all night because he was nursing in one-hour blocks, you’d sleep in the next morning? Not so when your husband needs to go to the bathroom so your older child takes it as a sign to make a break for it and run into your bedroom shouting, “CUDDLE BABY SWEETIE! CUDDLE BABY SWEETIE!” as he scales your bed.

Doodles is learning a lot. Right now we’re working on the concept of indoor voice. During the day, he can shout to his heart’s content–we want Sweetie Pie to be able to sleep through anything as Doodles does. But when he does barrel into our room in the morning, he has to keep his voice down. Not working so well. “Doodles,” we say in a hushed voice, “do you know how to whisper?” “YEAH!! WHISPER!” he shouts.

My primary concern about Doodles is that he’s become incredibly attached to Adam. Which is great, except that Adam is going to go back to work full time soon (right now he’s only going in when Doodles is in day care), and I’m worried how Doodles will react. Mommy is still good for cuddling and book time, but it’s all about Daddy the rest of the time. Because of the c-section, which means I’m not supposed to pick up Doodles (yeah, right!), and because Sweetie is not yet on a bottle (I’ve started pumping, though), we’ve pretty much had to take a divide-and-conquer approach, so Adam is solely responsible for Doodles and I’m solely responsible for Sweetie Pie. Now when Doodles wakes up at night, he calls for “Daddy.” When he wants to go outside, it’s all “Daddy.” When it’s time for rough play, it’s “Daddy.” (Although, happily, “Mommy” is still the one who kisses boo-boos.)

However, there have been some good aspects to this too. For instance, a couple of days ago, Adam was, um, taking care of business, and Doodles said, “Doodles potty.” Sure enough, he took off his shorts, undid his diaper, and peed in his potty! We’re not going to push it–I’m not actually planning on potty training until next summer–but he’s gone three times already in his potty. The only thing we haven’t figured out is how to teach him to point himself downward. Right now he’s only half got it and he’s peeing all over his hand.

I’m not quite capturing the nuances of having a two year old and a newborn. It’s hard to put into words the exhaustion of dealing with two kids, but it’s very different than the first time around. In some ways, it’s better because I definitely have more confidence as a mom. And I know that the rough part will be over before I know it. But damn, it ain’t easy!!

The Summary
At least someone in this family remembers to check her Outlook calendar!

The Short and Sweet Version
Sweetie Pie was born on Thursday, August 25 at 5:55 p.m. via c-section. She weighed 7 lbs. 15 oz. and was 20 1/2 inches long. She is beautiful and has five fingers on each hand and five toes on each foot and more hair than a lot of adults I’ve known.

The Extremely Long and Somewhat Gory Version
Wednesday was a tough day for us. Doodles had his two-year doctor appointment, which was traumatic for both of us. He loves going to the doctor’s office. The doctor’s office has really cool toys in the waiting room, and he doesn’t show any hesitation about diving in and playing, no matter how many sick kids have been breathing on the stuff. But the second we enter the actual examination room, Doodles begins the freak out. This time it started just getting weighed by the nurse. Eventually, I had to hold him, weigh both of us, and then weigh me alone to get an approximation of his weight. Let me tell you, nine months pregnant, just what you want: an extra opportunity to get weighed. You can imagine how the rest of the visit went. What didn’t help was that I had a dermatologist appointment afterwards, and once again, Doodles freaked out once we were in the examination room, even though he was safely ensconced in his stroller with a baggy of Goldfish. He tried to climb out, as he once again chanted, “Home! Home! Home!” The afternoon was a little better, although Early Intervention, which Doodles normally loves, was cut short because Doodles simply curled up in a ball on the floor and yelled. Charming. The day was saved with a visit to the playground with a friend, however, Doodles discovered the big hill (and it is quite a big hill) and decided he had to run up it. Again. And again. So nine months pregnant, I’m waddling up and down a hill. Hmmm. Lots of walking here. Wonder if there’s a connection.

Anyway, the point of this is the day wasn’t great and I was exhausted. I came home and told Adam that we were now at the point where the baby could come anytime, so I took my first dose of Evening of Primrose Oil, which is not supposed to bring on labor but is supposed to help “prepare” the cervix. I climbed into bed early, utterly exhausted.

My visits to the bathroom are pretty well scheduled, so sure enough, at about 12:35 a.m., I made my way to the bathroom. I don’t bother turning on any lights, as I can almost do this in my sleep and I like to pretend that if I just keep my eyes closed and chant, “I’m not awake, I’m not awake,” then I’ll have no problems falling back asleep. So in this dream trance, I’m peeing away. All of a sudden, I feel a “plop.” No real other way to describe it. Just a plop. I half crack an eye as I try to decipher the plop. Suddenly it hits me: mucous plug! I’ve lost my mucus plug! Labor could be just days away! I quickly jump up and turn on the bathroom light, but feel quite confused when I look in the toilet and there’s nothing unusual in there. Damn. I was sure I felt something. So now I’m tired and befuddled and suddenly very… hey, what is that feeling? Wet? I’m suddenly feeling very wet? I sit back down and a little gush escapes me. Wet. I’m wet. It takes me a few moments to process. I’m wet!

I rush into the bedroom, note the time (12:42 a.m.) and wake up Adam. “My water’s broken.”

Surprisingly calm, he says, “Okay, so what do we do?”

“I’ll call my doctor but I’m pretty sure we just hang around until the contractions start to come regularly.”

Wadding a bunch of towels between my legs, I find the doc’s number and call. To my surprise, I’m told to come in right away. Because I’m a VBAC, the doctor on call said, they want to monitor me. I decided to define “right away” as the hour and a half it’s going to take my in-laws to come to our house from New Hampshire, so I pack a few last minute things, call my doula and tell her no hurry–my contractions are quite mild and far apart–update my ipod, send out an e-mail canceling my lunch and pedicure I had planned with a friend for the next day. I marvel at how courteous Sugar Face is, trying to plan her arrival around my schedule. And I generally kill a little time, waddling around with the towels still between my legs.

The in-laws eventually arrive, and Adam and I head off for the hospital. We arrive around 2ish, only to find out that the place is packed. We head for triage, me with my birth wish list in hand, which has such stellar requests such as “I would really like to try to have birth with no medication,” “As long as the baby is fine, I’d like to be free of time limits and not augmented,” “I want to watch with a mirror the baby crowning,” and “I’d like to be able to use the Telemetry Monitor for the fetal monitoring so that I can move around, get on the birthing ball, etc. It’s important to me that I’m not confined to the bed,” and “I’d like to hold the baby immediately after birth.” (For those who remember my major fear with pregnancy number one, I did address it in my wish list: “I would like everything possible done to avoid the necessity of an episiotomy or to prevent tearing. However, if it is determined by the OB that an episiotomy would be the best course of action, please do not tell me. Just do it. If consent is necessary, please discreetly ask Adam. I do not want to know about it until after the fact.”) And we hang out in triage. Tired. Bored. I read a magazine. At one point the little alarm bells on my monitor go off and the nurse comes in and tells me that Sugar Face’s heart rate has been a bit too high for their comfort and their going to put me on an I.V., because they think it’s just dehydration.

At about 5 a.m., we are moved to our labor and delivery room. After much consulting of manuals, I’m hooked up to my Telemetry Monitor (guess they’re not used much). Still not much is happening for me. I’m about 1 cm. dilated and about 30% effaced. So really, nothing going on. We’re hanging out. And hanging out. And hanging out. The thing is, the doctor’s don’t like to let someone hang out for too long once her water has broken because of the risk of infection. So at about 9 a.m., the doctor says she’d really like to start me on pitocin. Adam and I look at each other and I kind of shrug. I didn’t want to be augmented, but I also don’t want to end up with a C because the baby took too long. “What the hell,” I say. “Go for it.” And at this point I tell my doula to head on down. (Can you count? That’s one down for the wish list: no augmentation.)

The doula comes and I begin to have contractions somewhat in earnest. We’re hanging out and I’m doing the things you’re supposed to do during contractions: rocking in the rocking chair, sitting on the birth ball, breathing deeply. Contractions are coming every two minutes and I have to say, I’m not really loving it. I’m told that if any pain at all exists between contractions to let them know, and sure enough, after one contraction, the pain doesn’t go away. Suddenly I’m surrounded by a whole team of folk as the baby’s heart rate goes way up and I’m writhing in pain. It’s ultimately determined that I’m bending my wrist, which is causing the pitocin to pool up, so when I unbend, I’m having three-minute contractions. To be safe, they decide to put an internal fetal monitor on me. (Which means I’m n
ow tethered. That’s two down for the wish list.)

Now it’s late morning and I’m about 3 cm. dilated and 90% effaced. And the contractions are coming. And coming. And coming. I’m picturing them as waves washing over me, but that’s not really working. I’m trying to picture myself crossing the finish line of the marathon, trying to conjure up the pain I felt there and how I powered through it, but again, not quite working. I think about Ina May’s book and how some women find the birth process “orgasmic,” but that’s really not happening for me. I’m concentrating on a single spot on the floor. All I know is, these pitocin contractions are not what I had signed on for.

1 p.m.: Still 3 c.m. Still 90% effaced. Still miserable. I’ve had enough. “I changed my mind!” I yell. “Get me the drugs! What the hell was I thinking? F*uck the natural childbirth and get me my epidural NOW!!!” With consolations from everyone that pitocin contractions do tend to be more powerful than natural ones, I happily take my epidural. And suddenly, life is beautiful. I still have the sensation of the contractions, but not the pain. I’m joking with the medical students, watching a little t.v. for distraction and generally think that the world is swell place to live. (And that’s three down.)

3 p.m.: Still not much going on. Adam is obviously starving so I send him out to get a snack. “Are you sure?” he asks. “I’m fine! Nothing’s happening!” I insist. So out he goes. Of course minutes after he leaves, I start to feel a little woozy. “I’m kind of lightheaded,” I tell the nurse. Next thing I know there are swarms of folks around me again. Adam comes back ten minutes later to find my bed surrounded and an oxygen mask on my face. Apparently my blood pressure did a little dive, but they get it back up. Then, the doctor issues an ultimatum. “You are still 3 c.m. dilated and 90% effaced. If you haven’t made any progress by 5, we’re going to have to seriously talk c-section.” I’m told I only have to make it another centimeter, so I start talking to myself: “Open up! Open up! Come out Sugar Face! We’re ready for you!” My doula has me visualizing the texture of melted candle wax and Play-Doh as that’s what my cervix is supposed to feel like. At one point, I develop a horrible case of the shakes; my entire body is convulsing, but the doula and the labor and delivery nurse assure me that it’s a sign that the hormones are doing what they’re supposed to be doing. My doula massages me, rubs my jaw to soothe the shaking. I’m told to go limp and just visualize opening up. And I visualize down to my last inner eyeball. Adam is napping in the chair in the corner of the room.

Just before 5 p.m., I start to shake again violently. I tell the nurse that I feel a pressure in my bottom, so she calls the doctor back in. Adam wakes up, once again, to find me surrounded by people. Sure enough, I’ve done it: I’m fully dilated and ready to push. The only problem is, I’m shaking so violently and I’m so tired, I can’t push. I develop a severe case of the chills and as I convulse, I’m begging for more blankets.

“You have to push,” the nurse tells me.

“I can’t!” I whine. “I can’t!”

“You must!”

I give it an effort that even I know is feeble. I’m trying to hold my breath and push as instructed, but really not much is happening. All of a sudden there’s another rush of people around me. Things are going on, but I’m not sure what. The doctor approaches me. “You have a fever of 103.2,” she tells me. “This is a sign of infection. Your baby’s heart rate is going up to 195 and then plummeting down to 80. I have to strongly urge you to have a c-section now. We are putting you on antibiotics, but we need to get this baby out and get her antibiotics.”

I look to Adam. “What do you think?”

Adam gives me the ultimate “Duh!” look and says, “Have the section.”

So after all that, I’m wheeled off to the OR and shortly after, Sugar Face, now known as Sweetie Pie, is whisked from my uterus, with Adam watching the entire process (at one point he tells me, “It’s cool. I see your bladder and your stomach,” and I have to tell him to shut the f*uck up. I mean, I want him to know me inside and out, but this is ridiculous). The one good thing is that because I had requested the epidural before, we didn’t have to worry about using general anesthesia. The operation was much longer than the first one I had because there was scar tissue adhesion. While Sweetie Pie was being administered to–she had to rush off to the NICU (so much for holding the baby after birth–that’s four down on the wish list) for antibiotics and for a spinal tap–the doctors were busy working on me. She was born at 5:55, and they weren’t done with me until about 7:30.

One disconcerting moment, as I’m being sewn up, lying out there for the entire world to see, I hear Adam turn to one of the doctors and say, “Hey, weren’t you Dartmouth, class of ’96?” Gee, I can’t wait to run into him at Adam’s next reunion!

Post-c-section is somewhat of a blur. I went to the recovery room where they kept an eye on me until morning. Adam went to the NICU to stay with Sweetie Pie. At about midnight, they deemed Sweetie Pie safe to transfer to the regular nursery, so they brought her to me and, with the help of the nurse, I was able to get Sweetie Pie to latch on. It wasn’t a beautiful feed, but we started the process. Adam went down to our post-partum room to sleep, Sweetie Pie was taken to the nursery, and I went to a private recovery room (Sweetie Pie couldn’t room in with me in the recovery room). I had to stay in the room until about 8 the next morning, because I did require a blood transfusion a few hours after the surgery and my vitals needed to be checked every fifteen minutes (so much for catching up on sleep).

And then? And then I got my fairy tale ending. I got into my post-partum room and my Sweetie Pie was able to room in with me. I was up and about by the end of the day. Adam spent the nights at home, as Doodles didn’t react well to our leaving him to go to the hospital (he awoke when my in-laws were there and refused to go back to sleep. Even now, he refuses to go to sleep unless Adam is right there next to him. Poor thing is afraid of being deserted). However Adam came back to visit with Doodles who is 100% enamored of his little sister. “Hold Baby Sweetie Pie! Cuddle Baby Sweetie Pie!” is the constant refrain coming from his mouth. While he’s a little confused about who is who, he does frequently say, “New little sister. New big brother.” At day care on Monday, he insisted on wearing his hospital bracelet and he brought in a photo of him and Sweetie Pie that he showed to everyone.

Sweetie Pie and I both came home on Monday. As it turned out, the c-section was probably a good thing anyway, as Sweetie Pie was both “sunny-side up” and had the cord wrapped around her neck. But part of me can’t help but feel a little regretful at how it turned out. I don’t think one thing on my birth wish list actually happened (well, I did get to avoid the episiotomy). Then I look at this gorgeous creature asleep next to me, and I remember it doesn’t matter how she got here: all that matters is she’s here and our family is complete.

I want a friggin’ medal. And if not a medal, then at least a T-shirt that reads, “I survived my son’s 2nd birthday while 9 months preggo.”

Yesterday, Doodles turned two. Bizarre for me to comprehend that my little boy has reached the number two. Of course, if you ask him how old he is, he’ll hold up one finger and yell, “Fwee!” But two feels like a magic number. For starters, we no longer count in months. And then, he gets cut off his nice rich whole milk and gets switched to skim. And nuts are no longer off limits, which I am soooo grateful for because when you have a child who will only eat carbs, your choices are limited. A whole new world of granola bars and cereals with a new form of protein are opened up for us now.

But getting to two wasn’t the easiest. We had a small birthday brunch for him on Sunday, which went well, except that Doodles was most unhappy when another child blew out his birthday candles. We took the easy way out and most everything was store bought, including the cake, which was way more huge and extravagant than I would have imagined. Thank goodness we bought a freezer for our basement on tax-free weekend, so we had a place to store all that extra cake. The Sunday party went well, and I was able to breathe easy that we made it through without the arrival of Sugar Face. Tweedles came to help out and I’m not sure we could have done it without the third person, and I think I now understand why people have kids’ birthday parties at other locations. As Adam says, Next year, Chuck E. Cheese.

Then, on Doodles’s actual birthday, we had a playgroup party for him and another girl in the group who turned two four days before Doodles. This one was in our backyard.

It didn’t start off promising. Doodles awoke from his nap in the fiercest of moods. For forty-five minutes, I tried to calm him down, but all he wanted to do was scream, throw his milk, and hit me. However, once the first guest arrived, he did settle down some and we headed outside.

Then, the party was great except that Doodles has a tendency to want to wander away. We had the wading pool. We had a crafts table with construction paper, glue, and baking sugars (instead of glitter). We had his ball pit out. We had the toddler basketball net up. Three Cozy Coupe-style cars. Two tricycles. A small climber. The sandbox. And my child? “Play mama’s car! Play mama’s car!” as he breaks for the stairs to take him to the front yard. I’d have to waddle after him and forcibly snatch him back to the back yard. “Mama’s car! Mama’s car!!” I’d be able to distract him with something else for about five minutes–“Doodles! Look how fun it is to jump and dive into the ball pit!” “Doodles! Look how fun it is to spread the glue everywhere!”–and then he’d be off again. I finally started to bribe him: “If you stay in the back, there will be cupcakes!” How many years till he realizes birthday parties come with cupcakes no matter what he does? Anyway, that actually worked and soon the cupcakes came out. My child–obviously my child–licked the copious amounts of frosting off his cupcake, handed me the cake part back, and declared, “All done cupcake! Want more cupcake!” The child was covered in frosting. All the other kids ate rather daintily, needing only a minor swipe of a wipe to clean them off. I gave up and let my child run around with chocolate smeared across his face, hands, chest, shirt, and shorts.

But soon, the party was over and I was able to chill. I promised myself I could have the glass of wine my doula told me to have to relax, but I was too tired to even contemplate it.

So now, I’ve made it halfway through Doodles’s toddler years and Sugar Face is welcome to come at any point. Of course, if she checks her Outlook calendar, she’ll see that her preferred arrival is actually tomorrow. We’ll see if she actually obliges. I’m guessing… not.

Regardless, happy birthday to my special little snuggle bunny. It really is going by fast.

How many months did we try to get Doodles to sleep in his cosleeper? We tried to cajole him, beg him, trick him… anything to get him sleeping off of me an on his cosleeper. The cosleeper basically became a place to change his diaper and for me to store my oft-referred to Caring for Your Baby and Young Child.

So it should come to no surprise to anyone that now that we have the cosleeper set up for Sugar Face (which causes major problems for me at 12:57 a.m., 3:23 a.m., and 5:17 a.m. when I need to get up to go to the bathroom), Doodles is all over the thing. He likes to stand on the bed and yell, “Jump!” as he dives for the cosleeper, causing to shake and rattle as he lands with a thump and rolls into the sides.

“Doodles!” I admonish. “You’re too big for that! You’ll break it!” How do we instill the fear of the cosleeper in him that he had just a year and a half ago? And what happens when he tries the “Jump!” move and there’s actually a baby in the thing?

Dammit, some child is going to get use out of that thing in the way it was intended. Until (when?) Sugar Face refuses to sleep in it, Doodles can go to town, but in the meantime, we’re looking forward to daily temper tantrums as we haul his tiny a*ss outta the thing.

Happy happy joy joy, it’s a Tweedly Twirp birthday! Hope your tummy is feeling better and that you’re not cloistered somewhere! At least I amuse myself.