Dear Future Self

I am miserable.  My back hurts.  My feet hurt.  My ankles are swollen.  My entire pelvis feels like someone has been using it as a punching bag.  It is excruciating to lift my leg enough to step into my pants each morning.  If I move too suddenly it feels like a knife is being driven into my groin.  I am tired; agonizingly, unbearably tired and yet I can’t sleep.  Between waking up to pee and the Olympic event of turning from one side to the other, I’m up every couple of hours.  I am cranky, moody and unreasonably irritable.  I’m lightheaded much of the day.  Breathing has become a chore.  Walking is a far from pleasant experience.  Oliver’s movements are now uncomfortable at best, downright painful at worst.  I don’t feel like me anymore; I feel like a barely humanized incubator.

On top of these physical discomforts, there is so much that I miss.  I miss coffee.  I miss drinking diet soda without feeling guilty about the artificial sweetener.  I miss sleeping on my stomach.  I miss holding Emmalee without feeling like I might collapse and die from the effort.  I miss having the energy to play with her.  I am constantly concerned about how this pregnancy is affecting her, and I’m pretty sure that she can now sense my misery.  Lately Emma has taken to approaching me with concern in her eyes and gently kissing my belly.  I can’t wait to be strong and fun and capable for her again.

Normally I would hate to write such a self-pitying and whiny blog.  Despite my unhappiness, I try to keep my complaints mostly to myself.  However, this blog is being written with a specific purpose in mind.  You see, something happens to many moms when their youngest child passes their first birthday.  A magical hormone is released that softens all the unpleasant memories of pregnancy and child-birth, wrapping them up in pretty pink cellophane until they can only be recalled with fondness (I’m pretty sure this has been scientifically proven).  You begin to have crazy thoughts like, “Pregnancy is such fun” or “I miss the way those little kicks felt” and, worst of all, “I want to do that again”.  I am writing this blog so that when these thoughts strike me after Oliver’s first birthday I can remember this exact moment, 8 months pregnant and miserable with 5 more weeks and a c-section still to endure.

Now yes, I do realize that the end product of all this suffering is a baby.  And though babies tend to bring about their own set of discomforts and worries, they are without a question completely worth the sacrifices.  Perhaps though, remembering these despondent moments at the end of this pregnancy will at the very least give me pause when I begin thinking that another baby is a good and sane idea.  I am not ready to completely rule out the possibility of a third child, but I would like the way I feel right now to at least play a role in the decision.  

Future self, please read and then re-read these words.  You are not a fan of being pregnant.  And, one last thing to consider, you get really, unfortunately, gigantically large when expecting.

 Five more weeks to go!

Bed Time Battles

For awhile it seemed as though bedtime was running smoothly.  Emmalee and I had a routine that we followed: bath, jammies, read some books and then into the crib she would go.  She lay down on her Brobee body pillow, snuggled Foofa to her chest, and I would tell her goodnight and leave the room without hearing a peep from her until the next morning.  It was blissful.

Now, our bedtime looks the same aside from one heart-wrenching factor.  Emma does not go down quietly anymore.  We follow the same routine but when I put her in her crib she immediately dissolves into tears.  And even worse than the tears are her sorrowful words.  “See you in the morning, Mommy.”  “We play tomorrow.”  “Bye bye, Mommy.”  All choked out through sniffles in a voice drenched in despair. 

I leave her and stand in the hallway outside her door, feeling like evil incarnate as I stoically ignore her pleas of “Mommy, come back.”  This generally only lasts a few minutes, but those minutes are achingly, painfully long.

Truthfully, I am terrified to go back into her room once I’ve left because once she stops protesting she falls asleep and sleeps the entire night.  I’m so scared of messing up a good thing.  I don’t think a brief trip back into the room would do anything more than prolong the teary portion of the evening, though I honestly haven’t been brave enough to try yet.  And staying with her until she falls asleep is just out of the question.  What would probably start off as a ten or fifteen minute ordeal would likely get progressively longer until I’m trapped in her room for an hour or more waiting for her to doze off.  Not to mention that she would inevitably come to rely on my presence to be able to sleep, and we would be back to middle of the night torment for Mommy when she wakes and I’m no longer there.  I only have three short months before her little brother will become the tyrant of my night time hours, so it would be preferable to avoid this outcome.  Of course, I’m also worried that I could in some way be causing permanent trauma, damaging our relationship and her faith in me as her mother, and otherwise contributing to lasting psychological effects that I’ll be paying a therapist to sort out when Emma is in high school.  

I would really like to get the bedtime situation remedied, but I am unsure of how to proceed.  I would like to convince myself that Emma is just being her usual emotional, dramatic self and that she’ll eventually get over this without me having to do anything differently, but listening to her anguish each night is taking an emotional toll on me as well.  My mother has suggested that I try to talk it out with Emma, and though I’ve read that two year olds can be quite difficult to reason with, I am willing to give that a try.  This might just add to our night time struggles, but I am also planning to convert her crib into a toddler bed soon.  Perhaps it is the confinement that Emma is suddenly not so pleased with.  Maybe getting out of bed to have Mommy usher her right back will at least reassure her that Mommy is still nearby and has not completely abandoned her (which is the conclusion I fear she reaches each night when she gives up on crying and goes to sleep).  Or, more likely, the freedom to get up will just drag out both bedtime and her tears.

Why does bedtime have to be so difficult?  I know, I know, that’s like asking why we exist.  We are just here and toddlers just don’t like to go to sleep.  Some of the many mysteries of the universe.  I guess I’ve been spoiled these last few months with the hour or two of down time in the evenings and the sleeping eight hours at night anyway.  Whatever I come up with to fix our current predicament will likely only be temporary, as Oliver’s arrival is sure to shake up the entire house.  I will try not to mourn as I resign myself to after dark dilemmas and a general zombie like existence.  And I will continue to count down the days until I can finally get reacquainted with my beloved Starbucks to ease the pain.

Nice Hands

Not too long ago, Emmalee, who is quite literally drama personified, came to the unsettling realization that her shouts of “No!” were not being heeded.  Despite her angry protests, she was still being coerced into such unpleasantness as diaper changes and being buckled into her car seat.  This could not be tolerated, so Emma was forced to try a new tactic.  She realized that her adorable little hands and feet could be used as weapons, and she lashed out with her newly developed hitting and kicking skills.

For me, this was a baffling turn of events.  I do not understand how Emma came to this realization, as we are a strictly non-violent household.  We do not spank, or act aggressively, or throw things in anger.  And Emma does not attend daycare, so her experiences with other children are limited.  I cannot begin to imagine where my sweet, innocent little child learned such behavior.  Perhaps aggression is an innate human trait. 

 

Regardless of where Emma’s new habit came from, it simply could not be endured.  If I have only one goal in this quest in parenting, it is that I will not end up like one of the helpless, broken women on Supernanny who suffer domestic violence at the hands of their toddlers and preschoolers.  I would put an immediate stop to the hitting and kicking.

That is when the trouble started, because despite the fact that I am quite a bit larger than Emmalee, she is the one with the fighting spirit.  Telling her firmly, “No.  We do not hit” or “Hands are not for hitting” or “We don’t hit Mommy” just wasn’t cutting it.  The more I said no, the angrier and more determined she became.  She did not want to participate in whatever event I’d deemed necessary, and she wasn’t going down quietly.  I discovered that when a properly aimed swing landed its target of my face, eliciting my own anger, this did not at all help the situation.  My irritation seemed to give Emma the green light for an all out war, ending with quite a bit of tears and frustration for all parties involved.

I was stuck, so naturally, I turned to Babycenter.com’s all knowing database for advice.  I was told to try time out, but I just couldn’t do it.  I may be naïve in my thinking on this topic, but I still feel like Emma is too young and won’t truly get the message I’m trying to instill with a time out.  

And then, an epiphany.  I cannot recall exactly where the inspiration came from, perhaps it was from my research on Babycenter.com, but the idea was pure genius and so simple.  Rather than approach the situation with negative words such as “no” and “don’t,” I would attempt to send a positive message.  Due to my degree in early childhood education, and the fact that I own a book titled “Positive Discipline,” you would think that I might have thought of this sooner.  In any case, the results were amazing.  Every time Emma hit, I responded by saying “Have nice hands please.”  The first time I said this, she seemed a little taken aback.  This was a new development.  I demonstrated what “nice hands” meant by taking her hand and having her gently stroke my face.  We eventually added the term “nice feet” to our new vocabulary.

It is astounding how happily Emmalee responds to this new, positive approach.  Despite the fact that I hear, “No, Mommy!” about eight thousand times a day, having the word “no” said to Emma is the trigger that changes her from a happy-go-lucky toddler into a seething, Hulk-like beast.  But when the same request is made from a “do” instead of “don’t” standpoint, Emma is content to comply.  Now she will sometimes come up to me and put her little hands on my face and say sweetly, “Nice, Mommy.”  It melts me every time.

So, for the moment, we have emerged from our hitting crisis.  I know that it is never wise to become complacent with a (almost) two year old lurking around.  For now though, I am so proud of Emma for being such a good girl, for learning to use her words instead of her hands and feet, and for beginning to learn to deal with her frustrations more constructively.  And I am so proud of me for not accepting defeat and instead finding a way to successfully deal with my child.  Things are not perfect, Emma still occasionally takes a swing, but for the most part we have “nice hands.”  And Mommy thinks that is quite nice indeed.  

It's a... BOY?!

When I was pregnant with Emmalee, I was sure she was a boy.  I knew it, without question.  I only looked at boy clothing, I picked out all the decorations for a boy inspired nursery, and I was so excited.  Of course it’s a boy, I thought.  I needed it to be a boy.  I felt like I wouldn’t know what to do with a girl.  I don’t know where those feelings came from, but nonetheless, I was adamant.  Then came the day of the ultrasound when I was told that my little he was a she; which turned out to be the best thing ever, because she became my Emmalee.  And Emmalee is awesome.  She is cute and funny and smart and emotional and dramatic and bursting at the seams with so much personality that neither of us really know what to do with it all.  I love her more than life itself.

Naturally, then, when trying to conceive this little bundle I was insistent that I must have another girl.  After all, the first girl turned out to be such a successful venture.  And I already have everything I could ever need to take care of a little girl.  I have a pink stroller/car seat travel system, a pink pack n play, a pink diaper pail, a pink bath, a pink bumbo, stacks of pink receiving blankets, burp cloths, and bibs, four entire storage bins ready to burst with pink baby clothes and socks and cute little sandals.  So I spent the first four months of my pregnancy allowing myself to become completely attached to the new little girl growing inside of me.  In my head, her name was Annabelle, her room was already decorated, and she and Emma were already the best of friends.

Then came the day of my ultrasound when I was told that my little she was a he.

At first, I mostly felt ridiculous for allowing myself to get so mentally carried away with thoughts and plans and dreams before I really knew who I was thinking and planning and dreaming about.  Apparently, I learned nothing the first time around.  And then I needed some time to let go of those thoughts and plans and dreams before I could begin to make new ones.

Now, though, I am thrilled because he will become my Oliver.  And I know that he will be every bit as awesome and amazing and wonderful as Emma.  Thinking about things from my new perspective, I feel like Emma would have had a difficult time watching a new girl come into our family and take over all of her old things.  She is not exactly into sharing.  A brother will be much less threatening, as he will get all of his own new things to use that she won’t feel any attachment to.  The shop-a-holic in me sees this as an amazing opportunity.  Whole new aisles of Target and racks at Gymboree have suddenly opened up to me.  Buying new things is way more fun than reusing old ones.

This will be a brand new experience for me, which is both nerve wracking and exhilarating.  I am still anxious about all the same things, like making it through the rest of the pregnancy, and getting a healthy little human being out of my body, and having a newborn all over again, and fitting a new little person into our daily lives, and Emma accepting this change in our family.  But I’m also really, really excited.  I know that my little Ollie will fit right in because he is meant to be here, and I can feel my heart doubling in size, Grinch-style, so that I can love two little people more than life itself.  I can’t wait to meet him, and hold him, and be his mom.  I can’t wait to share him with Emma.  And, mostly, I can’t wait to have a son because it feels like the most exactly, perfectly right thing I can imagine.