Poetry Corner

Inspired by the recent Haiku contest at my friend's blog, Breakup Girl.net, here is a Mom Haiku for you all:





The most beautiful
phrase in English: Machine wash
warm, tumble dry low

Seriously, given the amount that Dylan spits up, that phrase brings a tear to my eye every time.

Dylan At Two Months

I guess I haven't formally introduced my son here yet. Friends-in-the-computer, meet my son, Dylan Gregory Dadslast. He's a big boy -- 9lbs, 1 oz at birth and growing fast. The boy enjoys his milk, I'll say that much. His size gives him a critical advantage in withstanding the overeager affections of his big sister, who loves nothing more than to throw herself on him in a frenzy of kisses, shouting "I KISS HIM! I KISS HIM!" in his tender little ear.

Dylan is two months old today. At this early stage, it's hard to tell what he's going to be like, but so far the signs are good. He's got a pretty easygoing temperament and when he smiles, which he does often, he smiles with his whole face, and sometimes his whole body, kicking and wriggling and flapping his hands around.

He spends lots of time in a state of quiet alertness, just taking it all in with a rather amused look on his face.

Like all infants, he is capable of great fits of screaming, but they usually end once he's managed to coat my hair and all my clothing with a well-aimed stream of spit-up. (Who knew? Spit-up makes your hair shiny. Smelly, but shiny.)

And he sleeps for long stretches at a time -- a quality that may grow wearisome if it persists into adolescence, but which, for now, I consider a state of grace.

The Sweetness Of It All

Well, obviously I haven't had a ton of time to post lately. If there is anyone still out there listening, sorry to leave you hanging. I've been a bit busy lately.

You see, I am now a mother of two. I have kidS, plural.

How odd. Not long ago I didn't think I would ever have a child, let alone two of them. And now, here I am, a completely assimilated citizen of Normalville, running around preoccupied with preschool applications and spit-up stains and oh-gracious-how-are-we-going-to-fit-two-carseats-two-strollers-and-two-grownups-in-one-Mini-Cooper (that's a story for another day).

It's amazing how easy that assimilation has been, how readily I've become just like every other stressed out mom, too easily distracted by the piles of laundry, too easily annoyed by a fussy baby or a whiny toddler, too ready to threaten to sell them to the gypsies -- this, after all we went through to have them. I often chastise myself for that.

Before I had kids, when we were struggling and wishing for them, I often imagined the special, precious moments, like gazing at my children asleep, watching them take their first steps, baking cookies together, hanging their art projects on the refrigerator. And yes, those moments are beautiful and rich. But the other moments, the stressed-out, hair-tearing moments, the exhaustion, the exasperation that comes after trying to explain for the umpteenth time that YES, we DO need to brush teeth EVERY NIGHT, the sore boobs from nursing the Giant Insatiable Baby, those are also very much a part of parenting. Those are the moments when it is indisputably real, and oddly enough, that is sometimes where the real sweetness resides.

Gabby's Recent Greatest Hits

"MOOOONKKEEEEEYYYY CAAAAAAAAATTTTT!!!! SNUUUUUUGGGGGGLLLLE!"

- Shriek emanating from Gabby's room as the cat bolts, inexplicably failing to appreciate Gabby's enthusiastic toddler ministrations

Mommy: "One . . ."

Gabby: "No two!! No two!!"

- Gabby attempting to avoid being strapped into her car seat on the count of three

"Coffee. Raisins."

- Gabby's recent response to the question, "What would you like for breakfast?"

"Coffee?"

- Gabby trying to entice Mommy and Daddy out of bed. It might work, once she learns to actually make the coffee.

"H-I-J-K-Elmo-P"

- Apparently, the alphabet now contains a small, red, furry monster

Notes You Hope Never To Have To Write

In deference to Gabby's future social life, I won't reveal whether any of these are based on real incidents:



Dear [close friend with child near Gabby's age],



It was so lovely having you and [child] over for a playdate. I am terribly sorry my daughter pooped in the bathtub while our children were bathing together. I guess the last ten blackberries were kind of a bad idea. I hope this little incident will not interfere with our daughters' friendship, or ours.



Apologetically yours,

Binky





Dear [happily childless friend],



Thank you for attempting to take me out to dinner for my birthday. Bummer that we got thrown out of the restaurant. I honestly had no idea Gabby could throw that far, or that forcefully.



Next one's on me.



Love always,

Binky





Dear [Director of exclusive preschool]:



I am writing because we have not heard back from you on the status of our application. I was wondering if it would be possible to schedule a follow-up interview. We would very much like the opportunity to demonstrate that the unfortunate biting debacle was an isolated incident.



Very truly yours,

Mrs. Binky



Dear Local Public Library:



I am terribly sorry that we returned a library book minus Elmo's lower half. I have enclosed a check to cover the fine, plus a small donation in the hopes that someday we may regain our library privileges.



Earnestly yours,

Binky



Dear Local Parks Department:



Sorry about the whole sand thing. Won't happen again.



Sheepishly,

Binky



Dear Neighbors,



I agree -- it is unfortunate that sounds carries so well between floors. I'm sure you realize that your cat yowls just as much as our toddler. How 'bout I bake you a pie and we'll call it a draw?



Cordially,

Binky upstairs


Dear Crayola Company:

I am writing to complain about what I believe is an instance of false advertising by your company. By calling your crayons "washable," you imply that crayon marks may be washed off any surface. Extensive, um, shall we say field testing? has revealed that such is not the case.

Sincerely,
A concerned customer

*****

Gabby has begun her twentieth month of life and I have passed the twenty week mark in this pregnancy. It seems like a nice point to sit back and assess.
The pregnancy part is quite a bit better. I still feel like I'm swimming through Jell-O much of the time, but that may have more to do with the cold/cough I've had for two months than the pregnancy itself. The nausea has finally abated (thank the pharmaceutical gods for that) and my mood is considerably brighter (ditto). I am now CLEARLY identifiable as preggo and not just chubby, and I've even had people offer me seats on the bus. There's even a silver lining to the constant congestion -- it hampers my super spidey smell superpower, so bus rides and trips to public restrooms aren't quite as gross as they could be.

And Gabby continues to take the world by storm. She's big into puzzles right now, and can actually put the pieces back in instead of just taking them out and scattering them around the room. She's a huge Sesame Street fan, and every morning she drags us out of bed, saying "Cookie? Cookie?" She doesn't want a cookie -- she wants to hear Cookie Monster and boogie to the Sesame Street theme song.

She's putting sentences together, too:

"Daddy gave me watermelon!"

When asked why she threw her apple on the floor, she responded, "I don't want the apple."

And my absolute favorite: "I love you, mommy."

Every Pregnancy Is Different

Hellz, yeah. I've certainly heard it before, but now I'm living it.

I feel a bit guilty and also somewhat shortchanged. The fact is, this pregnancy is hard. I'm very, very grateful that I was able to get pregnant at all, especially with comparably minimal medical intervention this time. But oh, geez.

Can I just kvetch for a moment? Am I allowed to kvetch and still be grateful? I hope so, 'cause I'm gonna. This is my blog, after all, and if I can't kvetch here, where can I?

Ok, so I'm nearly 19 weeks pregnant, and I'm still queasy. Thank the gods for Zofran, because otherwise I'd still be miserable. For the last however many weeks, I've been unable to choke down my prenatal vitamins (feeling very guilty about that) or my Zoloft (so I'm also depressed). On top of all that, I've had a nasty, terrible cough and chest cold for the last two weeks that has me sounding like an emphysemic octogenarian.

Last time, even though I was working full time, I could come home, put my feet up, relax and daydream. This time, I have a lovely, energetic, wonderful and exhausting toddler to care for, feed, bathe, and get to bed at the end of my work day. I love her more than my life, but sometimes I just want to come home and crawl into bed.

And on top of it all, I worry. I worry about whether the Doodlebug will come out healthy and happy. I worry over whether I will be enough for both of my children. I worry that at the ripe old age of 42, I may be too old for this. I worry about how Atomic and I both feel taxed to the limit as it is, and how we're going to get through the next few years. I worry about whether we'll have enough to support them and get them through school. I worry about where we're going to put the Doodlebug, since we currently seem to be fresh out of spare rooms. I worry about how in hell I'll be able to get two children up and down our stairs. I worry that I'll be a grouchy, unfun mom, a harried, nagging wife, and an absent, preoccupied friend.

I'd love to hear how all you intrepid parents of two or more manage.