the pieces of my life

The Tweedle Twirp came to visit. And she is now locked in our basement, forbidden to leave.

Life is so much easier when you have a Tweedle Twirp around! First of all, she comes bearing a used train ticket. Oh, Doodles loves that used train ticket! He fell asleep with it firmly glued to his hand. It comes with him in the car. He asks for it when he’s eating.

Second of all, the Tweedle Twirp is small. Which means she can fit inside Doodles’s school bus along with two chairs, Doodles’s guitar, her backpack and purse (which Doodles of course insisted she bring along for their trip), and assorted other toys.

Third of all, Doodles wants to impress her. We couldn’t get Doodles out the door? “Well, okay, you can stay here by yourself, but the Tweedle Twirp is going to get into the car!” “Tweedle Twirp is going? I need my jacket!” Cutting Doodles’s nails is an ongoing battle. But simply say, “You know, when the Tweedle Twirp wakes up, she wants to see your short nails,” and you’ll have a kid who docilely sits while you trim both finger and toe nails and then runs eagerly to show them to Tweedle Twirp the minute she awakens.

Oh, I could go on. But I hear a banging on the pipes from the basement. Tweedle Twirp must be looking for a cup of tea or a chamber pot. Better go take care of that.

A conversation between father and son, as reported by Adam:

Adam: I have to get ready for work
Doodles: Why?
Adan: To earn money.
Doodles: Why?
Adam: Mommy and Daddy work to earn money so we can buy you clothes, and food, and send you to college. Do you want to go to college?
Doodles nods
Adam: Do you want to go to state college or private college?
Doodles: Private college.
Adam: Okay, but you’re going to have to do your homework and get good grades.
Doodles groaned. (Seriously!)

Our new friend, Lillian, was born this past week to my friend Rachel. Rachel e-mailed a photo album full of wonderful shots of Lily (another beautiful baby born with a head full of hair! Must be something about our Beach blood) with her adoring big brother, Max.

I have never described myself as a newborn person. Not when I held any of my friends’ babies. Not when I anticipated life with children. Not when I had Doodles. I am a toddler person. I’ve always known this about myself. Right now Doodles is an incredible amount of fun. He talks, sings, makes funny faces, protests loudly, tantrums hard, and is generally a little person to whom I can relate.

And then we had Sweetie Pie. Sweet little Sweetie Pie. And suddenly, out of nowhere, I realized that newborns aren’t so bad. Heck, newborns are actually kind of nice. They curl up and sleep on you. They stare at you with utter devotion (although maybe it’s udder devotion? They just stare at you and see one big milk machine). They let you cover them with kisses without eventually wriggling off with a grimace to play with their trains in the toy room. Yes, they’re floppy, they cry a lot, and poop constantly, but once you’ve been through it one time, you know how fast it goes and it doesn’t seem quite as hard. Before we had Sweetie Pie, my father told me that the transition from one to two wasn’t so tough. “With the first child,” he said, “it’s a shock. Your life gets turned upside down. With the second, you already know what you’re doing. You know what to expect.” He’s right. After Doodles, I already didn’t go out to eat, gained the weight, stopped sleeping, gave my house over to toys, and generally made that radical adjustment from life as a newlywed with nice furniture to life as a mom with furniture that suddenly all needs to be replaced as soon as kids are old enough to stop spitting up/pooping/spilling food/running airplanes on it.

Looking at those pictures of Lily exacerbated my desire for a third child. Before Doodles (how many of my sentences start out “Before Doodles”?), I knew more certainly than I have known anything that I wanted two kids. “Just two! Absolutely positive!” I’d say. After I had Doodles, I seriously doubted that I could handle two. In fact, we had originally intended to space our children three years apart (because my sister and I are three years apart as is Adam and his brother), but at one point I said to Adam, “If we don’t do this now, it’ ain’t gonna happen! I want to get it over with!”

And two kids we have. Just as planned. But… There’s just this little “but” inside of me.

Financially, we need to stop with two. Our house has the perfect amount of space for two kids. Our bank account has just enough money to save up for two college educations. Our car exactly fits two kids in it. But somewhere, there’s a hankering in me for a third. I mean, since I’ve proven that I can indeed love the second as much as the first (something I had serious doubts about), then I could love a third just as much. Wouldn’t more be merrier? My kids won’t have a ton of cousins when they grow up and at some point, it’ll be pretty much just them. Shouldn’t they have one more ally in this world?

I still dream about getting rid of the exersaucer and the Jumperoo, and I am starting to send the maternity clothes off to pregnant friends. I’ve shed all my pregnancy weight (plus some), am running again, and have started working again. We could not afford day care for a third child, so it would mean putting my career on hold for three years (until preschool). If we had a third two years younger than Sweetie Pie, I’d be 39 when I gave birth. If we waited a little longer, I’d be in my 40s. I have two healthy, wonderful children. Do I really want to press my luck by trying for a third?

It’s funny how strongly people feel about this. A number of folks (mostly family) have told me I’m crazy to think about a third. Others tell me if I’m wavering, then I’ll definitely end up having a third. Some say the transition from two to three is the easiest of all. Some point out that you can’t “divide and conquer” with three. And if I feel guilty now that I don’t have the time to spend with each kid individually enough, how will it be with three? Right now, a third is not in our plans, and I will be giving away baby clothes as we our kids grow out of them. I’d say it’s a 90 percent sure thing that we won’t be giving birth to a third child. I console myself by saying that maybe in seven or eight years, we’ll be doing better financially, and we can always consider adopting a child, perhaps an older one who wouldn’t be able to find a home. But how do you know? How do you know when to stop having kids? If I were younger, I don’t think I’d think twice about it and just keep going. But then, would I have this same angst wondering if I should have a fourth child?

My family certainly is complete. A little boy. A little girl. Two loving parents. But it doesn’t always feel complete. Like maybe there’s space for just one more…

For now, I’ll get my thrills vicariously through others’ children. And in just about eight weeks, I get to meet our little Lily! Rachel just better watch out to make sure I don’t take her home with me.

Does anyone else see the resemblance?

It’s a blog day and I, of course, have lots on my mind however I don’t have the time to share it all with you. I’m on my way in a few minutes to pick Doodles and Sweetie Pie up from day care (Sweetie Pie is doing much better there! We tried a few different bottles and it turns out the Playtex Disposable Nurser is the one that clicked for her). Today I had to finish up a proofreading job and start up a writing job. Normally, I’d blog at night while keeping Sweetie Pie company in bed, but that honor will go to Adam tonight as I am going to a movie! A real live movie! A recently released movie! The last movie I saw in the theaters was The Incredibles. But tonight a group of moms is skipping out to go see Brokeback Mountain. We’re going to try and make a movie night out a monthly thing. So, I’m afraid, you all get shortchanged on this week’s blog entry. But I am one happy camper. A movie! Who would have thunk that I would get so excited by a single night out?

Here’s a quiz question for you. If the singalong at the library starts at 10 a.m. and we need to get our tickets for it by 9:45 a.m., both children are dressed and fed, and the drive to the library, including parking, takes nine minutes, what time do we need to walk out the door to make it on time?

The answer is: 8 a.m. By leaving at 8 a.m., we guarantee being no more than twenty-two minutes late to the half hour singalong.

Why is this? Because by saying, “We absolutely, without a doubt, must be out this door by eight a.m.,” instantly puts Doodles into, well, Doodle mode. I know our morning isn’t so different than any other family’s morning, but it’s ours. Our morning (the abbreviated version):

Me: Doodles, let’s get your shoes on.
Doodles: I want to ride on the train!
Me: We don’t have a train.
Doodles, dragging a dining room chair across the living room and into the playroom: I’m riding the train!
Me: Let’s get your shoes on, honey. We’re going to singalong. You love singalong!
Sweetie Pie, sitting in the high chair, begins to nod off.
Me: Oh no, you don’t! No falling asleep there. You can fall asleep in your car seat.
I take the sleeping Sweetie from the high chair and move her to the car seat, where she instantly starts to wail.
Me: Doodles, shoe time!
Doodles: Mama, can you come here? Mama, can you come to playroom?
Me: You know, E. is going to be at the singalong.
Doodles: E.?
Me: Yep!
Doodles thinks a moment.
Doodles: I make coffee. Mama, here is your coffee.
Me: Thank you, honey. Can we put your shoes on?
Doodles: I need coffee. I need coffee!
Doodles drinks his coffee: Mama, where is E.?
Me: She’s putting her shoes on for singalong.
Doodles: Where is E.?
Me: Still putting her shoes on for singalong.
Doodles thinks again.
Doodles: Where is E.?
Me: Um, let me think. Oh, I know! Putting her shoes on for singalong.
Doodles: Mama, I put sugar in coffee.
Me, sniffing: Doodles, do I smell something? Did you poop?
Doodles: No! No poop! No poop! Mama, here’s coffee.
Me: Doodles, do you want to play in the snow?
Doodles: Play in snow? Play in snow!!
Me: We can play in the snow outside the library before the singalong.
Doodles, marching out of the playroom: Play in snow! I need shoes!
Me: If we’re going to play in the snow, you need your snow pants. Let’s get those on.
I actually get the snow bib out and get them on him. I zip it all the way up. Panic sets in on Doodles.
Doodles: Where’s my belly button? Where’s my belly button?!? [Doodles’s security thing is to put the first finger of his left hand in his mouth and the first finger of his right finger in his belly button.]
Me: Here it is.
I unzip the bib just enough for him to get his hand in.
Me: Okay, the boots. [Sniff, sniff. To Sweetie] Oh, you pooped!
I stop to change Sweetie’s diaper… and onesie… and pants… and shirt… and socks.
Doodles, coming out of the playroom with two cups on his feet: I’m wearing boots! I’m wearing boots!
Me: Okay, let’s get your real boots on.
Doodles: I wearing boots!
[Repeat for 11 1/2 more minutes]
Me: It’s time to play in the snow. We need to get your boots on.
Doodles: I wearing boots!
A dog runs past the window.
Doodles: Doggie! Doggie!
Me: Doodles, if we get your boots on fast enough, we can go out and see the doggie!
Doodles runs to the chair: Boots! Boots!
I get one boot on his foot. The phone rings. I debate what to do. I ignore it, but I hesitate long enough that Doodles can hop down.
Me: We’ve got one more to put on, honey.
Doodles, with a whine: Doggie went away! Doggie went away!
Me: Honey, we have one more boot to go.
Doodles climbs into the living room chair: I watch TV!
Me: Not even close. Let’s get your boot on.
Doodles: I watch TV!! I want Wiggles! Little Einsteins!
Me: You’re whining. We don’t whine.
Doodles, still whining: Pleeeease!
Me: There is no TV until 5 p.m. It is 8:22 a.m. You have a long way to go.
Full scale meltdown erupts that lasts anywhere from three to twenty-seven minutes.
Me: We’ve got to get your other boot on.
Doodles, screaming: No, no, no, no, no, no!!!
I try to distract, cajole, beg, and bribe. If I’m lucky, another dog will pass by.
Me: Look, Doodles, another dog! Maybe if we get the boot on fast enough, he’ll still be down the street.
Doodles immediately quiets and sticks out his foot. Boot goes on. Jacket is flipped on. Diaper bag? Check. Snacks for Doodles? Check. Mei tai for Sweetie Pie? Check. Sweetie Pie? Check. Only… Sweetie Pie is now covered in spit up. I evaluate. I swipe at it with my sleeve. Good enough. I get Doodles in the car. I get Sweetie in the car. I pile all our belongings in the front seat. I realize I’ve had to pee for the past twenty minutes, but I figure I can ignore it for an hour or so till we get home.

Now getting from the car to the library and through the library past the elevator, computers, and countless other obstacles is a whole ‘nother story. But it’s all worth it to spend a half hour sitting on the floor, legs going numb, as I beg Doodles to dance (to wear him out for a good nap) to the bossa nova version of “Itsy Bitsy Spider” and bounce Sweetie Pie to keep her from wailing.

Anyone who says she loves every second of motherhood… is an obvious liar.

Netflix has this feature called Friends. The idea behind Friends is that I can see what my friends are watching, what’s in their queue, and what their ratings are. All fine and dandy. A neat idea. My friend Eugene made me one of his Netflix friends.

It’s fun to browse through and see what he’s watching, because Weegie is a total film geek (as I type he’s at Sundance). I can see movies we both hated (Meet the Fockers), movies we both loved (Girl with a Pearl Earring), and ones we disagreed on (how did he not like Mean Girls?). It’s a cool little feature until…

…I realized that Weegie can see what’s in my queue, too. Not a big deal, you say? Except that I went to film school. Weegie and I became friends because we both worked for the same video store (so to speak). I’m supposed to have taste in film. I’m supposed to be a film snob. So, what’s in my queue? The Stepford Wives (the new version), The Notebook, A Lot Like Love, and believe it or not, a few that are even more embarrasing than that. How totally embarrassing. So do I alter my film queue to reflect the kind of movies I think I should be watching? Load it up with Persona, Hiroshima Mon Amour, and Alphaville because they’re good for me (and I feel obliged to say that I also like all these films, but you know what? I really don’t)? Or do I ‘fess up to the world that, yes, I’m currently brain dead and I’m viewing lots of trash. “Check my past rentals,” I want to yell. “Look at all those documentaries! I love documentaries!”

Sigh. That said if any of your are on Netflix and want to be my Netfilx Friend, drop me an e-mail (I use a different address for Netflix so you can’t just add me). Just please, don’t judge me by what I watch.

How can something so beautiful, so sweet, so absolutely yummy want to kill me so badly? That’s the only explanation I can come up with. Sweetie Pie wants me dead.

For starters there’s the sleep thing. Is it fair to call it a sleep thing when there’s no sleep involved? Basically, I spend the entire night nursing Sweetie with tiny, short nap breaks. As a newborn, she slept in two hour blocks. Now that she’s almost five months old she sleeps in forty-five minute to one hour blocks. I’m her favorite pacifier. I’m her only pacifier.

Then there’s the eating thing. I’ve met my picky eaters before but Miss Pie takes the prize. Not only is she picky about what she eats (breastmilk, please) but she will only take it in its original form. No bottles for her, thank you! Not from her father, not from her grandparents, not from her teachers.

Which brings us to the final thing: school (which is what we call day care in our house). Sweetie Pie isn’t a fan. The first day I had to come feed her midday. The second day she plodded through and today, the third day, I got a call at 10:30 a.m. that I needed to come in because she wouldn’t stop crying. I went in and held her and–poof!–she stopped crying. I put her down to play with her and waaaaaa. Beet red waaaaaaa. Tears streaming down face waaaaaaa. Pick her back up. She’s fine. After about ten rounds of this fun game, I gave up and took her home. Which would be fine if I didn’t have three work deadlines looming ahead. We went back in the afternoon to hang out and help acclimate her. And guess what? She played her little game again. “Coo, coo, coo!” Mommy thinks she’s doing okay, and sets her down to play. “Waaaaaaaaaa!” Up she goes. “Coo, coo, coo!”

The end result of this? An overly tired, sore nippled, work-stressed mom who teeters on the edge of oblivion. Right now, I’m blogging from bed as she sleeps next to me (because why would you sleep on your own when you can sleep touching Mom?) and she’s so beautiful and peaceful and sweet. The sad thing is I know how much I’m going to miss all this in a few years. In the meantime, I’ll just continue my role as zombie mom until I can wrangle up two hours of sleep in a row. Word to the wise: Stay out of my way. I’m not the most pleasant person around right now

Our son’s collection of stuffed animals that he must sleep with is growing. The first was Curious George, known simply as George in this house. Then came a doggie. When asked the name of the doggie, Doodles said, “Bark George!” (after the book of the same name). Finally another monkey was added to the menagerie. When asked to name this monkey, Doodles announced, “He’s George!” but to avoid confusion, we call him Little George.

Ah, my son. Smarter than a monkey. At least the ones named George.

Doodles: Where did Sweetie Pie come from?
Adam: Sweetie Pie came from inside Mommy’s belly.
Doodles: Oh!
Adam: Where did Doodles come from?
Doodles: The store!
Adam: Did you come with a warranty?