Black Belt Mama

"Hold the Drugs Please"-Discovery Health Baby Week

On Sunday June 14th, Discovery Health's Baby Week premieres. For birth story junkies like me, you won't want to miss it. You can find out more about Baby Week on Discovery Health's website. There are several brand new episodes with unique themes. Personally, I'm looking forward to the Births Beyond Belief episode. I'll live vicariously through them.

Twins by Surprise-Sunday June 14th at 8 p.m. EST
Little Parents, Big Pregnancy-Monday June 15th at 8 p.m.
Births Beyond Belief-Tuesday June 16th at 8 p.m.
Obese & Pregnant-Wednesday June 17th at 8 p.m.

For a preview of the episodes, you can view this video.

If you miss the premiere, Discovery Health will have the shows replay later in the night. As part of Baby Week, I'm republishing Lil C's birth story. Even if you're not a birth story junkie, you'll find humor, drooling (yes, I said drooling and it wasn't even the baby), and a story of an unmedicated delivery.

Enjoy. . . .

The Birth of Lil C

It was the evening of October 2, 2005, the night before my due date.  I had finally given up hope of going into labor on my own.  After a pregnancy of finger sticks, a strict diet, and oral medication to control gestational diabetes, it was now time to face the fact that I was going to be induced with this pregnancy too.  I had envisioned a birth center birth: no needles, no hospitals, no interference.  Just me, my husband, my midwife and eventually a healthy baby.  The gestational diabetes brought with it all kinds of unwelcome intervention in the form of twice weekly non-stress tests, ultrasounds, and a ton more appointments than just my visits to the midwife, all resulting in a scheduled induction on my due date.  "At least I know when I'm having this baby so I can have plans for my older daughter," I told myself.  I went to bed for the night, knowing full well that I would not get much sleep.

I checked into the hospital at 8 a.m. on Monday, October 3rd with all intentions of having this baby by lunch time.  The second time around was supposed to be easier, faster, right? I had made plans with my Mom to bring my other daughter to the hospital in the afternoon.  After being hooked up to the monitors, it was clear that there was no labor going on by itself.  Instead of pitocin (which I had with my first labor), my midwife opted for miso (misoprostol).  After the nurses inserted a port into my arm (no I.V. though, thankfully), and everything was ready to go, my midwife arrived.  At 9:45 a.m., my midwife inserted the miso which goes "where the sun don't shine," if you know what I mean.  I started contracting once an hour.  I was 1.5 cm dilated, 60% effaced and the baby was at -1 station.  Not bad, I thought.  After four hours of continuous monitoring which only allowed me to get up to go to the bathroom, I was finally able to get up and move around.  (With miso they require several hours of monitoring because labor can progress extremely fast.  They need to make sure that the baby is not under any stress.) 

The reprieve from the bed was a welcome one and my husband and I began to walk the halls.  There were only a handful of women in labor at the time so the halls were empty.  All the other Moms had drugs and were therefore confined to their rooms.  We did laps for 45 minutes, with me trying to retain my modesty as much as one can while wearing a hospital gown, and with cords from the monitor straps around my belly wrapped around my neck.  After 45 minutes of walking, I was required to be hooked up to the monitors for 15 minutes of fetal monitoring.  My contractions were now coming every 3-5 minutes.  They weren't a big deal though.  They were just a tightening that wasn't painful; and I did not have to breathe through them.  I remembered from childbirth classes five years before that you shouldn't start with the breathing until you absolutely have to in order to keep from getting too exhausted.  We went on like that: 45 minutes of walking, 15 minutes of monitoring for several hours, until about 3 or 4 p.m. 

A resident came in to check me at this point.  During my first birth, it felt like even the janitor was getting some action, because they were checking me constantly.  My midwife made sure that unnecessary checks were eliminated.  But, my midwife was at the birth center and needed to know where I was.  By this point, my husband and I had probably walked miles up and down the hospital halls.  The resident said I was 3 cm, 80% effaced, and the baby was at -1 station.  I would by lying if I didn't say that I was EXTREMELY disappointed with this news.  I was hoping for a big jump.  This labor was progressing like my first and it was frustrating.  My midwife was going to start pitocin, but she was happy with the progress I made and content to let me keep walking and laboring on my own.  For that, I was thankful. 

Instead of a dinner time visit from my family so they could greet the new baby, my dad arrived with sandwiches for later in the night.  I was able to eat only things like jello and broth, just in case of problems, so I knew I was going to be hungry.  I didn't want to have the baby in the middle of the night and be stuck without something good.  I was a gestational diabetic and I was ready for a good meal that involved no carb counting. 

A little after 5 p.m., my midwife arrived back at the hospital and checked me.  Apparently I had a generous resident, because my midwife said I was only 2.5 cm. and 75% effaced.  She said it was either break my water or start pitocin.  I chose to have my water broken.  I wanted NOTHING to do with pitocin. One birth experience with that drug was plenty. 

Instantly, my contractions went from minor annoyances to hurting bad enough that I had no choice but to breathe through them.  My husband and I started walking again.  The contractions were now coming every 2-5 minutes and they hurt and badly.  I had to stop walking and hold on to the hallway railing for each one.  I felt like my stomach was being twisted.  During one particular contraction as I leaned against the railing with both hands, head down, I was having issues with too much saliva and I actually drooled onto the floor.  My husband and I got hysterical.  Try hysterically laughing while trying to breathe through a wicked contraction. . . not easy at all. 

By 7:30 p.m. I could no longer walk through the contractions and opted to sit straight up in bed instead.  I could not get comfortable.  I tried several different positions and all of them were miserable.  I knew if I stayed upright, I'd have this baby faster. I needed the pain to stop so I stayed upright despite the pain.  I wanted to get it over with.  My midwife checked me and I was 5 cm, 80% effaced and the baby was at 0 station.  It was around 9 p.m.  It would be the last time that I was checked.  I knew I still had a long way to go. 

During each contraction, I went to Nags Head in my mind and sat deep breathing on the beach.  In between contractions I dozed off as much as I could.  I was in such a zone.  I did not want any distractions and the midwife made sure I didn't have any.  The room was kept quiet; the lights were kept dim.  My midwife and nurse were wonderful through the next few hours.  They kept checking on me to make sure I was o.k.  They would bring me hot water bottles that I would use for 30 seconds and then throw to the end of the bed because I was too hot.  Two seconds later, I'd be telling them to position it behind my back again.  They did whatever I needed.  They were continually encouraging. 

My midwife would sit quietly on the end of the bed, place her hand on my leg and speak so softly, telling me I was doing great, keep breathing.  I think she was very calming for my husband as well. 

Around 12:30 a.m., my midwife asked me if I had been to the bathroom lately and if I felt like pushing.  I told her that I felt pressure, but not the urge to push.  I told my husband later that at this point, (and I know this sounds silly) I only felt like getting up and running away from the pain.  The contractions barely gave me a break and they were intense.  Even though I said I didn't have to go, my midwife, husband and nurse helped me out of bed and sent me off towards the bathroom.  I toughed out a wicked contraction while holding onto the sink.  When I came out of the bathroom, my midwife suggested I lie down to relieve some of the pressure I was feeling.  I was discouraged when she said this and thought she was telling me to lie down because the baby was still hours away from making her appearance.  I figured I had better listen to her and lie down to conserve energy.  I didn't know then that my midwife had been reading all the signs and knew that the final phase of labor was just around the corner. 

It only took one contraction and it was very clear I had to push.  My midwife, without checking me, without turning on any lights, without making a big ordeal of it, simply told me to go ahead and push.  So, lying on my right side, with my nurse and husband barely holding up my left leg that felt to me like it was about 5000 lbs, I pushed.  My midwife checked and the baby's head was already coming down. She said she saw a head full of dark hair and my husband and I looked at each other in shock. Our first was a baldy. We weren't exactly expecting hair. The lights were kept low and the nurses getting the room ready for the baby were quiet.  I, on the other hand, was not. 

I remember reading something somewhere about childbirth and that making noise actually helps with the pushing.  It releases tension and helps the baby come down, or something like that.  It wasn't like I made a conscious decision to be loud; it just happened and at one point I heard one of the nurses tell another one to close the door. 

I pushed when I wanted and as hard as I wanted.  I really concentrated on trying to go slowly, and no one told me to push, or pant or gave me any instructions.  There was no counting or holding my breathe.  It was very relaxed and very much at my own pace.  After a couple pushes, my midwife told me to reach down and feel my baby's head.  Her head felt wet and I was shocked to feel so much hair on her head.  The first inch of her head was out and I held her there with a steady push, not wanting her to slip back.  Three more pushes and her head was out completely.  I did it on my own and gradually, without an episiotomy like with my first. 

The midwife suctioned her nose and mouth and I was relieved to be rid of the ring of fire.  It did burn, but not as bad as I had thought it would.  I pushed a tiny bit and her shoulders came out.  My baby was born with a fist clenched underneath her chin (she had probably been sucking on her fingers like in all the ultrasound pictures, right up until the big squeeze).  My midwife told me to reach down and grab my baby.  I reached down with one arm and the midwife giggled a bit and told me I'd need two.  I was just so tired.  I reached down with both arms and grabbed her under her arms and pulled her the rest of the way out onto my stomach.  It was 1:05 a.m. on October 4th and my sweet baby girl was born.  She had held out one day past her due date.  No baby of mine would ever choose to be on time.

She was just so amazing, so bright-eyed and just staring right up at me.  It was an absolutely amazing experience to pull her out on my own.  The midwife left her on my belly for a while, and didn't cut the cord right away.  She was just beautiful, with a ton of dark hair (so shocking as my first was a baldy).  Unlike my first, she was covered in vernix.  I knew right away that she was a tiny baby, compared to her sister.  My first words when I saw her were, "Oh My God, she's so tiny." 

Eventually, the nurse took her and weighed her.  They did let me hold her while they put the drops in her eyes.  The entire time, she stared at me.  We had an instant connection, me and this baby that had taken 14 months to conceive.  Me and this baby that had put me through four finger sticks a day, twice weekly non-stress tests, and side effects from the glyburide that I was prescribed.  When they hit the conversion button on the scale, I couldn't believe it.  Despite the fact that a growth scan had said she would be 9-10 lbs., my baby was only 7 lbs. 10 oz., a mere 3 oz. less than the weight I had guessed she would be and had told my midwife as she had broken my water. 

 

My midwife checked out the damage while they swaddled my daughter and tried to clean her up a bit.  I had only three minor tears, none requiring stitches.  My midwife assured me they would heal within a day or two and she was right. 

Despite the gestational diabetes and having my birth plan turned upside down, this birth experience was amazingly relaxed.  I did not have to have an I.V.; I had no drugs beside the initial miso to get labor going, and my daughter came out with a perfectly shaped head.  She was just beautiful. 

Despite being exhausted from a 15 hour labor and 20 minutes of pushing, I could not sleep.  I sat in bed, cradling my baby daughter and just taking in everything about her.  I peeled back her hat to stare at the unbelievable head of hair; I stroked her cheek that felt like warm velvet.  I stared at her and felt so blessed that she was finally here and healthy. 

My labor and delivery nurse moved me to my post-partum room in a wheelchair, but I felt more like a rock star arriving at a concert.  The post-partum nurses were waiting in the room, and my l & d nurse delivered me amid a wave of praise for laboring without any drugs.  It was the first labor and delivery she had been a part of that didn't involve pain-relieving drugs and she was "psyched" to have been a part of it, she said.  She thanked me for the experience of it all; and I had to agree that the experience had been pretty amazing.  After settling in my post-partum room, my husband fell fast asleep but I simply couldn't.  When they took my baby to give her a bath, I ate my entire italian sandwich instead of sleeping.  I waited until around 8 a.m. to start calling everyone and giving them the good news (Of course, my parents and daughter got the call at 1:15 a.m.).  Later in the day, my mom brought my older daughter in to meet her new baby sister.  The meeting went very well. 

My midwife came to check on me and said I could go home right away.  At 5 p.m. on the same day I gave birth, I took my new baby home.  From start to finish, it was one amazing birth day. 

"Black Belt Mama" lives in the northeast and is a stay-at-home/work-at-home mother to her two daughters, "Big I" who is 8 and "Lil C" who is now 3 years old.  She writes on her blogs, Black Belt Mama and The BBM Review. She is also the editor of the Birth Story blog. You can read her first birth story by clicking here and read birth stories from mothers with many different experiences on the Birth Story blog (You can even submit your own to be published on the site!). To subscribe to this blog, click here.

Eight Hawaiian Style

On Saturday, Big I turned eight years old. Eight is one of those exciting years like 16, 18, 21, and 25. At the age of eight, kids no longer need to sit in booster seats. It's an exciting age for all of us for that very reason. Down to just one kid in a booster seat, it's going to make life a lot easier.

Big I picked a luau theme for her party this year because I promised her I'd try to make her a volcano cake we saw on Food Network a few weeks ago. I don't know who was more excited about the dry ice "smoke," Big I or Mr. BBM. He spent much of the party running around with cups of dry ice, even when Big I was opening her presents and everyone was otherwise occupied.

 

It was pretty cool though; I must admit. A lot of decorated cakes taste pretty lousy, but this five layer red velvet cake was pretty awesome. We don't have much of it left, which is a good thing for my butt.

After the food (Hawaiian meatballs, cinnamon chips with fruit salsa, a 4 ft. sandwich, a fruit tray, and punch, we got busy with the limbo. The kids were loving going under my beater bo, but they weren't exactly doing it the right way. So, my Mom jumped in to show them how it's done. The woman can limbo.

  

So can my sister.

 

Apparently, it runs in the family genes. That's Big I, who has a very sore little stomach today.  

Despite the fact that we all did our best to look tropical, Lil C decided she was going to wear her Christmas sweater. Some battles just aren't worth fighting so here she is, in all her Christmas glory.  

Among Big I's gifts. . . lots of new clothes for the kid who grows two inches per night, about 10 new chapter books, and a field hockey stick and ball. If I can't make a warrior our of her with a bo, I'm going to do it with a field hockey stick.

  

Every year, I go back into my archives and read the posts I wrote for her on birthdays past. I had to laugh at the first one I wrote her, when she turned five. Read the last line and then go here. I'm glad I've kept my word.

I hope you had a great birthday Big I. I seriously can not believe I am the mother of an 8-year old. My how time flies. . .    

If you'd like a chance to win an autographed CD from an international recording artist, then head to The BBM Review fast! The contest ends tomorrow!!!

How to Annoy Your Kid Keri Hilson Style

Mr. BBM has spent years wrecking favorite songs of mine for me. Usually he does so by inserting some disgusting lyric that tends to linger. There used to be this slow song I liked and now I seem to have completely blocked it from memory because he made the whole chorus about pooping. Crap like that is irritating.

However, last night I was trying to get Big I to move a little faster through her bedtime routine and I found a way to make it happen.

If you've been reading here long enough, then you know that I don't like the typical music that an average 30-something 29-year old Mom likes. My latest favorite song is by Keri Hilson and it's called "Turning me on." Actually, it's probably spelled "turnin' myon" or something because people who sing songs like that tend to do that. For example, one of the real words in his song is "'proachin'." That would be "approaching" for you non-R&B-inclined folks out there.

Since Big I is turning eight years old tomorrow (sob, sob), I figure the girl can take a shower without Mommy standing in the bathroom, but she has yet to believe in herself when it comes to her ability to wash all the soap out of her hair without me peeking in to give my blessing and approval. So, since she makes me stay in the bathroom, I need to find some way to keep myself busy. Last night, I decided to change some lyrics of my own in hopes that she would get sick of hearing me sing and tell me I could leave the bathroom.

Here are my lyrics. Feel free to play the video so you can hear the music and sing along if you'd like. Click here if you can't click from here.

Like this. .  .

Big I's in the shower,
Shampoo bottle poppin'
You know just how to wash it,
You know just how to wash it,
You washin' your hair,
You washin' your hair,
You washin' your hair

Wait a minute, little Izzy
You got one more minute
To wash your naked body
Better recognize you're dirty
Better make sure that you wash it,
You washin' your butt,
You washin' your butt,
You washin' your butt

Better recognize you're really dirty
ah, ah, ah, ah

You ever try to get that butt real clean
Better scrub your body til you're real soapy
Come on Izzy, get it clean
ah, ah, ah, ah
You gotta keep scrubbin' that body
You gotta be for sure that your butt is clean.
Recognize you're really dirty

Washing your armpit,
Washing where you sit
And you're hoping that your daddy,
will be reading you a book
You better get out
You're taking too long,
You're taking too long,

Wait a minute little Izzy

Lather, rinse, repeat from the beginning. You get the idea.

I found it was a great way to let off a little steam, and it was amazing how fast the kid moved when she realized I wasn't going to stop singing and dancing until she was out of the shower and in bed. Feel free to adapt the lyrics for your own home usage.

You Can't Always Get What You Want

When Big I was three years old and she told me she wanted to take karate, I couldn't have been more thrilled. Her interest is what got me involved in the first place. How cool was it that we could take karate side by side?

As time wore on though, I continued to get more into it and she, well, she began to lose interest. Kata stayed in my head and went in one ear and out the other with her. She walked her way through a couple testings, but she hit yellow belt (7th kyu) and she hit a wall.

Wansu presented new challenges for her and it seemed that with every move she learned of the kata Wansu, she lost three from the first two kata.

While standing beside her in class, I got frustrated. Why wasn't she being sharp in her movements? Why was she just walking through it? Why wasn't she putting more effort into it?

When I got injured, I took her out of the regular karate class and put her in the Safety Kids program. There she was able to review basics and get things into her head that didn't seem to stick the first time around. She also learned a lot of good skills about stranger safety, but her heart hasn't been in it for a while.

I don't know if it's because of my injury and inability to do karate alongside her, or if she's grown out of her interest, but her interest is gone.

She's been telling me for months now that she wants to quit. She says she's not any good at it. She watches the other kids "get it" and she just doesn't. She's been even more vocal about her dislike of karate with Mr. BBM. When he takes her to karate, he gets a sob story the entire ride home. We wanted her to stick with it. We wanted to teach her that she can't just quit everything. We wanted to instill in her a sense of hard work paying off, and let her get through this stagnant time. We wanted to watch her emerge out the other side, triumphant that she was able to learn and improve.

We told her a few weeks ago that she needs to practice, that she can't expect to be good at something when she only does it once a week for an hour. She asked me for help a few weeks ago, but every time I offered to run through kata with her, she found something better to do.

This morning, we had a conversation about kata. "What do you think it's all about?" I asked her. "Do you know what the moves mean?"

She shook her head no.

I sat her on the couch and asked Mr. BBM to come help me. I walked through Nai Hanchi Shodan, and showed her that it's not a dance, or a series of silly moves. I showed her the bunkai and smacked Mr. BBM around and down for a while to demonstrate.

"Do you see what it is now?" I asked her.

She said yes. She stood up and we walked through her kata a couple times. But about 15 minutes into it, she started whining and complaining.

"Karate isn't my thing Mommy. I don't want to do it anymore" she said as she walked away crying.

I so want it to be her thing. I think it's so important for young girls to be able to defend themselves. I wanted to keep her in class, hoping her interest would grow and emerge once again; but it's time that I've realized that at least for right now, it's not going to change. She doesn't want to do it. It's time for her to quit.

So, this week will be her last week. You can't always get what you want when you're a parent regarding your kids and it's high time I realized that.

March will be her first month off in four years, and it will be my first month back. I'm tired of being a 1st kyu. It's time I got back to working on that Shodan. Maybe watching me fight my way back will inspire her to return at some point. I can only hope.

In celebration of my return and to continue what I started last year, March is once again "Admired Martial Artists" month. There are some returning contributors and possibly a new one or two as well. Check back for details soon!

Happy 3rd Birthday

Dear Lil C:

Today you turned three years old. I can hardly believe it. Three years ago tonight, I was bringing you home from the hospital for the very first time. You were tiny and beautiful, and though you're growing like a weed, you're just as beautiful now.

Lil C, 2 months old

I remember holding you and rocking you in the middle of one of those first nights. I caught our reflection in the mirror and remember thinking, "Always remember this moment. Always remember how this feels to have this tiny, perfect baby curled up so perfectly on your shoulder."

I will never forget.

Lil C, 1 year old

You have always had this fighter spirit about you. In recent months, you've shown me that you don't need me to stand up for you. You are perfectly capable of doing it all by yourself.

Lil C, two years old 

You want to do pretty much everything all by yourself, including dressing yourself and brushing your own teeth. You even wanted to put your own sunscreen on this summer.

Your questions never cease to amaze me. You're forever curious about how to make milkshakes, cookies and hamburgers. You can also make a mean salad. There is no denying you like to eat, so it is easy to see you as a future foodie or famous chef.

You are now, and will always be Mommy's little spit-fire. When you're having a grumpy day and people tell me you're just like your Mommy, I couldn't be prouder. It's nice to have a partner in not backing down.

I can always count on you to be my little beach bum girl. When everyone is heading to the pool, I know we'll be carrying our buckets to the beach.

Lil C, two months shy of third birthday (above).

You're like me in more ways than just the spit-fire qualities. Neither of us like rides that go in circles, go too fast, or in any way surprise us. At an amusement park last week, you leaped off a carousel horse mid-ride and were content to eat your way through the park instead.

Lil C, one week shy of third birthday.    

I feel like you are this very special blessing that has come into my life; and I feel blessed and privileged to be your Mommy.

I hope you had a wonderful birthday today Lil C. No matter how big you get, you will always be my baby.

I love you,

Mommy (Black Belt Mommy)

For the story of Lil C's birth, go here.

A Soccer Mom?

Since we've moved in with my parents, Lil C has been enjoying her outdoor time. She has become a huge fan of kicking a soccer ball around the yard and she's really quite amazing, considering that she's only going to turn three on Saturday (Yes, this Saturday. Let's not talk about it too much or I will cry. My BABY is turning THREE!).

I did some digging and found a soccer program for 3-6 year olds at a local fitness center and took her for a test drive class week. In preparation for her first big night of soccer, we bought her the tiniest little shin guards ever and a size 3 soccer ball. Being a field hockey girl myself, I had no clue that there even were different sizes.

We arrived at the fitness center and Lil C, dressed in her adorable soccer gear, went out onto the turf field. There were parents milling around with their kids and I was uncertain who the coach was since no one approached us at all. After a few minutes, the coach blew the whistle and called the kids into a huddle. Lil C wasn't really interested in hanging out with the other kids and instead stood leaning all of her bodyweight into my legs.

Soon the coach started working on "skills." I should mention here that when I inquired about the program, I was told that they divide kids up into smaller age groups once there and that they play "fun little games" to get them to learn the game. The coach began by telling them to work on toe touches. As he demonstrated, I looked at my Mom, who had come along to watch, absolutely dumbstruck. There was no way I could even do toe touches the way he was doing them. Little kids were falling all over the place. The coach seemed to levitate above the ball rotating one foot to the next and Lil C just looked at me like "not gonna happen."

After that he told them to put the ball on the inside of their feet and kick the ball from the inside of one foot to the other. I felt like asking him if he realized that small children don't have much extra room between their feet and legs once you put a soccer ball in between them. I tried to help Lil C but it was hopeless. She's just not big enough to even begin to learn that skill. It would be like teaching a 1-year old how to play the piano or the guitar. Your hands need to be a certain size to do that, and for soccer, your legs need to be longer than 16 inches.

Soon the kids were able to kick the ball down the field, but Lil C kicked the ball in the opposite direction. She was running around like a little star but wasn't following the coach's directions and honestly, I couldn't blame her.

The coach then set up passing drills. No, I'm not kidding. He placed two cones half way up the field and created two lines of kids. He would toss the ball down the field and he expected the kids to pass down the field and score. Lil C decided to go to the other end of the field and kick the ball around with daddy. The coach did not once speak to her or even notice that she was there.

Then he announced that they were going to play a "game." He haphazardly divided kids into groups and told half to head one direction and the other half to score at the other end. What happened next was nothing short of complete and total mayhem.

The big kids were trampling the little kids. There were at least four children crying. One had been knocked down by the bigger kids and subsequently stepped on by other kids. He was miserable but his parents kept sending him out for more. The coach never even looked at him, let alone ask him if he was o.k.

Several parents were grabbing their kids and leaving. The coach still didn't notice that there was a problem. As the ball approached the side where we were standing, Lil C acted as if she wanted to kick the ball, but we quickly realized this was a bad idea as a swarm of bigger boys came running at her. I have no doubt they would have trampled her too. She was easily the tiniest one there.

So, we picked her up and left, but not before demanding our money back. I told the owner that I was completely misled as to what would happen in the class, and that he better watch because he's going to have multiple injuries from the way that the "game" was being conducted. He tried to weasel his way out of giving our money back, but ended up giving it back because we wouldn't back down.

He said he would talk to the "coach" and give me a call Monday morning to let me know what happened and if maybe he was without an assistant or something, which would explain why it was complete and total chaos. It's Wednesday, and I have yet to receive a call.

Yesterday, I signed Lil C up with a different soccer program. The director of the program teachers it herself and says that she teaches the kids to pretend the soccer balls are puppies. Then, they take their "puppies" down the soccer field to "Grandma's house" (aka the goal). I think this sounds much more three-year old friendly and we're excited to see how she does in an environment where she doesn't have to "bend it like Beckham" instantly.

Check out The BBM Review for your chance to win a Sesame Street K'nex playset.

A Visit from the Tooth Fairy. . . Finally

Big I has had shark teeth and extremely loose teeth for months. Those suckers just didn't want to come out. Everything changed tonight. Because I was concerned about her top front tooth being swallowed during the night, I encouraged her to really get wiggling. We even tried to tie some dental floss around it to pull that thing out. She kept laughing so that didn't work.

As my Mom, my Dad, Lil C and I all encouraged her in front of the hallway mirror, the tooth got even more loose; but after 30 minutes of intense wiggling, there was still nothing tooth fairy worthy. I went downstairs and Mr. BBM was supposed to be putting the girls to bed, when he came downstairs with an ecstatic toothless girl. It finally came out.

She went from indescribable joy to complete depression in only minutes. The magnitude of the tooth fairy actually taking her tooth was just too much for her. She was reduced to tears.

We managed to find our tooth fairy kit, and we washed the tooth and placed it in the little pocket on the teeny tiny pillow. As she drifted off to sleep upstairs, having come to grips with the tooth fairy and her "mission," the actual fairy got to work.

The "tooth fairy" typed up a teeny tiny letter in 6 pt. font telling Big I how exciting it is to get a new client, and how she needs to continue taking good care of her beautiful teeth. The fairy then printed out a certificate and rolled up the teeny tiny letter into a little scroll, complete with $10 (I know people, I know, but you have to remember that we are living with "Mom-Mom" and "Pop-Pop" and this was a big and long awaited event. We'll certainly be letting Big I know in the morning that the tooth fairy doesn't usually leave such large bills). Because the "tooth fairy" has mad creativity skills, she tied that little scroll up with mint dental floss. Was that not a stroke of genius? I mean, really. This "tooth fairy" is one with-it gal.

Something tells me it's not going to be a problem waking Big I up for school tomorrow morning. Something tells me we'll be seeing a big toothless grin.

   

To Paint or Not to Paint

This morning our realtor suggested once again, that we paint the girls' rooms.  We poured our hearts and souls into those rooms and it kills me to even think about it.  When he asked me what my objection was, I told him that paint is an easy fix for a new buyer, and that I don't want to traumatize my girls.  Moving is traumatic enough.  He said he wants to help us remove every possible objection.  Most people who are looking at our house are young professionals or older people looking for a house where they don't have to mow the lawn.  Neither of these demographics wants themed kids rooms (although no one has yet complained about the rooms). 

I spent days choosing the exact colors I wanted to use.  I hand made that ocean stencil, painstakingly added those little jumping dolphins, glued seashells onto the curtain rod and spent hours lounging on the floor as Mr. BBM used glaze paint to create clouds on the walls and vaulted ceilings.  Some of them look like plain old clouds, but if you look closely you can see that some of them are shaped like seahorses, dolphins and starfish. 

We painted this room when I was about seven months pregnant.  It was a hot summer weekend and Mr. BBM and I spent the entire weekend working on it.  When all was said and done, we added Big I's baby furniture, bought bright-colored sea creatures to hang on the walls and put it all together.

Lil C loves her ocean room.  She likes to pretend she's Ariel in there.  I realized today though, that it may be me who loves that room the most. 

When we first moved in, it was a playroom/guest room.  As 14 months of trying to have another baby went unanswered, it became this room that was supposed to be and just wasn't.  And then I took that pregnancy test and our Lil C and this ocean room became a reality. 

Maybe painting it white is just the first step in letting go of this house that is our first real family home.  Letting go of a place that gave you so many fabulous memories is really difficult to do.  It may just be a gallon or two of paint, but it's what that room represents that is the most difficult to just paint over. If we do decide to paint it, there will be tears and I'm betting that they'll be mine. 

Seven going on 17

Yesterday, the day before Big I's official 7th birthday, she curled up on the chair with her pen and notebook and told me there was a page in there that she didn't want me to see.

"Why not?" I asked her.  She's forever showing me something new in her notebook.

"I wrote something about this boy," she said.  "I think I'm fallin' in love with him."

Flustered, I asked her for a name.  She hesitated.  She really didn't want to tell me.  I knew it could only last so long though.  Thirty seconds later, she volunteered that he's a new boy in her school and he's in her grade (Thank God). 

I asked her what was so special about him and she responded, "I don't know. There's just something about him Mommy." 

I informed her that she can't talk about boys and in the same sentence say "Mommy."  I prefer that she loses the boy talk to be quite honest.  I asked her if she just meant that they were friends and she said, "Nope, I think I'm gonna marry him someday." 

Did she turn seven today or 17, because I don't think I can tell the two apart? 

Happy Birthday Big I, but please stay little for just a little while longer.  Please?

To Become Her for Just One Day

My daughter came home from school today with a mark on her leg from where another child had kicked her.  Through sweatpants, there was a little brush burn on her shin.  I asked her what happened and she said that she walked up to this little girl, said "hi" and the girl kicked her.  Big I asked the girl why she kicked her and the girl wouldn't answer.  She then proceeded to chase her around the playground, trying to kick her again.

(Deep breath.)

(One more.)

(Deep breath.)

She told her teacher and the teacher told her to go and try to work it out with the little punter.  She didn't get it worked out.  I have let things go throughout the year and a half that Big I has been in school.  I didn't call when the group of brats was laughing at her last year.  I didn't call when this same little girl was stealing her snack and her crayons daily.  I told her how to handle it and let her handle it herself.  She always seemed willing to fight her own battles when it came to the previous incidents. 

However, when another child leaves a mark on my kid????  Oh NO she DIDN'T!

I immediately called the school and asked to speak to the teacher.  I told her what happened and that I was upset about it.  I was livid and I think she knew it.  She went to talk to the kicker who was still at school and called me back. 

Meanwhile, this is me to Big I: "The next time that kid even looks like she's going to touch you, you tell her that if she kicks you, then you are going to kick her back.  And when you kick her, you drop her, Big I.  And if you get in trouble at school, know that Mommy will go in there and raise hell because you have a right to defend yourself, and . . . "

So the phone rings.  The punter has to sit inside for four recesses.  She's also going to see the principal tomorrow, and she's going to apologize.  Apparently the whole incident had nothing to do with Big I.  The girl was frustrated with someone else so she took it out on an easy target.

I am tired of my kid being the easy target for everyone, just because she's nice.  Even the teacher said it's because Big I is a "kind and gentle soul." 

Fast forward a few hours to Big I's karate class.  I talked to her teacher (also a dad of several little ones) and told him what happened.  They then spent much of the class working on playground situations, speaking up, yelling "KNOCK IT OFF" or "STOP IT" as loud and as mean as they could. They worked on using some aggression by pushing someone's hands away or pushing someone back and yelling at the same time. 

Big I started out smiling and tentatively saying "stop it."  By the end of the class, she was yelling and only popping an occasional smirk.  I'm going to have Mr. BBM work on some things with Big I, and have her role play some situations.  She has to understand that she DOES NOT have to be nice to someone who's not nice to her.  It was great that karate class tonight reinforced sticking-up-for-yourself behavior.  Now we just have to work on pulling out her inner warrior.

In the meantime, I really need to figure out some way that I could embody Big I for just one day. . .

Just one day is all I would need. . .   

The Terrible TWO

It is difficult to believe that I (once again) have a two-year old.  She's my baby and I can not believe how fast time has gone.  Lil C has been giving us a preview of the terrible two's for the past few weeks.  The answer to just about everything is an adament "no."  She has suddenly decided she will only eat yellow foods and only if she REALLY feels like it; and the kid can pull hair.  Man, can she pull hair!

She also says, "Mommy, Love you too!" about twenty times a day; and she gives neck hugs resembling a rear naked choke that can completely cut off circulation to the brain.  She's the great pretender and often imagines she's eating an ear of corn or that one of her favorite stuffed animals, George, is playing hide and seek with her.  She's learned so much over the past year (including how to count to ten in Japanese), O.k. and a couple curse words.  No one's perfect. 

She's now putting herself to sleep in her own room (I forgot to mention that we moved her out of our room a few weeks ago, finally.  Yes, I have attachment issues and possibly facing this being the last baby issues, so leave me alone.)  Unlike most kids who want to hear "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" or something along those lines, Lil C's night time requests include the "pipate song" (pirate song). 

The other night as I was singing "Yo ho, Yo ho, a pirate's life for me. . . " she stopped me and said, "No Mommy, not dat pipate song. Beer song."  We went to the Renaissance Faire a few weeks ago and went to the pirate show where they made the audience sing a chorus of "beer, beer, beer, beer; beer, beer, beer, beer."  So, that's her lullaby of choice now, a constant repetition of the word "beer" that puts her right to sleep.  Apparently, it's entirely possible to give birth to a little angel the first time around and sheer trouble the second time around. 

Since her Daddy is once again on a business trip, we're going to have a small dinner party tonight, complete with ice cream cake and the new wooden train set that she's getting (because we have entirely too many princesses in this house). 

If you'd like to read Lil C's birth story, you can do so here.  About 12 hours ago, two years ago, I was weathering contractions in the hallway and drooling on the floor during a particularly bad one.  Don't believe me?  Go read.

Happy Birthday Lil C! 

Pool Day

We are a little over a week away from Lil C's second birthday.  I have not, in any way, been pushing her to use the potty yet because I learned that lesson the hard way with Big I.  She will go when she is ready to go.  It's practically my mantra.  In fact, if you tell me that you think two-year olds should already be potty trained, I will probably stick my fingers in my ears and hum loudly.  I'm not allowing external forces (also known as my grandmother, etc.) to pressure me; and I'm not going to pressure Lil C. 

Despite my not pushing her, Lil C has taken a great interest in the potty lately.  Unfortunately, this interest is usually only after I have changed her diaper.  She then wants to "sit on a poppy" after the point is already moot.  Then, she'll forget that she's supposed to be sitting on the "poppy" and start wandering around diaper-less on my white carpet, causing me an anxiety attack for a couple minutes before I finally convince her that we'd both be happier if she had a diaper on. 

In addition to her little obsession with sitting on the poppy, she's also obsessed with these little animal toys.  She collected random little people characters from the zoo and the farm, her V-tech train animals, and any random figurine she's received over the years such as Care Bears, Jungle Book characters, etc. and they go absolutely EVERYWHERE with us.  At any given time, she has at least five of them in her arms.  Leaving the house causes great anxiety unless I can find a bag and dump all of the animal characters in there for her.  If we abandon any one of them at home, it's cause for a complete and total meltdown.  And yes, she has cataloged them all to memory.  If we forget the monkey, she will cry for the monkey for a good 30 minutes.  If she happens to see a random monkey image on a billboard or something, it will jog her memory enough to elicit all new "Oh NO MONKEY!" cries. 

So, you take these two interests of hers: the "poppy" and the animals, combine them, and you have this:

. . . a "pool day" (her words-not mine).  Did I mention she also loves the pool?

Somehow I'm thinking that true potty action isn't going to happen with the "pool poppy;"  and something tells me we're at least a little while away from potty trained bliss. . .   

Mixed Bag of Results

The minute I saw Big I's face when I picked her up from school, I knew I wasn't going to get a good report.  She looked tired, deflated, and just plain sad.  She started crying before we reached the car.  The day was too long, she missed me and Lil C too much, and she just wasn't going back to do that again. 

We eventually got to the good stuff.  Her teacher is nice.  She had fun seeing her friends again.  Lunch wasn't so bad.  There were two recesses (Man, who wouldn't love that???).  She'll get used to it.  She was like this last year with Kindergarten.  First grade is going to take some getting used to as well.  I'm really happy she has a four day weekend, and that next week is another short week.  She needs a gradual introduction to this all day business (and to be honest, so do I).  I must say though, that I held up way better than I did last year.  I had a teary moment or two, but that was it.  At least one of us made it through the day without full on tears.

After a couple hours of decompressing, Big I and I made our way to our new dojo.  It only took us about eight minutes to get there (during traffic-I'm so loving the shorter commute), so we were early.  We stood outside and talked about what we thought it was going to be like.  Big I was excited, but nervous.  I was feeling the same. 

Then, a fabulous looking motorcycle drove into the parking lot and there was our new teacher (an impressive 9th degree black belt even without the motorcycle entrance).  With such an outstanding entrance, Big I was already losing her nerves.  "Is that my teacher?" she asked excitedly.  Once inside, she was also very floored by the various pictures on the walls of our new teachers from magazines, newspaper articles, etc.  I explained who they all were, and she marveled, "Wow!  They're famous!" 

We changed, got situated, were introduced and then started our work out, and a work out it was.  There were a couple hundred kicks (from a ground-fighting position which was new to us and pretty cool).  Yes, I will be paying for those cool kicks tomorrow.  The muscles are already starting to complain a bit. 

The higher ranks separated and did kata while Big I stayed with the lower ranks and worked on something else.  I don't know what they were doing because I was concentrating on my own stuff; but I do know that she excitedly talked to me about seeing how to break that "muscle" which most people know as the collar bone on the way home.  I informed her that it's actually a bone, for future reference.  That only increased the excitement. 

At the end of the two hours, I'm pretty sure there was steam rising from my head, and my gi. . . well, it needs to be washed and badly.  It was a great work out and a fun night.  It felt awesome to be back in karate class again.  I'm happy to say that my neck seems to have held up pretty well.  I'm sure I'll have some soreness tomorrow, but that's to be expected as I continue to heal.

Big I and I spent the drive home discussing our new dojo, and it's quite obvious that she does not have the reservations about our new karate school that she obviously has about first grade.  It seems that Big I and I will fit in there quite well.  It already felt very comfortable.  Today may have been a bit shaky with the first grade business; but tonight was an overwhelming success. 

To all my regular commenters, comment moderation has been turned on until the spammers decide to give up. I got some of the most insane spam comments the other day and it just needs to stop.  So, sorry about the delay in seeing your comments up there; but they will all get up there eventually as long as you're not trying to get me to transfer funds from Africa or something.  I appreciate all of your comments and will give you free reign soon.  Promise.

Also, one of my fabulous readers along with her "zoo" is walking for the Humane Society.  If you'd like to contribute to her efforts, go here.  You can also click the link in the sidebar. 

Notes from a 5-year old

My husband was about to leave with Big I to run some errands.  Big I asks, "Are we gonna return that shirt to "Old Lady"?"  She was referring to Old Navy.

Big I:  Mommy, do you know that baby pigs are called "piglips?"

Big I:  "That is the funniest thing I never heard!"

But by far, the best thing I've heard her say in recent days. . .

"Mommy, I love karate."

And then, because I wasn't basking in delight enough she said, "Can we practice karate sometime today?"

The smile on my face?  I think it's permanent.

Elmo-palooza

I didn't write about karate last week.  I wanted to, but I just didn't have any time to put anything coherent together.  First, the gifts started arriving. . .

Then, I was too busy being all "wah, my baby is a year old"; and then came the baking. . . lots and lots of baking.  First came the cookies in the shapes of C's, 1's, little hands and little feet. . .

Then came the cupcakes, complete with Elmo cupcake papers and Elmo icing decorations.

Then came the baby block cake that took 5.5 hours to complete from start to finish.  It was four layers and took all kinds of patience and tools like a cake leveler (which is THE coolest baking invention EVER), and food coloring and Smoothie Skittles (which I don't recommend eating although they are great for decorating).

The cake was a huge success as evidenced by the cake buzz. . .

As if the baking wasn't enough, there was also decorating, and other food preparation. . .

But all that really matters is that the party was a huge hit with Lil C.  She loved the balloons. . .

She loved all her gifts, including her clothes (that's my girl!). . .

She also loved her new car.  Our living room is now a drive-in for watching Elmo's World. . .

And playing with Big I has never been so much fun. . .

The party was indeed a huge hit with Lil C. . .

This post has been brought to you by the monster(s) who have taken over my home. . .

One

Dear Lil C,

One year ago tonight, I was just starting to hit the harder contractions after being in the hospital the entire day.  Finally, at 1:05 am on October 4th, you, my beautiful baby girl, came into this world with your fist curled underneath your chin and my life was once again, turned completely upside down.  In the months leading up to your birth I wondered to your daddy how we would love a second little girl as much as we already loved our first.  I never could have imagined the amazing joy of becoming a parent for the second time, of becoming your very lucky Mama. 

This year has been amazing, full of all those exciting firsts, and so full of love.  You are adored by everyone who meets you.  Your sister adores you completely, even during those moments when you knock all of her blocks over, or decide that one of her dolls makes a fine teether.  One of your favorite things to do is run to the stairs, look back at me and your sister and say, "Go Up.  Go. . go. . .go. . .go" as you crawl up the stairs as fast as you can, so that you can beat your sister to her room and get a prime location in front of her Cinderella vanity. 

You are always up for a game of chase and tickle with your sister.  She spent much of this year waiting anxiously for a chance to hold you, curl up with you on the sofa and stroke your little head.  Now that you're too busy for just lying around, your sister steals the cuddles where she can and often grabs you mid-step to give you a hug.  Although often annoyed with these intrusive hugs, you sometimes return them with a wide open mouthed kiss that sends your sister into hysterics.  Although there will be bumps in the road as you both grow, one thing that will never change is how much she loves you.

Recently, you have become very social and love to wave hello to perfect strangers, even cars that pass by as we wait for your sister at the bus stop or take a walk.  If you're unsure of someone though, you immediately lay your head down and grab hold tightly of my arm and shirt.  I can't help but love these moments, because it's during these times that I'm able to truly cuddle you and hold you close.  Those moments are becoming more and more rare since you've become an expert at walking, climbing, and getting into trouble. 

You are easily able to climb up onto furniture now, and although you have no idea how to go down steps, your ease at going up completely amazes me.  You are also no stranger to innovative thinking.  The ottoman provides easy access to your port-a-crib and I fully expect to see you trying to dive into the crib within the next few weeks.  When there isn't a piece of furniture to assist you in your endeavors, you find other ways.  Books make great stepping stools, and handfuls of Mama's hair makes for great leverage.  At this rate I'll be bald before I ever get a gray hair. 

Although you took your first three steps at about 8 1/2 months, you waited until September to start walking like a pro. I have to say that I was happy for the delay, because now you are unstoppable in your destructive adventures.  Whether pulling all the DVD's out of the cabinet, finding your way to the bathroom and shredding toilet paper, or dumping every single toy out of your port-a-crib, you do so with great enthusiasm.  Often, on a return trip, you will hold one of your found "treasures" high above your head, swinging the other arm high above your head as well, and your daddy and I can't help thinking that you would make the orangutans at the zoo very proud.

In recent weeks I have caught you "reading" to yourself and flipping pages with ease.  Although in the beginning, only "Brown Bear, Brown Bear" would do, you have now expanded your reading tastes to include some of your sister's books too, and Elmo is always a welcome treat.  Speaking of Elmo, you adore Sesame Street and say "Elmo" with ease.  I am hoping that all the hard work of turning our house into the backdrop for Elmo's World this week is a hit with you at your party. 

You seem to have an amazing grasp of language already.  Your daddy and I were shocked when you sat up in bed last weekend, waved, and said "hi da".  We were also amazed at your interest in the pantry closet's contents, particularly the jars and bottles of spices.  One of your favorite past-times is requesting that I open up the vanilla extract so that you can take a little sniff.  A few weeks ago, after hearing me say it for the 100th time, you repeated back "wanilla" and I about fell over.  Because I didn't believe it myself, I called your daddy and let him listen to you repeat it over the phone.  We laughed because you sounded so incredibly cute and you laughed too. 

You've also become very proficient at baby signs and have decided that the sign for "more" applies to so much more than just food.  Often, after reading you a book, you will look up with those big beautiful eyes and smile a little smile that shows how proud you are of yourself and tap your palm with your pointer finger.  More stories please, and who could resist?

As I count down the hours until you turn one, I am a little sad that this first year is over, and that it has gone so fast.  But I am also excited about what the coming year will bring.  This year has been so much fun as I've watched your personality grow and blossom into this adorable and fun-loving little baby girl.  You are so filled with joy and excitement when you do something new and have no problem giving yourself a round of applause, which sometimes turns into a spirited game of patty cake.  Your smile, now with six teeth, has the ability to light up the room and especially my heart. 

You are an incredible little miracle who has made my life so happy. I can't wait to see what is yet to come. 

   

Happy 1st Birthday!  I love you with all my heart.

Love,

Mama

The Letter I Did Not Write

September 11, 2006

Dear "Mrs. M.",

"Big I" is my first child in school so I'm pretty new at this.  I wasn't sure what to do even though I strongly knew what I felt like doing. . .

. . . but I wanted to make you aware of what happened today. Big I had a problem on the bus.  A girl named Spawn of Satan Suzie blocked her from sitting with another little girl on the bus, and when Big I sat down anyway, little biotch Suzie then used her body to push Big I off the seat.  Big I ended up sitting by herself and when she got off the bus she was very upset and I was freaking livid and thought I was going to need some blood pressure medication immediately to keep myself from turning into the Incredible Hulk. 

I just wanted to make you aware of this since Big I tells me the hateful wretched little brat Suzie is also in her class.  Big I said that the bus driver did not see what happened.  However, when there are only a few children on the bus I would like to think that he would see what was going on, especially before the bus was in motion as the kids are getting seated.  In other words, why the hell wasn't he paying attention???  AND, he better be paying attention from now on or else I'm going to take care of business. 

I have talked to Big I about what to do in this situation should it happen again ("Firmly tell the little brat not to ever touch you again, and then if she pushes you again or tries to get in your way, you have my permission to take her down any way you know how."), but I would like to think that this will be the first and last time or else I'm going to get on that bus myself and personally crack some skulls. 

If you could please let me know who would be the best person to contact regarding issues with the bus so I can scream my head off at them and take my frustrations out on them, I would greatly appreciate it.  I didn't want to speak to the bus driver when he drops Big I off, because I'd prefer not to discuss it in front of the other demonic monsters kids.  Thanks so much for your time. 

Sincerely,

One seriously ticked off mama "Black Belt Mama"

Big I has been going to Kindergarten for six days or so and she has been doing fine.  Each morning she tells me that she doesn't want to go, but she goes and comes home and usually has a couple positive things to tell me about her day.  Last week, she even expressed an interest in riding the bus home from school and she's been doing that for the past four days. 

On Thursday, the bus pulled up to the stop and I was pleasantly surprised to see Big I sitting in a seat with another little girl.  She got off the bus ecstatic and told me that this little girl was her friend and in her class.  I was so happy; as was Big I.

On Friday, the bus pulled to a stop and Big I was sitting by herself.  She emerged from the bus with a smile on her face, but then quickly dissolved into a heap of hurt feelings and told me that her "friend" didn't want her to sit with her.  My insides hurt just hearing the replay.  She said that the little girl told her she couldn't sit with her.  She wanted to sit by herself. 

So, we spent the weekend reassuring Big I and telling her that the little girl probably just wanted to sit alone.  It probably wasn't anything personal.

Yesterday, Big I got off the bus and immediately erupted into the story of how she got on the bus and tried to sit with a different little girl.  The "friend"/bully girl blocked Big I from sitting and then when Big I sat down anyway, the girl pushed her out of the way and off of the seat.  I stopped in my tracks on the way back to our house.  "She did WHAT?"  "Yeah, she pushed me," Big I said and retold the story.  Big I then said, "She doesn't want to sit by herself; she just doesn't want to sit with me."  My heart ripped in half and I could suddenly hear the blood rushing through my head. 

If this were a Seinfeld episode and I were playing the part of George Costanza circa the movie theater episode (and oh how I wish it were), I would have jumped in my car, burned rubber out of the parking lot and followed the bus.  I would have parked as the little "friend" emerged from the bus and then I would have followed her right up to her front door.  I would have told her parent/parents how RUDE she was to my daughter and that I expect that she'll be given a stern talking to, or else.  OR else meaning, I will personally give permission to Big I to take that little biotch down to the ground if she dares push her again.  I would have demanded an apology and not left until Big I got one.

Since this, unfortunately, is not an episode of Seinfeld and I can't have a Costanza moment without being arrested, I told Big I that she does NOT have to tolerate that kind of behavior.  I told her that if the girl dares to push her again she will respond in a stern and assertive voice, "Do NOT push me.  That's NOT nice" and she will sit wherever her little heart desires. 

This isn't just a minor little bus issue.  You see, Big I comes home and decides to take out her frustration on Lil C and me by not listening and by pushing and being bossy with Lil C.  I don't tolerate it in this house, and Big I does not have to tolerate it on the bus. 

I swore back when I was a teacher that when I had children I would not be THAT parent.  You know, the one who calls the school and teacher about every little thing.  But I could not let this one go.  I could not let this child ruin my child's day.  So, with the help and guidance of one of my best friends who also happens to be a teacher, I wrote "Mrs. M" the email above (minus the strike-throughs and clip art of course) and got a lovely response back before Big I was even awake this morning. 

"Mrs. M" replied that she will be speaking with "Suzie" personally, and that the principal will also be made aware.  She thanked me for bringing this to her attention and told me that if it happens again I should not hesitate to contact her.  She said she would then call Suzie's parents.  She also said she would personally speak with the bus driver when Big I got on the bus (out of ear shot of course). 

Today, the bus pulled up and Big I was sitting in a seat with the two little girls.  She got off the bus ecstatic.  Apparently, Suzie had been summoned to the principals office.  The teacher also reminded Suzie as they were lining up for the bus that she needed to be nice.  When Big I got on the bus, Suzie asked Big I to sit with her.  She was nice to her throughout the day.  I hope this is the last issue with this particular girl.  I am so thankful that Big I's teacher is so awesome. 

What I can't help but wonder though is why little girls are so mean?  Big I doesn't have a mean bone in her body, as evidenced by her refusal to hit anyone while sparring at the dojo because she doesn't want to hurt anyone or make anyone sad.  I can't be the only one raising my children to be kind and compassionate, right?  So, where are the other nice little girls?  And since when did Kindergarten become so catty? 

Worse than Nunchaku

Today was one of the most gut-wrenching days of my entire life.  I have never felt such raw emotions as I did today.  I know I probably won't get a lot of sympathy; Most parents put their children in preschool or daycare at some point leading up to Kindergarten.  I chose not to do so with Big I, and today was hard.

No one warned me what today would be like.  They said things like "It will be hard, but it will be exciting."  No one defined "hard" for me.  Hard is putting it lightly. 

We took Big I to school this morning and she was a bit apprehensive.  As they called the children class by class to make their exit and head to the classrooms, Big I got more and more worried.  Her eyes welled up with tears and I gave her a colossal hug.  I told her everything would be o.k., hoping that I was right about that.  When it was her turn, I held her hand and walked her over to her teacher.  She got in line and stayed there looking as if I was sending her off to her execution.  As the line started to move, she turned a scared little face and waved goodbye. 

I choked, held my breathe, and waited until she was out of the room. . . and then the flood gates let loose.  Oh, how I cried. . . and cried. . . and cried.  I figured that when I got home I'd feel better.  I'd play with Lil C.  But Lil C had other plans and took a marathon nap from 9-11:30 a.m. and I was alone. 

I was not prepared for the quiet. I was not prepared for the loneliness.  I was not prepared for the urge to turn on the Disney Channel, since that has been our routine every morning since I can remember.  I went into her room to clean up a bit and sobbed.  (I may have hugged her jammies and cried so hard that I hiccuped.)  I was not at all prepared for how much I would miss her, and how much that feeling would hurt and tug at me for the entire morning. 

I busied myself with emailing friends and family about how she did in the morning, and just when I thought I was done crying, I would start all over again.  I got out the journal that I keep for Big I (I keep one for each of my daughters) and wrote her a letter about how proud I am of her and how much I was missing her. 

And when Lil C still wasn't awake, I pulled out the size 12 month clothing that Lil C will be wearing before I know it and cried some more.  It seems like only yesterday, Big I was wearing those outfits and now. . .

As lunch time neared, I got anxious to pick her up.  My only thoughts were that I hoped to see her emerge from her first day with a grin from ear to ear.  I wanted her to tell me how much she loved it, and how much fun she had. 

Instead, I saw my little girl with a troubled look on her face.  When she saw us, she hugged us like we've never been hugged before.  "How did she do?" my husband asked her teacher quietly.  "She did fine," she said.  "There are some kids who were traumatized in there; she was not one of them."  She then told us that Big I was worried about her stuff.  She didn't want to leave things in her desk; she wanted to take them with her.

As Big I was getting in the car, she bumped her head on the door and the waterworks started.  The head bump turned into "I'm tired," which turned into "It stinks. I don't want to go back," which turned into "We didn't have any fun. We just had to sit and be quiet all day," etc. etc. etc. 

This was my worst fear. 

We got home and I helped Big I change into what she calls "normal clothes".  While helping her, she collapsed onto my lap and hugged me and just cried.  She said, "I just missed you so much."  I could only hold back so long.  I erupted into tears myself and told her that I missed her SO MUCH.  I told her that it will get better.  I told her that each day she'll be more familiar with the routine and it will get easier.  I told her that she'll stop missing me so much and start wishing she could be around her friends more.  I told her that we will both adjust and get used to our new lives.  She told me that the teacher read them a book about Mommy's and each student made a heart craft to give to their parents.  She said that the teacher told them they could hug their heart to feel close to their Mommy's if they needed to.  Big I told me she did a lot of hugging of her heart.  She said making that craft made her miss me more. 

Everyone always talks about how "exciting" the first day of school is, but I am here to tell you that it is a lot harder than anyone ever tells you it's going to be.  It is a cutting of the cord that you just can't even fathom until it happens.  No matter how you might have longed for a moment or two to yourself, nothing prepares you for the emptiness you feel when they are suddenly not there for all those hours, when your "job" has suddenly been given to someone else for part of the day. 

It is so emotional that it becomes physical.  It hurts like hell. 

Big I doesn't go back to school until Tuesday next week.  I am hoping that when she goes to the library, art class, music class and gym, she starts to see school in a more positive light.  I am hoping that she makes some great friends; and that her teacher will show her some of the love that I do at home.  I am hoping, above all else, that this cut cord heals for both of us in a timely matter. 

Almost 10 months, and why I'm in trouble

Dear Lil C:

On Friday you will be 10 months old.  Double digits.  It's hard for me to believe it.  The time has gone so fast, too fast.  Over the last month in particular, you have been showing your true colors and really letting your personality shine through.  You are a gal who can appreciate relaxation.  You are always propping your little feet up: on the table, in the stroller, and even on Mommy sometimes when you've forced your way into my bed. 

You also devour books, literally.  Your Baby Faces book had to be replaced after you completely chewed the binding off and then attempted to eat gummy pieces of paper (see below as you are working on maneuvering yet another piece of gummed up paper out of your hand and into your mouth.)  Mommy especially enjoyed holding you upside down as I attempted to sweep the dissolving paper out of your little cheeks. 

You also love "Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What do you see?" and squeal with delight whenever we read it (15 million times a day).  When we get to the final page, you always throw a fit and want to start over again.  Mommy always obliges.  This month you have said so many new words in addition to "mama" which is said almost non-stop: "bear" "duck" "quack", your sister's nickname which is so hysterical and adorable, Daddy's real name which is even more hysterical, what sounds like an early "is it?" as in "Where is it?" etc. etc.  After listening to your jabber-jaws sister for all these months, I knew it was only a matter of time before you'd realize your own gift for gab. 

You have been trying lots of new foods this month (in addition to book bindings).  Because Mommy and Daddy are not nearly as by-the-books with you as we were with your sister, you have already sampled Daddy's ice cream cone and loved it, after you got used to the cold.  Brrr.

You have also tried to feed yourself when Mommy went to get the phone. . . with what we'll call mixed results. 

You have become quite the night owl as of late.  I think I've finally figured out why.  Once Big I goes to bed, it is so much fun to get into all of the things that she "guards" during the course of the day.  DVD's and CD's are now easily accessible without a big sister to ruin your fun and tell you you're being a "Bad Baby."

And you've even figured out how to open up jewel cases.  Cheetah Girls is your favorite CD as of late.  You're becoming quite the little dancer too.  Kim Possible music really gets your engine running and your little head bopping.  Although you love dancing with Mommy and Daddy, you're getting quite good at dancing all on your own.  You know just when to clap for yourself and others too, and do so with a beautiful toothy grin.

When Mommy needs a break (or needs to clean up 40 DVD's off the floor), you enjoy walking around your port-a-crib.  But if there is something better going on outside of the crib, you will attempt any and every way to get out.  Usually this face works just fine though.

When you were born with a head full of hair, I had no idea how much fun it would be to have a baby who has hair.  After a little mist from the hose on a hot day, your hair is quite pliable and your sister and I have a blast "styling" it and taking pictures. 

Look out, Mr. T!  You're always such a good sport too.  I think you enjoy the new do's.  You certainly do enjoy seeing yourself in the mirror.

You took your first unassisted steps weeks ago, but this past week in particular you are getting especially brave. You love to stand up in the middle of the room by yourself and clap and giggle.  Somehow Mommy just isn't ready to let you stand on your own though. (You've had enough accidental bumps on the head with your increased mobility).  This weekend you upped your usual two steps before falling to three steps.  We think it's only a brief matter of time before you're running to the entertainment center, steps, and any other dangerous thing in the house.  Snap kicks can't be far behind.

Lately, if you are not standing or climbing the stairs at warp speed, you are not happy.  So mostly Mommy is a human shadow who follows you around with my arms stuck out constantly, just waiting in case I have to catch you.  I must say though, the need for my intervention over the past two weeks has dwindled.   

You're not always into trouble.  Sometimes you just stand around looking cute.  Infrequently you will actually keep a hat on your head and shoes on your feet.  Those are rare moments that must be photographed immediately. 

You have been an absolute joy, but I fear that the ornery side of you is starting to take over.  Your sister fears this as well, as do all of her toys, books, crayons, etc. The next few months will be interesting for sure. 

I have a sneaking suspicion that Mommy is going to be looking more like this once night falls. . .

Love,
(BB) Mama

The Game of Life

When I was younger, I loved to play the game Life.  It was so cool to pick a car and load it up with kids while collecting money.  I'd name my little pink and blue pegs and travel along.  At the end of the game, you would count your money and retire.  There was never any talk of death.  It was one of my favorite games. 

In Junior High, we used to pass around things called "slam books."  They had page headers/categories in them like: what kind of car you want, who you'll marry, what you want to be when you grow up, where you'll live, what kind of house, etc. etc. You would fill them in and pass them to the next person. My responses usually went something like this:

Car: Porsche or Lamborghini

Marry: I don't remember but I think I probably said the guy from Growing Pains, Rick Springfield, or Vanilla Ice (depending on the year).

Want to be:  Rich

Where to live:  Beach

Kind of house:  Mansion

I was firmly rooted in reality, don't you think?  My responses were always so practical. Kidding aside, I honestly believed when I was younger, that if you wanted to be rich. . . you would be rich.  If you wanted to live in a mansion. . . someone would just give you one.  I grew up middle class, so I'm not sure where I came up with these ideas.  I watched my parents work hard for what we had.  I also thought that bad things, like car accidents and illnesses, happened to other people. 

My Great-Grandfather was the first person I knew who died.  I went to his viewing and funeral and remember having nightmares for a while afterwards.  His death was like such a smack in the face to me.  It made me realize that death could and would happen to people I knew.  Later my instrument teacher passed away.  He was elderly as well, so in my mind, death only happened to older people.  It put the worry to rest for a while.

When my aunt died who was in her 40's, I was devastated.  She died after being sick on and off throughout her life.  She was young though, compared to the other people I knew who passed before her and it really upset and scared me.  Still the 40's seemed so far away from where I was at the time.  A chronic illness and death still seemed like something that happened to other people, older people.

Then I got a terrible phone call.  It was last May 2005.  I was pregnant and knew that our friend Sheree was due in June with her second baby as well.  Sheree's husband, Conrad, was my husband's best friend from high school and our mutual friend in college.  He was the best man in our wedding.  The call was from Shelley, a high school friend of my husband and Conrad.  Sheree had been complaining about not feeling able to breathe.  She went to see her doctor.  They told her it was just the baby pushing up on her lungs, and that the baby was fine.  Later that week, she went to the ER when things didn't get better.  From there, they transferred her to a special Mom/Baby hospital.  Her lung had collapsed.  After a CAT scan and other tests, it was determined that something was very wrong.  They delivered the baby a month early.  (The baby would later endure open heart surgery for problems that he had.) They sent Sheree to yet another hospital.  The diagnosis, after her doctors obtained a second opinion. . .cancer. 

Synovial sarcoma is what they determined it to be.  It's a rare cancer with a poor prognosis.  Usually, tumors appear in joints, knees, elbows, shoulders, etc.  Hers appeared in the lining of her lung and was already stage IV.  After chemo shrunk the tumors a bit, they removed her lung.  We were all thinking she would get better.  None of us knew what stage her cancer was.  She endured radiation, more chemo, experimental treatments several states away. . . and nothing worked.  The cancer continued to spread; she continued to get sicker and sicker.  This past Friday, June 23rd, she passed away. 

Their children are ages 6 and 1, practically the same ages as my girls.  She was 29 years old.  She died exactly five days before she would turn 30.  Yesterday we buried her; today is her birthday.  She won't see her children grow up.  She wasn't even been able to be a mother to her 1-year old during this past year of barbaric cancer treatments.  She had been too sick and too weak, her mother tells me, to do anything other than watch him grow and play, knowing she wouldn't be able to for much longer. 

I can not imagine having been in her shoes.  I can not imagine being faced with not being able to watch my children grow up.  Clearly, you can not choose how long your life will be or how it will end.  What you can choose is how you can live your life while you're here.  Knowing what Sheree went through and what her family is going through now makes me so thankful for my healthy family; It makes me sick to think of what they have yet to endure.  I only wish that the game of Life would have had a very different ending for Sheree and her family. 

I am so sad about Sheree as many others are as well.  She was a vibrant young mother who loved her children and husband so much.  I have some great memories of being at weddings with her and her husband, and spending a week at the beach with them as well.  She was always so focused on having "family time."  My husband and I were talking about her the other night and about how it's almost like she knew she wasn't going to have all the time in the world with her family.  She wanted every second to be time spent together.  She was so focused on her family that a month before she died, she planned her daughter's birthday party.  Because she didn't know if she'd be there or not, she made sure everything was taken care of.  Her family had nothing to do other than show up.  Her birthday party was Saturday, the day after she died and it went on as scheduled.  She also made a list that she gave to her husband.  It's a list of things that she wants him to do with their children as they grow up.  The first thing on the list was to buy their daughter a bike and teach her how to ride.  He took their daughter to the store on Saturday morning and bought her that bike. 

I have so many regrets.  Sheree and I had been friends and we lost touch over the past few years.  We always sent Christmas cards and wrote each other a letter each year, but her email address changed after our beach vacation and our communication went downhill from there.  Sheree and I were a lot alike when it comes to our children and families which is what has made this hit particularly close to home for me.  I sent her flowers when she was in the hospital.  I sent her cards telling her I was praying for her.   I sent her a letter telling her I was thinking about her and telling her some information that had been passed along to me about energy healing.  I sent her a hair wrap when chemo robbed her of her beautiful long hair.  I sent her daughter a jewelry making kit so that she could make her Mommy a bracelet; I sent her baby an outfit.  But all I can think about is that I wish I would have called her.  I called and spoke to her Mom; we spoke to her husband.  I should have asked to speak to her.  Honestly, I was so afraid to call her in the beginning.  I didn't know what to say to her.  She had just been diagnosed with a rare cancer.  Her baby was sick as well.  I didn't want her to think I was only calling because she was sick.  I was feeling guilty that I made it through my pregnancy with only gestational diabetes, and that we had a healthy baby.  So, I didn't call.   When I said my final goodbye to her yesterday, I closed my eyes and said that I'm sorry I wasn't a better friend, but that I was going to make it up to her by watching over her husband and children, and trying to help them get through this however I can. 

I'm going to pray that Sheree now has peace.  I'm going to pray that her family gets through this.  On the night she died, her husband said that all of the things he once thought were important, aren't really important, that the small things do matter.  He is so right about that. 

I hope that wherever Sheree is, she knows how much she was loved, how much she'll be missed, and how very sorry I am. 

Bug off

The day after Big I's third birthday, we discovered something horrible.  Apparently, Big I had taken home a  souvenir from our little walk through nature on the previous day.  She woke up in the morning looking sickly and pale.  She was complaining that her shoulder hurt.  I lifted up her pajama top and gasped.  There was a tick embedded in her shoulder.  I picked her up and ran her up the stairs to my husband, grabbing the phone on the way so I could call my Mom who happens to be a nurse. 

After talking with my Mom and with the nurse from the pediatrician's office, my husband had a go with the tweezers at her poor little shoulder.  She screamed in pain and that tick held onto her so tightly.  It made me sick.  I wished it would be me instead.  There was nothing I could do except hold her and tell her it would be over soon.  If only I had known how long the ordeal was going to be. 

My husband finally pulled the tick out of her, but its head remained behind.  The pediatrician told me to cover it with neosporin and a band aid.  They said the head would work its way out as Big I's body rejected it and pushed it out. 

They were wrong.

Three days later, the shoulder was not looking any better and I could still see the tick's head, firmly embedded in her shoulder.  I took her to the doctor.  I saw a new pediatrician at the office who said it was no big deal.  She said I should keep doing what I was doing.  So I did, for another two days.

Two days later, Big I woke up with redness and swelling in her arm.  I took her back to the pediatrician.  This time, we saw a different doctor, who said that Big I had a staph infection in her arm and that he was going to try to get the head out.  He had to lance and drain the wound.  She screamed; I held her and felt like screaming myself.  He didn't get the head out.  They gave me a prescription for some strong antibiotics.  After all of that trauma, he handed me a sheet for blood work.  Blood WORK on a 3 year old!  I really wanted to scream. 

We took her for the blood work and she was so brave.  She was fine until the needle punctured the skin, and then she screamed.  The blood work came back normal.  About two weeks later, she was scratching her arm and the tick head came out.  Nasty. She still has a scar. 

Until this week, Big I has been terrified of every bug.  Ants on the sidewalk?  Let's play inside instead.  Bee buzzing around some flowers?  Scream and head for cover!  Fly got in the house?  Must kill fly now or else child will have a nervous breakdown.  It has gotten to the point that my husband and I have been worried about the possibility of a bug-related obsessive compulsive disorder.  Or, maybe she's suffering from PTTD (post-traumatic tick disorder)?

And then Aunt E came out of the blue with a bug catcher.  Over the weekend, my sister decided that Big I must get over her fear of bugs.  So, they spent the afternoon searching for bugs in the yard.  Together, they caught two worms, a salamander, and a spider.  She proudly carried around her little bug cage and showed everyone her latest catches.  After about an hour or so, she'd tell everyone to "Say goodbye to the 'lizard'" and we would.  She would then release her new friends back to the wild. 

So, you can understand my amazement with what happened yesterday.  Big I declared that there was a scary black spider approaching her toys.  I was busy feeding Lil C and told her it would have to wait a minute or two.  Instead of waiting and whining, which would have been the norm pre-bug catcher, she grabbed a tissue, one tissue, (not 14 like I would have,) and approached the black spider with confidence. She knelt down, opened that tissue and squished it good.  She then brought it to me to show me her conquest.  I have to say, I was pretty impressed. 

I think we're over the bug fear.

I do remember

The other night I was at my parent's house; and we got on the subject of when I was growing up.  I told my dad how I remembered this one night when he and I were watching TV together.  He said, "You want some popcorn?"  I was shocked that he asked me and was offering to get us both a snack.  I said, "Sure!  Sounds good."  At this point in my relaying the story, my Mom interrupted and said, "See, you remember all these good things about your dad; but you and your sister probably don't remember anything good about me."  I told her that she didn't let me finish the story.  My dad responded to my affirmative answer with a, "Then get off your butt and go make some for us."  (My dad is sometimes annoying like that.) 

I then started thinking of all the good things about my Mom and was telling her a few of my best memories of growing up. . .

• Every Valentine's Day, whether my sister and I had a boyfriend or not (usually not), my Mom would prepare a candlelight dinner for the whole family.  She'd also make a cake with pink icing and give us each a present.  Even if I had to endure an entire school day filled with girls squealing with excitement at the flowers or chocolates their boyfriend gave them, I knew I had a special dinner and gift coming when I got home from school. 
• I remember when my high school boyfriend and I had a major fight. She spent what must have been hours just listening to me cry and giving me hugs while my dad stood in the doorway, shaking his head and probably imagining a baseball bat meets boyfriend scenario.  My Mom knew the perfect things to say to me; my dad was always better at the violent imagery.
• In the summers, she would get up early and spend the morning cleaning and doing laundry and getting done whatever she needed to get done so that she could take us to the pool for the afternoon, even when she didn't feel like going. 
• She took me to buy a new outfit for each and every school dance from 7th grade on, so that I would feel special, even if all the boys were dancing with other girls. 
• One time, my dad insisted I eat ALL my food from dinner and said that I wasn't allowed to leave the table until I was done. I ended up falling asleep at the table.  My Mom woke me up and I went up to bed.  She came up to my room a few minutes later with cookies and milk.

And I also thought of a couple of great memories of her from more recent months and years. . .

• When I gave birth to Big I, my Mom was there holding one leg and breathing along with me.  She had a natural labor and I wanted the same; so her just being there served as such an inspiration.
• When Lil C was going through this projectile vomiting stage, my Mom jumped in the car and arrived at my house after one of the incidents so that she could help me clean up and calm down since my husband was traveling. 

Though every Mother and daughter inevitably have at least one I-hate-your-boyfriend-so-get-rid-of-that-lousy-good-for-nothing. . . rough patch during the teenage years, I can now say that I consider my mom one of my very best friends.  She always sends me these Mother's Day cards about how proud she is of me, and what a joy it's been to watch me become such a great Mom.  I think it's been pretty amazing watching her become an incredible grandmother.  Happy Mother's Day, Mom (if you can figure out how to get on the internet and find your way to my blog).

It's in the genes

From the very moment we found out each of our baby daughter's were on their way, we started thinking about who she would look like, what she would be like, and most importantly, whose nose she would have.  There was no question that our girls would be born with blue eyes, but both of our daughters definitely got my eye color(darker blue) and shape.   Personality begins to show itself after a few months.  We always thought Big I was a fairly low maintenance baby until we had Lil C who is the most laid back child on the face of the Earth.  Big I required miles worth of bouncing while walking to get her to sleep.  Lil C, when tired, requires only the "twi" from the song "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" and she's out like a light. 

Other traits are more likely learned.  Big I's fear of bugs probably comes from the fact that every time there is a bug in the house, Daddy is called to deal with it.  Mommy wants no part of that whole scenario.  Eye rolling seems to be a learned behavior too; and unfortunately I am also responsible for that lovely trait.  Over the last few months though, it has become very clear that Big I has inherited something else wonderful from her mother. 

Apparently, being a clutz is in the genes.  Let me start by saying that I am one of those people who can rub my stomach and pat my head at the same time.  Yes, I can.  And, when I was a teenager in jazz dance class I learned this thing where one arm goes up and down while the other arm goes up, out and then down and I mastered it, faster than anyone else I know.  Obviously I do not suffer from a complete and utter lack of coordination.  It seems to be more related to the inability to pay attention when it matters. 

Take my first date with my husband for example.  We were walking on a lovely tree-lined street on our way to a movie theater.  We were sharing little niceties and getting to know each other, when a tree branch rudely smacked me in the forehead Wizard of Oz style.  It practically gave me whiplash.  It was a great laugh for my husband and remains so to this day.  At the time, it wasn't so funny for me.  My forehead was a little red and the worst part was my bruised ego.  It was a first date after all, and I REALLY liked the guy.  Obviously, things worked out considering he's been my husband for going on eight years, but still I could have done without the little smack back to reality.

Consider also, what happened to me a few months ago.  I had just left a doctor's office building after an appointment and was descending a set of about six steps down to the parking lot.  A cold swift wind blew my hair in front of my face and I missed a step.  I came down hard on my straight right leg, which sent me catapulting forward.  I stomped my left foot out in an attempt to save myself the fall, but the momentum that the top part of my body had was a bit too much.  It seemed to happen in slow motion, but when all was said and done, I was a good 6 feet away from the steps, having skidded across the parking lot on the palms of my hands, and knees before I finally came to an abrupt but welcome stop on my back.  My first reaction was to look around and see if anyone had noticed.  No one was around, so I took my time getting up, shook off the gravel, took inventory of the injuries and then began to collect my belongings that had been strewn about in the parking lot at two foot intervals representing the path of the fall. 

My little missteps provide great fun for others, but for me, they're pretty embarrassing.  Now, it appears that Big I has the same problem.  She has always been an injury prone kid.  She is constantly bruised on the shins and occasionally on her back.  She likes to "dance" in the living room and by dance I mean combine dance moves with karate and gymnastics that usually end up shaking the living room floor if not the whole house. She inevitably ends up throwing herself on the floor somehow resulting in these mysterious bruises.  Her most famous saying as of late occurs after one of these dance falls where she stands straight up after a body twisting fall to declare, "I'm o.k." Mary Catherine Gallagher style. 

Last week we were all taking a walk.  Big I was doing her dance moves in the street which involve jumping, twisting, and spinning with karate knife hands.  Next thing you know, she has a knee full of gravel and a nice hole in her capri pants.  Not even a week later, the child runs out the front door, trips and goes crashing into the pavement, attaining yet another boo-boo to add to the knee collection.  Last year, she wiped out so badly while playing at a playground that my husband and I were both thanking Sam's Club and that great first aid kit we had picked up just days before.  Otherwise, I really don't know what we would have done.  Big I went to ballet class the next day looking like a warrior: scraped chin, lip, knees, hands, etc. etc. etc. 

I know she's accident prone, but until today I didn't realize how much so.  For Easter, we bought the girls those make your own stone kits.  We took advantage of Lil C's long nap and started mixing it up outside.  We mixed the concrete-like material and poured it into the mold.  I had just finished getting all the air bubbles out, and leveling the material.  I just wanted to clean up the bucket and then we were going to start decorating.  I set the mold on the one step, out of the way, and told Big I to be careful she didn't get anywhere near it.  No sooner than I turn around and pick up the hose nozzle, do I hear a feeble, "Mommy?"

I turn around to see Big I standing with the heel of one of her brand new $48 sandals firmly planted inside the mold.  Concrete is spilling onto our sidewalk and the bottom of Big I's shoe is coated in it as well.  "OH MY GOD!" I screamed.  It had been only SECONDS since I had turned my back and given instructions to be careful.  I helped her remove her foot, cleaned off the sandal and went to work on the mold once again.  It all worked out, although our sidewalk has a little extra to it now. 

People are always looking at us like we're overprotective lunatics when Big I is playing outside or with other kids because we are constantly reminding her to "be careful" and "watch where you're going".  It's for good reason though!  She has often been so involved in telling us something that she neglects to watch where she's going and has ended up walking into doors, walls, etc.  It is obvious that she has inherited yet another lovely trait from her mother.  (I won't even bother to go into detail about my encounter with a screen door a few years back.) 

Because of this, my husband and I have been questioning whether giving our baby the middle name "Grace" was really a good idea.   Only time will tell.

Egg Hunt Etiquette

My memories of Easter egg hunts are pretty tame.  The most common place for an egg hunt for me was at my grandmother's big back yard.  The competition was my little sister, so it goes without saying that I was always a pretty happy camper post egg hunt.

I also have some memories of an egg hunt that my parents used to take us to at a local park.  I honestly don't know why they even call them egg hunts because really, who has to hunt for them when they're right out in front of you?  They really should call them "egg free-for-alls" because isn't that what they usually end up being anyway?  You show me an egg hunt, and I'll show you at least a hand full of kids who leave with hurt feelings and some pent up frustration.  The egg hunt etiquette that I followed at the local park egg hunt went something like this:

1. When someone starts the knee bend descent towards an egg, that egg is off limits.  Once someone has "engaged" the egg in this manner, it's time to move along.
2. If I am in the knee bend descent and another person should swoop in and try to take the egg that I have engaged, all bets are off, as in, do what needs to be done.  You may: tell on kid, yell at kid, kick kid, etc.
3. If all else fails when dealing with a knee bend descent swipe attempt, quickly stomp on egg so that it really is pointless for anyone involved.  Follow the "if I can't have this egg, no one can have this egg" mentality as a last resort.
4. If someone does successfully swipe an egg once I have engaged the egg, then I am free to hate that person for all of eternity, and/or possibly "accidentally" tip their basket while they're in the process of swiping someone else's egg.

I believe it is a parent's responsibility to teach their children these unwritten rules of childhood.  I certainly don't want or condone either of my children being bullies.  However, I want them to know that it's o.k. to stand up for themselves too.  Which brings me to today's events. . . Big I has never been to a regular egg hunt.  Her experience is much like most of mine were.  The egg hunt takes place at Mom-Mom's house and she has had no competition and probably won't from Lil C until at least next year.  This year, I decided that it would be fun to go to a different egg hunt to let her be around other kids.  After all, children must be indoctrinated into the egg hunt free-for-all at some point.

I wanted to give Big I some "tips" before the actual hunt, but she spent the two previous nights at Mom-Mom's house, so I didn't have the time to really pass on my knowledge.  Seeing as the egg hunt actually took place at a church, I was unsure if my egg rules would really be appropriate.  O.k. I know they're not appropriate, but even kids at church can get competitive, right?

So, the egg hunt started with an Easter party that involved story time and crafts.  The kids traced their hands and then pasted cotton balls onto the hand print to make it look like a little lamb.  I'm not a particularly crafty person so I was pretty lost.  I think Big I was too, judging from the way her lamb turned out.  I mean, it's cute and all, but it looks more like a hand with cotton balls on it than anything else. 

Then, there was the little boy sitting across the table from her who kept "smelling something" (that I'm sure he dealt himself), and accusing someone in the vicinity of letting loose with their nether-regions.  My husband and I recently taught Big I another unwritten rule of childhood, to use the phrase, "he who smelt it dealt it," but instead she just glared and kept on gluing.  I'm telling you, teaching your children the childhood rules are just not easy these days, and getting them to follow through with them is even harder!

So, finally it was time for the egg hunt.  The kids were grouped according to age and Big I was one of the youngest in the group, having just turned 5.  We made our way to the starting line and the eggs were all lying out in the grass for everyone to see.  There were eggs and candy and I thought for sure that Big I would feel like she hit the lottery and come back with only candy.  The kids started and everyone else started running, doing the practically walking on all fours thing, to get to the eggs and candy faster.  Then there was Big I.

Big I tentatively walked into the field and contemplated each egg.  She would notice one, take some time to observe it, maybe bend a bit towards it, and then slowly pick it up and put it in her basket, if the mood moved her.  Then she would walk a few steps, ever so slowly, and start the observation/contemplation process all over again. I couldn't help but say to my Mom, who was along for the fun, "What is she doing?"  My competitive nature made me yell out, "Come on!  Pick up the eggs!"  Still her process continued at the same pace. 

When everything was finally picked up, Big I made her way back to me and had five eggs in her basket, which was WAY more than I thought she'd have considering how she practically gave each one a job interview before picking it up.  In her basket there was not a piece of candy to be found.  I couldn't help but wonder if she had it in her head that since I had been talking about taking her to an egg hunt, perhaps she thought eggs were the only thing she was allowed to pick up.  "Maybe since we're at a church egg hunt, she thinks the candy was put there by the devil to tempt her," I said to my Mom.  One little girl standing nearby heard us remark that Big I was without a single piece of candy.  She offered some of hers to Big I.  I mean, obviously this was not your average egg hunt; and it's probably good that my rules were kept to myself. 

Before heading back in, I asked Big I to give me one last smile with her basket of eggs (o.k. actually a first smile because there were no smiles during the course of this hunt.) 

Man, she was thrilled.  Can't you tell?

Inside, when she realized we were leaving she finally gave up the pearly whites.  Apparently, competitive natures are not passed down in the genes; and I need to seriously start making some peace with that NOW.

Soaring to New Heights

Today we had well visits for both Big I and Lil C.  It was fun, let me tell you.  Of the two: a 5-year old or a 6-month old, who would you guess would be the problem child?  If you guessed the 5-year old, you would be correct.  Big I is an awesome kid; she just doesn't particularly care for doctors.  If mothers earned "belts" for accomplishments in motherhood the way students earn belts in karate, I would be a black belt easily after making it through today.

Unfortunately, my eldest daughter takes after me.  I hate doctors, always have, and always will.  This is why I had a midwife deliver Lil C, because I was not going through it with an MD again.  From the moment Big I woke up today, she was MISERABLE, whining, complaining, and asserting that she simply would not go to the doctor's appointment; she would instead hide and we would "never ever ever find her."  In the end, she dragged her sad little feet out the front door and into the car.  As we pulled in to the doctor's office, she left out one final wail of defeat.  Lil C sat there smiling at her. 

I honestly don't know which is worse: having to go twice (once for each kid), or going once and getting it over with.  We left this house at 2 p.m.  We returned home at 3:50.  The doctor was running an hour behind.  NIGHTMARE much?  When we finally made it back to the check-up room, my husband and I had to split up.  I went with Big I for height/weight, eyes, and ears.  This was the first time that Big I had to do the hearing and vision tests.  You would have thought she was having teeth pulled. I honestly felt like the child had eaten lead for breakfast and that it had settled in her feet as I dragged her from ear test to vision test and back to the exam room. 

Lil C?  Smiled at the nurse weighing her and reached up for her to hold her.  My husband definitely had the easier job. 

When the doctor finally came in, Lil C grinned ear to ear at him.  Big I sulked and cowered in the chair beside her daddy.  She went first and did fine, except for the fact that every question the doctor asked her, had the response of "doh," Homer Simpson style instead of a simple, "no."  She finished up and Lil C was ready to roll. 

When Big I was a baby (and even now), the doctor had to take our word for it that she could: roll, sit up, push up, stand up, etc.  She never behaved particularly well at the doctor's office.  After she turned a year old, I needed to start training in order to be in shape enough to hold the child at the doctor's office.  I left in a sweat each time and with a massive headache. Lil C is nothing short of a show-off.  When placed on her belly, and the doctor asked us if she was pushing up or attempting to crawl, she got onto her hands and knees as if on cue and started rocking back and forth while cracking up laughing. 

The doctor finished up and the nurses came in to double team Big I since she needed two vaccines.  We were of the "wait and see if she gets the pox" thinking. She didn't get it, so she had to get that today in order to enter school in the fall.  She also needed a DTaP vaccine.  She squirmed and cried, yelled and moaned, and only stopped after we were back inside the safety of our home for a while. As we were exiting the doctor's office, I'm pretty sure she scared the daylights out of at least three waiting room dwelling children with her proclamations of, "It HURT sooooo bad," and "My arms hurt." Throughout the evening, she still had an occasional crying jag, just thinking about the horrible horror nightmarish hell of it all.  Lil C had to get one vaccine today.  She pouted and started to fuss and then wrapped it up with a grin within about 10 seconds.  Could these girls be more different? 

So, after all the measurements today, here's how the gals stack up:

Big I-  97th percentile for height; between 75th-90th for weight

Lil C-  off the charts for height and has been for the last three visits; between 75th-90th for weight

It got me to thinking about how tall they will be when they're fully grown.  I went on those height predictors on the web at about.com and this is what it said about Big I. 

Your Child's Predicted Height Results:

A (female) child who is 3 feet and 9.25 inches at 5 years of age has a predicted future height of:

172.5 cm, or

5 feet 7.9 inches

This seemed rather short to me considering the skyscraper genes that this child has.  So, I plugged in the numbers based on my height (5'9") and my husband's height (6'3") and it told me this:

Your Child's Genetic
Potential for height is:

5 feet 9.5 inches

I was still a little surprised.  Reason being?  My mother is 5'4".  My dad is 5'10".  I am 5'9".  So, I plugged in my parent's heights; and apparently I have exceeded my genetic potential and then some because I got this:

Your Child's Genetic
Potential for height is:

5 feet 4.5 inches

So, based on this, I am going to add 4.5" to Big I's genetic potential height and that would make her 6' 1.5" when full grown.  Look out Gabby Reese!  You may have some competition coming.  Then again, considering all the drama today, Big I may be better suited for a career in theater.  We'll find out soon because she just started an acting class.  I'm hoping that maybe she'll learn how to at least act the part of a warrior at karate class.  And, let's be perfectly honest, isn't every parent secretly hoping their kid hits it big and eventually buys them a beach house as thanks for all those classes that were so crucial during the formative years?

To be honest though, I'm just glad today's festivities are officially over.  I'll worry about the beach house later. 

Good night, sleep tight; let's move the crib into our room tonight. . .

It was inevitable.  Lil C had completely outgrown her cradle.  It was time for her to move into her crib.  So, I did what any mentally sound mother would do. . .

I made my husband completely dismantle the crib, piece by painstaking piece (It is from IKEA after all), and move it into our bedroom.  I honestly don't even know why we bothered making a nursery.  I mean, it HAD to be done before I gave birth, in a four day frenzy of paint fumes and exhaustion (otherwise known as intense nesting), but for what?  The glider has been moved from the nursery to the master bedroom, and now the crib has followed. 

I am happy to report that Lil C is sleeping quite well in her crib.  I made my husband move the crib to our room because while Lil C could roll from her back to her belly, she wasn't able to get back again.  That was, until last week, about two minutes after he moved the crib into our room.  Now, as soon as I lay her down she flips over onto her belly and she sleeps like a dream.  Yeah, yeah, "back to sleep" and all that other good stuff; but the kid can roll like a champ now so I'm not concerned. 

Speaking of which, when I left Lil C for a whole 30 seconds to go to the kitchen to make a cup of tea, this happened. . .

When I left the room to make my tea, Lil C was on her quilt over by the toy next to the blue sofa.  No, not the centipede toy, not the plastic keys, she was playing with the complicated looking toy way over in the back of the picture, on her back.  Is it just me, or does she look as surprised as I was when I returned to the room?  But I digress. . .

This whole crib sleeping thing marks the first time that one of my offspring has slept in a crib all night long.  Big I had the same crib, but she never slept in it.  She always slept in our bed.  When she turned two, we bought her a full size mattress and put it on the floor.  She's a long kid and after two years of sharing a bed with her, my husband and I knew that a twin bed would not ever work for her.  While my husband and I prefer to put our heads on the pillows, Big I thought that Mommy's back made a nice place to grind her head into and Daddy's nether regions were a more than appropriate place for middle of the night leg slams.  (It's a wonder Lil C was even able to exist after the abuse he took.) 

While we loved sharing a bed with Big I, we also equally love the fact that Lil C is perfectly fine sleeping on her own.  She has always been a great sleeper and slept through the night at 3.5 weeks.  And no, it wasn't because we were putting ground beef in a bottle for her.  (Seriously, I know someone who did that!)  The kid gets her food the most natural way possible and always has; she just happens to be in love with sleep about as much as I am. 

I Wish I Was a Little Bit Taller; I Wish I was a Baller...

Today was an absolutely beautiful day and so we spent most of it outside.  Our first outing was to the park.  Big I wanted to play on the playground.  My husband had a different idea.  Considering Big I will soon be five and she's as tall as the average 7-year old, my husband is convinced that she will be a stellar basketball player and that it is his mission in life to help her get there.  That's all fine and good, but I keep telling him he needs to face the fact that Big I may have inherited my basketball genes, and that is simply not good.  My husband also insists that with the proper training, at 5'9" I "should be" good at basketball too.  Although I hit that height in about the 9th grade, field hockey was always my sport and basketball and I just never meshed.  Honestly, I never understood a sport that has such ridiculously high scores.  I mean, seriously, at least hockey players appreciate every goal they score because they may have worked 20 minutes or more for it.  How exciting is it when there's a point every two seconds?  But anyway, back to the park. . .

While I set up camp on the bench with the sleeping Lil C, Mr. B coaxed Big I out onto the court as she longingly looked at the playground equipment.  Picture this, Daddy wearing sweatshirt, gym shorts, baseball hat and sneakers bounding off to the basketball court with energy.  In direct contrast, Big I is wearing flowered capri pants, light-up magic wand sneakers, a pink princess shirt, and her prized Disney Princess sun hat, dragging those light up shoes along the grass like she was a dead man walking.  Despite this, it started out well enough, with my husband lifting Big I up to shoot baskets.  But then my husband decided it was time to practice passing.  "Let's pass the ball," he said excitedly as he tossed the ball in her direction.  Let's just say that what happened next can only be described as Big I trying to catch the ball with her nose.  It wasn't pretty.  Crying erupted, tears rolled their way down her face, and I seriously thought all was lost.  We made our way to the playground as we wiped tears and this time it was Daddy dragging his feet. 

The playground proved to be quite fun though.  My husband and I decided that we should all play a spirted game of tag.  Mr. B and I decided to play all out and chased each other around the playground until we were out of breath (about two minutes).  Big I didn't quite get it.  She was "it" and ran towards me to tag me.  I stopped and faced her, squatting slightly so I could easily get away in either direction.  She took it as an attack stance and ran the opposite direction screaming.  We tried to explain that she was "it," so there was no reason for her to run from us, but it just didn't sink in.  She continued to play on the playground while Mr. B and I toyed with the idea of starting an adult tag league.  We finally gave up on the playground since Mr. B convinced Big I that it was time for Part II of basketball training. 

We made our way over to the court, with Lil C still sleeping soundly in her stroller.  It was soon obvious that Big I had absolutely no interest.  I thought I would try to encourage her and asked Mr. B if he'd like to play HORSE.  Big I could be my helper, which consisted of us cheating by stealing the ball from Daddy whenever possible.  There was lots of whining from Big I, and I wasn't too happy either as I quickly became a "HO."  Soon after my husband found it hysterically funny that I was now a "HOR."  As he laughed, the inevitable happened. . . the basketball hit the backboard and beaned Big I right in the side of the head.  This time the crying was about twice as loud and we knew our time at the park was over.  We drove away from the park with Daddy trying to convince Big I that no one is good when they first start playing.  I tried to convince Mr. B to come to grips with the fact that I very well may have given birth to someone who would just rather sing princess ballads than play sports.  Sigh. . .

Basketball Daddy?  Did Cinderella play basketball?  I think NOT!  And in case you were wondering, YES, those are socks on my hands!  I prefer to call them "gloves."

NOISE!!!

A few days ago, my 5-month old started a new sound. It's something like a deep inhale, a noisy gasp for air, that had me thinking that something was definitely wrong. Granted, I've been around the parenting block once before so I should know that new sounds happen. It's just that "Lil C" is so good at making these sounds that are so unique and LOUD, that sometimes they kind of scare me. "Big I" was a much more quiet baby. So, it's taken some getting used to, the fact that Lil C is always trying to outdo her sister. It scared me until I noticed the sheer joy on her face after said sound was once again made. I guess Lil C figures she has to keep up with her big sister who has no shortage of "sounds" to put it nicely. It seems that Lil C has to continue inventing new sounds just to try to keep up with her Big Sister who happens to have big sounds constantly lately.

Want to know why??? It's March. . . birthday March. For at least the past three years, March has arrived with a new temperament for Big I. Last year, when the birthday song singing commenced, my turning 4 year old, disappeared from the dining room with grandeur, screaming at the top of her lungs. As I was pregnant at the time and extremely emotional, I about cried on the carefully prepared Little Mermaid cake before Big I eventually decided that she would come down for cake and to continue her party, but only if we all promised there would be no singing. There was no singing, the party resumed and Big I started the beginning of the terrible 4's, which are way worse (in my professional parenting opinion) than any terrible 2's that could ever come my way. No one ever tells you about the Terrible 4's! Terrible 2's times two because they come with ATTITUDE!

Now, only nine days into March, Big I has started what I will lovingly refer to as "The Boisterous 5's." In like a lion, these past few days have been full of all out screaming. The theory behind this one is, "she who screams loudest wins." When she doesn't like the instructions you just gave her. . .talk louder than Mommy and she thinks she wins. When Daddy and Mommy are having a conversation and she wants to be heard, talk louder than both combined, double points. Big I has forced me to wonder why when children are born, there are not volume controls attached. It certainly would make parenting a bit easier. . .