Her two front teeth. 

This weekend I had planned to take the kids to visit Mall Santa.  I was going to do it by myself, and Alex is sick so I was fully prepared for some sort of meltdown that would make an awesome blog story.

At the last minute, Brett decided to join us so I don’t get to write about wrangling two kidlets alone through the holiday shopping mayhem of glitter and glee. 

We got to the mall early enough that our parking space was twenty feet from the door.  So no bemoaning the trek across frozen tundra.  And it was 60 degrees.  And sunny.

The kind family walking in front of us, instead of letting the door slam shut behind them and whack into the stroller which then would have wedged in the door, forcing me to herd Alex in with one leg while standing on the other trying to wrestle the wheels free…well, they held it for us.

I was prepared to wait in line, only for some stupid elf to tell me it was time for Santa’s smoke break to feed the reindeer right when it was our turn, like happened last year.

There was no line.  Santa and all the elves were waiting expectantly for a wee tot – any wee tot - to come and whisper wishes in their ears.

Surely, Alex would freak when he was plopped onto the lap of a big scary chubby guy with a beard, because after all – I hate beards so he would totally come by it naturally. 

Or maybe, instead of letting EK make up her own mind about whether Santa could hold her, he would showcase his protective big brother instincts like he did at daycare last week when one of the “hitters” came near her and he yelled, “NOOOOOO” as he slow-motion launched himself at the kid.

Apparently, feeling a little under the weather has taken all the fight out of the poor boy because I got this instead:

And this:

From 2008_12_12

Really, I have nothing to write about this trip, except how remarkably unremarkable it was.  How will I ever keep blogging if I have no drama, no tears, no intrigue?

July 15th, 2008

3am – 5am – Up in the middle of the night for no reason at all.  Delurk on some blogs that I’ve never commented on before.  Eat.

5am -6am – Attempt to go back to sleep, so that I will be marginally functional at work.

6am – No dice.  Give up, shower, dress, eat again.

7am – Wake Alex.  Feed him, head to daycare, and contemplate getting a muffin from Dunkin Donuts.

8:45am – Work.  Bored.  Cranky and large and round.  Hungry.  Force self to pack up desk and con someone into lugging box to car.  Assure everyone that it is not my last day, I’m just being prepared.

3pm – Doctor for 37 week checkup.  6.5 cm.  Doctor asks, “How are you still walking around?  You’re really not having any contractions?”  Writes 5 cm in chart.

4:30 – 5:30pm – New business conference call.  Drop subtle hints to boss that I may not make it to due date without divulging the secrets of my cervix.

5:30pm – Dinner.

6pm – Decide to go for family walk.  Stand up from dinner table and am hit with hard contraction.  For some reason, I laugh through it.

Contractions are 3-4 minutes apart and are strong enough that I’m either laughing or breathless.

7pm – Contractions stop.  Stomp around all kinds of pissed off.  Call doctor and explain.  He tells us to go to the hospital.

7:15pm – Annoyed at having to go to hospital because I don’t want to be one of those women who gets sent home, I stomp around packing hospital bag with nothing I need and leaving everything I don’t behind.

7:45pm – Arrive at hospital.  This being second child, and thus no preparation has taken place, we can’t remember what entrance to use.  Go to ER, where the packed waiting room stares at me as if waiting for me to start screaming or at the very least for my water to break, JUST LIKE ON TV.  After searching our bags, the security guard looks me over and recommends we drive to the correct entrance.

8:15pm – Check in.  Hook up to fetal monitor shows a disappointing lack of contraction action.

9:30pm – Doctor arrives refreshed from steak dinner at nice restaurant.  Determines I’m now 7.5 cm and that it would be asking for trouble if I were to go home.  With some prompting by me, decides to break my water.

9:40pm – Tell the nurse that I want an epidural and that someone better get the anesthesiologist before they break my water because otherwise there might not be time. 

9:45pm – Doctor breaks water.

9:47pm – Brett comes back from making phone calls to find me writhing in pain.  Asks what’s wrong.  Seriously.  (To his credit, he didn’t realize that he missed the water breaking ceremony.)

10:15pm – Doctor asks if I want to push or wait a little.  Being lazy, I decide to save the effort and wait.

1o:28pm – There will be no more waiting.

10:43pm – Hello baby.

It really was that fast.  And since I know about 10 people who are pregnant right now and want my good vibes I will offer the opportunity to rub my arm to guarantee an extra speedy labor and delivery in exchange for a night of babysitting.

 You’re too late.

 Emily Kate arrived on Tuesday at 10:43 after a hard 60 minute labor.  (I know…)

More later…

With that in mind, I began a search for a stylist.

Option 1:  My stylist.  I love her.  She offered.  HOWEVER.  As I looked around the trendy salon, with it’s walls of glass shelves and glass product bottles and enormous glass fountain I get the feeling that children aren’t exactly welcome there.  Indeed, if I were there for a service and someone else had their kid in the place, I’d be pissed.  

Scratch Option 1.

Option 2:  Daddy’s haircut place – let’s call it House of ESPN Haircuts.  Or the Hooters of Hair.  All the stylists wear referee shirts and there are about a hundred TVs in the place all tuned to sports all the time.  No, I don’t know if the stylists are hot. 

(As an aside, I can’t imagine working there because when I think about how annoyed I get at the constant stream of commentary, squeaking sneakers, and crowd noise in my living room – where I can leave and go somewhere else – I think that I would kill someone if I had that for 8 hours a day.  None of these girls must be married.)

I could have taken Alex there for his first “professional” haircut.  But in the past, I expressed my distrust of hair salon franchises that cost less than $15 for a cut.  The idea of someone fresh out of beauty school waving sharp scissors near my kid’s face was one I didn’t relish.  And after Brett came home with crooked bangs the last time I’m thinking that if they can’t even cut it straight with someone who sits still, then Alex is getting better cuts from me at home.

Scratch Option 2.

Option 3:  I had heard a rumor that a kid’s haircut place was opening 5 minutes from our house.  On Wednesday, I cruised by to check it out, only to discover that the grand opening was the next day.  No matter, that day Alex had been awakened early from nap by another screaming kid and I swear his eyes were shooting laser beams so I wasn’t trying to take him right then anyway.

As we were driving slowly by, the owner saw us and came running out.  Very friendly chat ensued, and some coupons were proffered.  Sold.  So yesterday, at the grand opening, Alex was parked in the seat of a plane and got his first professional cut.

What the hell? Something’s going on here…

I’m telling you woman, this cape is not long for this world.  (Nobody likes capes…)

Looks like things are going well…minus cape.

Here’s how things are really going…

The post traumatic haircut lollipop – most excellent.

The post lollipop drool spill and sugar high high HIGH!

(Note to my local friends, I have another coupon if you’re thinking of taking your kid there.  Let me know.)

(Crickets.)

Anyone?

Sleep habits in our house have always been somewhat erratic, except for Brett, who has the annoying ability to fall asleep any time, anywhere, any situation.  For example, when the baby wakes up and just wants some company, Brett can go into his room carrying only a pillow, mumble a greeting, then resume sleeping on the floor without missing a snore.

The one time we decided to let Alex “cry it out” at 1am, I laid there as piercing, sad wails tore my skin off layer by layer.  More than once I got up intending to scoop him up and comfort him like I was supposed to be doing – aaarrrrgggh.  It was during one of those trips that I heard the peaceful snores of Daddy, who had fallen back asleep amid the screams as loud as sirens.

I on the other hand, am a chronic insomniac.  I can usually fall asleep, but often find myself awake in the wee hours, thinking about painting over our fish, or work – which is funny, because I don’t think much about work when I’m at work.

Alex has sleep patterns that rotate and reset every 2 or 3 weeks.  Last month, good naps and sleeping until 7am.  We likee. 

For the last two weeks, up at 6.  On the dot.  Every day.  And not napping. 

Yesterday he got up at 6, took a 40 minute snooze and stayed up until 7:30pm.  And get this – he was happy.  All day.  I’m not happy all day when I get up at 6 and I’m not supposed to need naps.

I’ve become accustomed to taking naps on Saturday and Sunday when he does.  That’s the only way I get through the week.  But what if this sleep pattern doesn’t change over?  And isn’t daylight savings time coming back around to bite me in the ass soon?

Oh my god.  I can’t handle the thought of no more naps.  Naptime come back!  I need you!

Unplanned makes it sound like I am 16 and will now be forced to drop out of high school. That’s not exactly the right word. Unexpected At This Moment, when I was seriously contemplating whether I really wanted to have two or whether I just liked the IDEA of two, is probably a better term.

We have proven yet again that a) we did not pay attention in 9th grade sex education and b) that the “you should probably stay away from me this week” method of birth control does not work. And also c) that one or both of us is insanely fertile.

I am happy about this. Usually. What gets me and flings me into a funk is people who are being cheerful but don’t realize that their comments are actually zinging on my worst fears. Offhand comments about how TOUGH it is raising two and how TIRED you are all the time, and how the SECOND pregnancy is SO much worse because all your symptoms are MULTIPLIED. EXPONENTIALLY. And my favorite, “If I’d had the second one first, he/she would have been an only. But it’s so much fun and such a blessing!”

What?

I don’t have morning sickness. I am only crazy after 7pm and before 10am. The only symptom I have is total, utter exhaustion. The kind that means it takes effort to move your finger to click the mouse. The kind of exhaustion that causes me to lay down on the kitchen floor in a pile of crumbs because I can’t stay standing for the 30 seconds it takes to microwave my pickle with American cheese wrapped around it, mmmm.

That deep, all-consuming heaviness is what makes me feel so overwhelmed. Because I don’t have the energy to fix stuff like I usually do. I don’t even have the mental brainpower to think about what to feed Alex for breakfast. By noon though, I’m better. And I have a few good hours where I can function and act normally. Unfortunately those are mostly wasted at work.

As I get used to the idea of being pregnant, I am thankful that I never had to go through the agonizing waiting and wondering of “trying”. Thankful that the decision to have two has been made for me. Thankful that I have a supportive husband who can deal with mood swings on a massive scale.

And I never thought I would, but I kind of like the idea of how close in age these kids will be. Plus as another friend pointed out, “They’ll play together and entertain each other and when you are ready for them to be out of the house they will be, one right after the other!”

That’s what I’m talkin’ bout.

Anyway, where I was going with all this is yet another list. (I make a ridiculous number of lists in my life off the blog too, so many that one time I made a list of lists I wanted to make.) Above are the things people have said to me that were not helpful AT ALL. So here is my list of top 5 acceptable things to say to your friend who has just told you she’s pregnant and didn’t plan it me.

5. Would you like me to babysit so you can nap? (I will kiss you and then immediately head up to bed.)

4. I think you should hire someone to clean your house weekly while you’re pregnant. (From my mom – and I agree. Toxic fumes and all that.)

3. How do you feel about it? (This one is good because if I happen to be wallowing in self-pity at the moment, I will be forced to reflect and determine that really, it’s fine.)

2. You’re f*&!ng kidding me! (Because then we both have a good laugh, mine rueful and yours nervous in that glad-it’s-not-me way.)

And the best thing you can say is…

1. I’m pregnant too! (Because misery the joy of pregnancy loves company and all that. I really want a buddy.)

No no no, of course Alex taking his first step is WAAAY more important. However, seeing as how he’s been standing since he was 9 months, and walking with assistance since around that same time, we had given up on trying to make him take steps on his own. (Headstrong that one is, already throwing tantrums like he was 2.) So far, we haven’t been able to capture the walk on video. Because when the camera goes on, he goes limp noodle on us and refuses to even stand, let alone weeble across the room toward the camera. When he does do it though, he totters a few feet into my arms and ends by throwing his arms around our necks and giving the best baby hug ever. All of which makes me happier than I ever thought possible.

However. Winning makes me happy too. For the past 7 years, Brett has signed me up to be in a football pool. Some years I did OK, some years – like last year, I didn’t even care so pregnant and miserable I was. Each year the pool has grown so that now it has a ridiculous number of people in it. And with the Steelers somewhat pathetic win over the Dolphins on Monday, I eked out a victory over the 10 people I was tied with because I picked the least number of points. Wahaha! WAHAHAHAH!!

Take that all of you who spend hours watching SportsCenter and studying the injury list and stats and whatever you do if you try to be educated when you make your picks. The only thing I know is that I almost always pick the Steelers and that the Jets and Dolphins are not good.

Between the baby hugs and the pool money, this is a happy-filled week.

The good news is that I can definitively rule out Hair Stylist. Cross it off the list of things (along with Professional Skier and anything that requires getting dirty) that I’m instinctively good at, because obviously my true calling will be something where I don’t have to put forth a lot of effort but yet am phenomenal at.

Ah the first haircut. I don’t know how we got to the point where he needed a haircut, because last time I looked he had spiky fuzz.

Anyway, I didn’t want to take him to my haircut place because honestly, I don’t think they like children much – which is why I like it for spa days and such. (I like my kid and most of my friend’s kids, but not Other People’s Kids – you know the ones rocking around knocking bottles off shelves and generally being annoying). I’m also not about to pay $50 for a baby haircut.

Going to someplace like the Hair Cuttery or Super Cuts just did not smack of the ceremony I felt was required of the occasion. Paying someone fresh out of beauty school to wave a pair of sharp scissors in front of my squirmy toddler’s eyes and attempt to cut a straight line just seemed to go together like black and navy blue – i.e. THEY DON’t. No. Don’t even try to tell me they do. On either count.

So I decided to do it myself. Yes, the irony occured to me too, about halfway into the haircut. What’s worse than a nervous newbie doing it? How about an over-confident-in-her-beauty-and-hair-cutting-skillz mom? With hair cutting scissors purchased at Wal-mart? Yes. That is worse. With Brett hovering nervously, simultaneously telling me to watch it! and cut it straight! I trimmed. I lifted and snipped and looked skilled, like a real stylist. And in the end we have a cut that is not horrible. Luckily the kid is cute enough to make up for it.

See for yourself.

Another not-brilliant idea – I’m going to cut it wet, like all the real stylists do!

In progress. It gets better than this, I promise.

Hey I can see again! Maybe now my perma-bruise will heal cuz I won’t keep banging into things!

Hoo boy! Cake!

Performing on cue as everyone watches and "awwws"

Is it just me, or does he look like Randy (the little brother) in A Christmas Story in this picture? (And for the life of me, I can’t find a picture of that kid to post a comparison.)

There’s where all the cake went. Note the "Small Fry" t-shirt – another mind boggler from the Children’s Place.

The hallmark of a good party is sleeping in your clothes and serious bed-head the next morning.

Party on Grandpa!

]]> http://findingatman.com/2007/10/26/photo-cop-out/feed/ 0