Gratitude, or something like it

Today I was cranky.

Today I sat on the driveway in the hot sun while my kids and husband cleaned the car. I felt sorry for myself. It was HOT, I've taken on too much GARDENING, and I was bored with playing outside with the kids. Also, my skin is gross and I can't see a dermatologist until JULY. And my pants were dirty. And my back was sore. And why did Charlie have to keep eating bits of old food I pulled off of his car seat as I was cleaning it? Or drink the soapy, dirty water in the cleaning bucket? Or scream for my hand as he went up and down, up and down, in and out of the hatchback?

Oh, such privileged problems.

Truth is, it should have been a perfect day. We started off with Gloria's first swim lesson, which she was thrilled with. It was a gorgeous 78 degrees out after a chilly start to the spring. The kids were happy and playing and being silly. All I could focus on was the dirty stain on the right knee of my jeans and the dirty stains around Charlie's mouth from eating yet another something that he shouldn't (there's no way this kid isn't going to get intestinal parasites of some type before turning three).

This past year I've become adept at mindfulness. I can pick out the most subtle goodness out of a stressful situation. Sometimes, when I have to spend forty minutes dancing around with Charlie before dinner because he won't stop screaming, I'll make sure to take a deep breath and notice his adorable, pouty, sad little toddler lips and how cute they are. Or I'll be holding Gloria through a tantrum and feel grateful that this beautiful little blue-eyed girl needs me so much in that moment (because it won't last forever!). I'll make sure to enjoy the delicate beauty of the newly-planted tulips by the back walkway as I yell to Charlie to STOP EATING HANDFULS OF MUD.

Today was not one of those days. Many days lately have not been those types of days.

Mike saw that I was pissy beyond saving so he took the kids to run some errands. And to buy them a kiddie pool so we can bathe them less. Ha! Just kidding. (But am I?) And within three minutes of quiet here, alone in the house, I think I've regained some perspective. Thank goodness.

A long-ago acquaintance of mine who blogs from Florida recently wrote about how important it is to remember how fleeting these days are. The days when your kids are awed by feeding ants in the driveway. When they want to hold your hand as they learn how to do new things. Things which seem so mundane and repetitive to you, but are pure joy to them. Instead of being frustrated and stressed when we finish a day exhausted and covered in dirt I need to see it as a sign that maybe I'm doing something right. My children certainly seem to think so. I know it's a difficult mindset to make a habit of, but it's so important.

These days are a privilege, and I need to remember that.

Becoming a mother has somehow made me into a type A personality.  I used to store leftover dinner – which was usually something along the lines of tater tots and Tyson chicken – in the oven and let the refrigerator clean itself once it got so dirty that spills fermented and absorbed each other.  Now my free time is spent obsessively looking for ways to organize my spices.  Or standing for twenty minutes in front of my dining room table, trying to figure out how I can arrange it so the holiday centerpiece looks just –so-. 

I know how to cook decently well.  I’m good at baking.  Instead of solving the mysterious smell of the carpet by simply mouth-breathing, I have a homemade deodorizing concoction that works wonders.  It really bothers me on the occasion that I can’t clean the house before going to bed.  (Is there anything worse than waking up to a messy house??)

I’m guessing this transformation was caused by one part motherhood, one part downsizing to part-time work hours, and one part Pinterest.

Anyway, the problem with this new persona is that it really stresses me out now that I can’t obsessively scrub the floors or bake something containing the term “Bain-Marie” in the recipe.  I’m thirty-five weeks pregnant and I have SPD** (Hyperemesis Gravidarum in the first twenty weeks, a Subchorionic Hemorrhage during weeks 23-28, and recently diagnosed Gestational Diabetes – when will it end??) and I can barely walk, let alone stand for more than ten minutes or go up stairs. 

**SPD is, in medical terminology, the act of your pelvic bone being forcefully split in two by the giant demon fetus that has set up camp in your abdomen.**

I don’t normally like to publicly complain, but I just want to be able to eat a half-gallon of cookie dough ice cream while knowing that my crotch isn’t minutes from cracking in half.  Too much to ask?

However!  Only four more weeks.  “But Amber, 35 plus 4 only equals 39, and pregnancy is 40 weeks long.”  No, because screw you.  Gloria came ten days early, and so will this one.  If I can say that I only have four weeks left, I can grin and eat my nasty protein bar, and hold my pelvis together with a belt, and force myself to be generally pleasant.  If I have to say that I have five weeks left, I’m going to make somebody cry.

Part of the stress is solely on my own shoulders, since Mike and I are putting our house on the market on October 1^st.  There’s so much to do between now and then in terms of getting it market-ready, and I can barely remove myself from the couch.  A newborn, a toddler, showing the house, finding a new home, and the holidays?  What an epiphany that was.  It’s going to be crazy, but I’m really excited about getting out of starter-home territory and finding our coffin home.  (You know, the last house you plan on buying, the one you’re likely to die in.)  No, I really am excited.  I swear there’s no sarcasm in there, though maybe a bit of midlife crisis foreshadowing. 

Now for photos!  I haven’t updated this since February, so be prepared to see a shockingly adult-like Gloria.  She’s running around like a madwoman now, wearing my shoes and carrying my purse.  Saying surprisingly grown-up things like, “MAMA it’s NIGHT-NIGHT!!” when I’m late putting her to bed, and “It’s a butt!!” while sticking her hand down her diaper.  

The best part about having an older toddler is that she can get involved with and is entertained by pretty much whatever you’re doing. (Although this can also be the worst part about having an older toddler, like when you have to pee for the fifteenth time that morning and she needs come into the bathroom with you and then figure out exactly where that water sound is coming from.)  So we’ve been crafting quite a bit, too, as evidenced in the photos below. 

 

One of our favorite places to  walk is a local rural cemetery in the woods.  The land was carved by glaciers and the area is quiet and gorgeous.

Gloria at the cemetery in April.   Think this photo is adorable?  Well, this is her going poop face.  Now how do you feel?

 

Big girl on the swings!

With no central air, we've been spending a lot of the summer in the water in the backyard.

She LOVED strawberry-picking.  Or, as she says, "fa-fa" picking.

Gratuitous shot of our beautiful backyard Hydrangeas.

Fashionista.  Or early Mraz fan?

Some of our busy work this summer:

Planting.  Somehow I no longer immediately kill things.

Crafts to organize the house.

Gloria made this suncatcher.

And flower pressing for resin pendant making.

Three times now I’ve tried to write something super witty about why I haven’t been blogging lately.  There are very few witty ways to describe vomiting like the girl from The Exorcist.

Why have I been puking like a bile-filled sprinkler system?  Well, my first baby is old enough that she’d rather run around than cuddle with me anymore.  This makes me sad, so I built a new one.  Due in August.

The plan has always been two kids.  Mike wanted them close in age.  I wanted to get the pregnancy phase of my life over.  So, win-win.  I am not one of those rainbows-and-unicorns-pregnancy-is-a-miracle-glowing pregnant women.  I get Hyperemesis Gravidarum in the first trimester (luckily, as some women with HG have it their entire forty weeks).  It’s like having the stomach flu for three months. 

I have no excuse for my miserable attitude for the remaining six months.  I just do not enjoy the exhausting, waddling feeling of having my body commandeered by a tiny demanding human.  The outcome is worth it, but I find the building process to be unpleasant.

After going through it while simultaneously chasing a toddler?  Two kids is the MAX.  EVER.

Yeah, yeah, shut it, whiny pregnant lady.  What’s Gloria been up to?

She’s been going about her little toddler life without any idea that anything is going to change.  We’ve been playing with homemade playdough, meeting the Gingerbread Man, making Valentines for her grandparents, and watching our new pets, the Guppies.  Mike and I used to take our tax return and do something fun.  Go out for a nice steak dinner, buy some expensive scotch, backpack around Scotland.  This year we bought Gloria a fish tank since she loves the salt water tank at Strong Museum so much.  The rest is being socked away for our down payment on our new house next year.  Being a responsible adult occasionally leaves something to be desired.

The other day I was trying to tell Gloria that there was a baby in my stomach.  What can I say, I know the cognitive level just isn’t there, but she won’t stop pulling up my shirt and saying, “belly!!!” and my self-image is vulnerable these days. 

“Gloria, look, BA-BY,” I said, pointing to my stomach.  She looked at my face, brows furrowed.  Then looked down at my stomach.  Slowly reaching over, she pinched a single, small black hair near my belly button (thanks, hormones).  “Yuck!!” she said, tugging on it.

Oh well.  I guess she’ll figure it out in another 25 weeks.  Hopefully my dignity will hold up that long.

Clearly my artistic talents do not lie in sculpting.  But once Gloria saw my attempt at a duck, she insisted that I make them for the next half hour.

Sad about the duck stuck on her finger.

Gloria was terrified of the Gingerbread Man.  She would scream whenever he came near her.  We had to have him sidle up behind her and Mike in order to get this photo.  

Making Valentines.  Mostly on my leg.

Gloria is thrilled with Christmas, which makes me thrilled with Christmas.  Of course, she doesn't understand exactly what the holiday is, but she knows that her new favorite past-time is tearing apart the giant tree that appeared in the dining room overnight.  My tree's decorations end about a foot-and-a-half from the ground.

Maybe two feet from the ground.  The kid is a weed.  I can't keep her in clothes that fit.  A couple of weeks ago we bought her a mound of eighteen-month pajamas because she was growing out of the onesies she used to sleep in.  Today, I put her pajamas on and it's like a baby spandex body suit, like some kind of absurdly tiny speed skater.  Her little gut hangs out underneath the hem of the shirt.  I wonder if CPS frowns upon greasing a baby up before getting her into her night clothes, because that's what it's going to come to.

Since she got so many toys for her birthday last month, Mike and I told each other that we were going to buy her only clothes and books for Christmas.  Yesterday her Weebles, Weebles play house, and refrigerator magnets arrived in the mail ...

Overall, life is exhausting, but wonderful.

Exhausted after tearing apart the room and army-crawling beneath the table.

Dear Gloria,

I've stopped counting the months (though you're thirteen months right now ...) because the number is getting so high that I start to panic each time I realize how old you are.

You helped put up the tree last week.  I guess we're counting this as your first Christmas because your daddy says that last Christmas doesn't count as your first because you didn't even know that your arms existed.

You weren't very good at putting the ornaments on, but you'll get better.  Motor skills take time.  You were really good at throwing a tantrum each time I took you away from the tree, though.  Hopefully that will also improve with time.

You are also a lady of taste.  You enjoy antique hats immensely.  But you draw the line at infinity scarves.

Yesterday Gloria was a demonic, spawn of Satan child.  Screaming because I wasn't holding her, then screaming because I was holding her, and then screaming because I put her down.

Today she has been running up to kiss me, laughing at the dog, and quietly playing with her blocks.

She keeps me on my toes.  If there's one thing I've learned over the past year, it's that there's absolutely no predicting what each day is going to be like.

Another example of this is that I never would have guessed that her security object would be a pair of her father's boxers.  She gets really upset when I take them off of her.

Oh, parenthood

Today, for the first time, I walked out of a store while carrying a kicking, screaming toddler, in all of her tantrum-y glory.

As I struggled to hold onto two bags, a frappuccino, and a squirming baby, I realized that it was every awful thing I’ve ever thought about what it would be like.  The final thing that really set her off?  Being removed from the cosmetic section, where she wanted to tear down every mascara bottle, blush package, and eye shadow palette that she could reach.  Which is considerable, at the 97^th percentile for baby height.

She fought me when putting her back into her car seat.  She arched her back, refusing to let her body go into any position resembling a sit. 

Then she immediately fell asleep once I started driving. I pulled into the driveway at my house and just sat there with my head against the steering wheel. 

At the beginning of the shopping trip I still had my public parenting dignity.  When a man in line for coffee with me watched Gloria spit her pacifier onto the Starbuck’s floor, I put in my pocket and loudly proclaimed, “LOOK WHAT YOU DID.  NOW YOU DON’T GET IT, IT’S YUCKY.”  (Of course I gave it back to her when he was out of sight.)

Two hours later I pulled my cart of groceries to the checkout in Wegman’s, sweaty and disheveled.   She had spent the entire time fussing when she couldn’t reach the shredded cheese package in the cart behind her.  She had repeatedly chucked the frozen corn out of the cart.  She absolutely refused to wear her left shoe. 

By the end of our excursion I was chain-feeding her the whipped topping off of my Caramel Brulee Frappuccino.  I would have let her sip the coffee itself if that’s what it would have taken to shut her up.

Caught in the act.  This is why Kevin is getting chubby ...

This is what my house looks like all of the time now.  I try to follow behind her and clean, but she's called "The Destroyer" for a reason.

Trying to drink the bath water.

We bought her tub markers, but she only knows how to write on herself.