Binkytowne

Three

Three has arrived.

Missing was the fanfare of one - The balloons! The perfectly decorated cake! The party! Also not in attendance was the disbelieving wonderment of two. Can you really be two? Two years old? Where has the time gone? You are absolutely three.

Two talked, but three reasons with you. Figures stuff out for himself. Decides if and when it wants to dole out affection; Two gave hugs but when you tell three how much you love him, it responds with a glimmer in it's eye- I just like you a little bit or maybe throws him arms unabashedly around you, you never know what you are going to get.

Three is growing up. Standing tall and maneuvering through the world with perfect coordination. No more wobbling, three takes giant leaps from stairs and couches and bed rails and everything else that is climbable. 

Three asks so many questions. Three has just opened up it's eyes to so many possibilities. It knows letters and counts m&ms and three has preferences. It wants to trade the orange ones for the blue ones.

I love three more than one and two combined.

Three

Three has arrived.

Missing was the fanfare of one - The balloons! The perfectly decorated cake! The party! Also not in attendance was the disbelieving wonderment of two. Can you really be two? Two years old? Where has the time gone? You are absolutely three.

Two talked, but three reasons with you. Figures stuff out for himself. Decides if and when it wants to dole out affection; Two gave hugs but when you tell three how much you love him, it responds with a glimmer in it's eye- I just like you a little bit or maybe throws him arms unabashedly around you, you never know what you are going to get.

Three is growing up. Standing tall and maneuvering through the world with perfect coordination. No more wobbling, three takes giant leaps from stairs and couches and bed rails and everything else that is climbable. 

Three asks so many questions. Three has just opened up it's eyes to so many possibilities. It knows letters and counts m&ms and three has preferences. It wants to trade the orange ones for the blue ones.

I love three more than one and two combined.

Sick

I'm about to break my rule about not talking about peeing for the second time this week.

I am sick. Really sick. The kind of sick where you lie in bed for an entire day. After taking your son who is also sick, but not as sick as you, to day care after loading him up with 8 hour motrin, ensuring he will last at least until after his nap, sweating through your clothes the whole time even though it's like minus 82 degrees outside.

So sick that while you are lying in bed dozing in and out of sleep you see shiny pretty people giving you the news or the weather or talking about Pilates and you think to yourself, my god, they are so lucky. They are so LUCKY they are not sick like me and they don't even know it. The kind where you think you will never be well again.

Sick enough that you think maybe because you are PREGNANT your OB will feel sorry for you and let you take some prescription cough medicine so you stop coughing hard enough to gag and almost puke, oh every fifteen minutes or so, and tell her you have a fever only she doesn't and tells you take some robitussin and stay hydrated.

Right. Staying hydrated. Drinking lots of water, Gatorade, hot water with sugar in it to try and decongest my cement filled head. Now I've heard stories of women, pregnant women or newly birthed women who pee a little when they laugh too hard or sneeze. That never happened to me that last time around, not once when I was pregnant or after. I had a C-section, I thought all those muscles were still where they used to be?

Apparently not. I have peed myself no less than 15 times in the past 36 hours. I'm not talking about  a little. The first time it happened I gasped. I was truly shocked. There it was, running down my leg. I JUST PEED! I called out, sounding very much like my almost three year old with that same expression he uses when it takes him by surprise. I thought it was a one time deal, that I had waited too long to go. Oh no. That party was just getting started.

I have no choice, I have to keep pushing the fluids. I have no appetite, and am taking enough over the counter (OB approved) meds around the clock to make me feel seriously concerned about what this is doing to the baby so I am trying to keep flushing my system. Flushing. Ha. Granted, these are not your ordinary sneezes here, these babies are coming from my toes, and hopefully will stop soon but really, if my bladder is not completely empty I'm like a geyser over here.

I'm sick damn it. Isn't that enough? As I'm about to get my son out of diapers I've got to start wearing them now? For real?! It's just sick.

Sick

I'm about to break my rule about not talking about peeing for the second time this week.

I am sick. Really sick. The kind of sick where you lie in bed for an entire day. After taking your son who is also sick, but not as sick as you, to day care after loading him up with 8 hour motrin, ensuring he will last at least until after his nap, sweating through your clothes the whole time even though it's like minus 82 degrees outside.

So sick that while you are lying in bed dozing in and out of sleep you see shiny pretty people giving you the news or the weather or talking about Pilates and you think to yourself, my god, they are so lucky. They are so LUCKY they are not sick like me and they don't even know it. The kind where you think you will never be well again.

Sick enough that you think maybe because you are PREGNANT your OB will feel sorry for you and let you take some prescription cough medicine so you stop coughing hard enough to gag and almost puke, oh every fifteen minutes or so, and tell her you have a fever only she doesn't and tells you take some robitussin and stay hydrated.

Right. Staying hydrated. Drinking lots of water, Gatorade, hot water with sugar in it to try and decongest my cement filled head. Now I've heard stories of women, pregnant women or newly birthed women who pee a little when they laugh too hard or sneeze. That never happened to me that last time around, not once when I was pregnant or after. I had a C-section, I thought all those muscles were still where they used to be?

Apparently not. I have peed myself no less than 15 times in the past 36 hours. I'm not talking about  a little. The first time it happened I gasped. I was truly shocked. There it was, running down my leg. I JUST PEED! I called out, sounding very much like my almost three year old with that same expression he uses when it takes him by surprise. I thought it was a one time deal, that I had waited too long to go. Oh no. That party was just getting started.

I have no choice, I have to keep pushing the fluids. I have no appetite, and am taking enough over the counter (OB approved) meds around the clock to make me feel seriously concerned about what this is doing to the baby so I am trying to keep flushing my system. Flushing. Ha. Granted, these are not your ordinary sneezes here, these babies are coming from my toes, and hopefully will stop soon but really, if my bladder is not completely empty I'm like a geyser over here.

I'm sick damn it. Isn't that enough? As I'm about to get my son out of diapers I've got to start wearing them now? For real?! It's just sick.

Progress. Of sorts.

A few weeks back I was contemplating life and realizing I had some work to do. The main points: The Binky's and the potty.

We recently had three Binky's in circulation. At times, one in the mouth and one in each hand, you know, for balance and feng shui and all that. Then one disappeared. It is in my house somewhere, I'm 90% certain of that, and I am constantly on the lookout because I don't want it to make a surprise appearance and ruin my plan, but to date, I have not found it. That leaves two Binky's in play.

I was thinking, I should probably cut the plastic part off of one, leaving the handle, as a more experienced mom pointed out, it still gives them something to hold on to and can be less traumatic than a sudden disappearance. I kept thinking about it and thinking about it but hadn't done it when:

Friday night before bed, the little man peed on the potty (more on this to come, but not a nauseating blow by blow, I promise) which is awesome, then leaned over to admire his work. What happened next? As he shouted triumphantly I PEED, in plopped a Binky. Observing the perfect chance to off a Binky, I ducked my head around the corner and warned my husband- prepare for a total meltdown- admittedly with a glimmer in my eye, but how quickly that changed. I watched his excitement turn to utter, deep despair. You know that cry they do when they are mad, or frustrated or stub a toe? This was nothing like that. This was a full on, real pouring of emotional sadness, not something I witness every day from this one. MY BINKY! He wailed again and again, looking from me to the toilet and back again. The tears flowed. From both of us actually, it was so hard to watch. Big, tormented tears poured as his face turned beet red.

I held him tight, told him it was alright to be sad and explained that the Binky had to go away, it was broken and we couldn't get it back. My husband came in and softly told him a story of how he loved a toy robot but it was broken too and he was sad, but it was all alright. Amazingly, in a minute or two he calmed down and agreed to move on to book reading. Once or twice he interrupted story time to say we would have to go to the Binky store to buy a new one, searching our eyes for an affirmative agreement, but we just said well, we'll see and carried on and I am happy to report, it hasn't been brought up since. He talks about the robot that broke and how his Binky broke, but he hasn't asked for a replacement. I know getting rid of the last will be a super big bitch, but from three to one in a couple of weeks is a HUGE victory. HUGE.

My husband has been all about getting the potty training on, but still dragging my feet a little I received a temporary reprieve from the day care teachers (Thanks!). He has spent the last two weeks transitioning into his new 3-4 year old class room and they all felt it would be best to wait to make the switch to underoos when his move was official. (Which is Monday. Shit.)

If I were to ask him to sit on the potty at any moment he will refuse, however, he has been waking up in the middle of the night or at the crack of dawn (the 4:30 crack) and saying he needs to pee. Which is fabulous! But not! But what can I do? I can't discourage him from using it so I've been dressing him in shirt/pant pj combos, keeping it in his room at night and setting out fresh diaper supplies close at hand so for instance, at 12:30, when he woke me last night, I could plop him on there, change that diaper in the dark and get him back to bed in minutes. It was like a pit stop at a Nascar race. Well, I think it was, I don't know if he actually peed - it was dark and I was tired and I've never watched a Nascar race, but it was fast and efficient, that's all I'm saying.

The wrap up:

Binkys- Two down, one to go. Yes!

Potty- Right idea, wrong time, but right idea.

Ahhh. Progress.

Progress. Of sorts.

A few weeks back I was contemplating life and realizing I had some work to do. The main points: The Binky's and the potty.

We recently had three Binky's in circulation. At times, one in the mouth and one in each hand, you know, for balance and feng shui and all that. Then one disappeared. It is in my house somewhere, I'm 90% certain of that, and I am constantly on the lookout because I don't want it to make a surprise appearance and ruin my plan, but to date, I have not found it. That leaves two Binky's in play.

I was thinking, I should probably cut the plastic part off of one, leaving the handle, as a more experienced mom pointed out, it still gives them something to hold on to and can be less traumatic than a sudden disappearance. I kept thinking about it and thinking about it but hadn't done it when:

Friday night before bed, the little man peed on the potty (more on this to come, but not a nauseating blow by blow, I promise) which is awesome, then leaned over to admire his work. What happened next? As he shouted triumphantly I PEED, in plopped a Binky. Observing the perfect chance to off a Binky, I ducked my head around the corner and warned my husband- prepare for a total meltdown- admittedly with a glimmer in my eye, but how quickly that changed. I watched his excitement turn to utter, deep despair. You know that cry they do when they are mad, or frustrated or stub a toe? This was nothing like that. This was a full on, real pouring of emotional sadness, not something I witness every day from this one. MY BINKY! He wailed again and again, looking from me to the toilet and back again. The tears flowed. From both of us actually, it was so hard to watch. Big, tormented tears poured as his face turned beet red.

I held him tight, told him it was alright to be sad and explained that the Binky had to go away, it was broken and we couldn't get it back. My husband came in and softly told him a story of how he loved a toy robot but it was broken too and he was sad, but it was all alright. Amazingly, in a minute or two he calmed down and agreed to move on to book reading. Once or twice he interrupted story time to say we would have to go to the Binky store to buy a new one, searching our eyes for an affirmative agreement, but we just said well, we'll see and carried on and I am happy to report, it hasn't been brought up since. He talks about the robot that broke and how his Binky broke, but he hasn't asked for a replacement. I know getting rid of the last will be a super big bitch, but from three to one in a couple of weeks is a HUGE victory. HUGE.

My husband has been all about getting the potty training on, but still dragging my feet a little I received a temporary reprieve from the day care teachers (Thanks!). He has spent the last two weeks transitioning into his new 3-4 year old class room and they all felt it would be best to wait to make the switch to underoos when his move was official. (Which is Monday. Shit.)

If I were to ask him to sit on the potty at any moment he will refuse, however, he has been waking up in the middle of the night or at the crack of dawn (the 4:30 crack) and saying he needs to pee. Which is fabulous! But not! But what can I do? I can't discourage him from using it so I've been dressing him in shirt/pant pj combos, keeping it in his room at night and setting out fresh diaper supplies close at hand so for instance, at 12:30, when he woke me last night, I could plop him on there, change that diaper in the dark and get him back to bed in minutes. It was like a pit stop at a Nascar race. Well, I think it was, I don't know if he actually peed - it was dark and I was tired and I've never watched a Nascar race, but it was fast and efficient, that's all I'm saying.

The wrap up:

Binkys- Two down, one to go. Yes!

Potty- Right idea, wrong time, but right idea.

Ahhh. Progress.

Please. One more thing. One more.

I knew he was a boy. For awhile I thought I was convincing myself it was true, because that was what I wanted, but as each day passed I became more aware, in every fiber, every twitch, this baby was a boy.

I remember, before being there myself, hearing of friends and acquaintances having baby boys and thinking how....odd. To give birth to a male, something completely unlike yourself, to create a body that doesn't model your own, that will grow to be taller, broader, completely different than the soft curves it came from. It seemed well, foreign to me. I wondered how it was possible and what that must feel like.

When my husband and I bought our last house, I saw a baby everywhere. That's when I knew it was time. I saw a baby bathtub perched in the sink, I saw a nursery in the study. I saw ghost images, the presence where it wasn't. It was a nameless, faceless child, but I knew it was meant to be. When my time came I suddenly realized it wasn't so strange at all, to want a boy. I wanted a boy. Deeply, in the place without logic. I didn't want to have a girl. I still don't.

What will I do if I have a girl? I ask myself that almost every day, not feeling the strong instinct that I did the last time. I know I would love, could love, a girl child, but I have always pictured myself as a mother of sons. This second time around I imagine the faces of a girl running beside or a boy dressed in his hand me down winter coat and hat from last season. I don't have a strong sense of what it will be.

But I know what I want. I want my son to have a brother, someone to get in trouble with and share cars with (oh the things I know about cars now!) and to wrestle to the ground. Someone who will speak his language and know the things I can't and probably don't want to know. I want this for both of us.

I'll find out in just short of two weeks from now what this baby will be. Second to knowing that it is healthy (which I assume it is because I can not bear to imagine any other alternative) I can't wait to meet him or her. But I hope him. I've waited a long time to have children so I feel like it's asking enough for two healthy children, but if I could ask one more thing, I would ask for another boy.

GOOD LUCK AND BEST WISHES JULIE!

Please. One more thing. One more.

I knew he was a boy. For awhile I thought I was convincing myself it was true, because that was what I wanted, but as each day passed I became more aware, in every fiber, every twitch, this baby was a boy.

I remember, before being there myself, hearing of friends and acquaintances having baby boys and thinking how....odd. To give birth to a male, something completely unlike yourself, to create a body that doesn't model your own, that will grow to be taller, broader, completely different than the soft curves it came from. It seemed well, foreign to me. I wondered how it was possible and what that must feel like.

When my husband and I bought our last house, I saw a baby everywhere. That's when I knew it was time. I saw a baby bathtub perched in the sink, I saw a nursery in the study. I saw ghost images, the presence where it wasn't. It was a nameless, faceless child, but I knew it was meant to be. When my time came I suddenly realized it wasn't so strange at all, to want a boy. I wanted a boy. Deeply, in the place without logic. I didn't want to have a girl. I still don't.

What will I do if I have a girl? I ask myself that almost every day, not feeling the strong instinct that I did the last time. I know I would love, could love, a girl child, but I have always pictured myself as a mother of sons. This second time around I imagine the faces of a girl running beside or a boy dressed in his hand me down winter coat and hat from last season. I don't have a strong sense of what it will be.

But I know what I want. I want my son to have a brother, someone to get in trouble with and share cars with (oh the things I know about cars now!) and to wrestle to the ground. Someone who will speak his language and know the things I can't and probably don't want to know. I want this for both of us.

I'll find out in just short of two weeks from now what this baby will be. Second to knowing that it is healthy (which I assume it is because I can not bear to imagine any other alternative) I can't wait to meet him or her. But I hope him. I've waited a long time to have children so I feel like it's asking enough for two healthy children, but if I could ask one more thing, I would ask for another boy.

GOOD LUCK AND BEST WISHES JULIE!

Sleep well

The big poodle, getting older, now prefers his soft, low bed to ours. When the bath water runs the dog creaks up the stairs and curls up in a ball next to the spaceship sleeping bag with his name embroidered on it. The down is warm and envelopes him. Outer space litters the bed.

After the books, the potty, the four toothbrushes, the harmonica, the horse riding, the hat tipping and the drink or two of water he wiggles in. Zip me up, he instructs, as he rolls this way, then that way. We zip him up knowing it will only last a minute, maybe three. The lights are out and the gate is up. Un-zip me, he says, wiggling down to the bottom of the bed, careful not to kick the warm body next to him.

He climbs up onto the rocking chair. His feet clad in striped pajamas, once at my knees, now dangle closer to the floor as he finds a way to make his body still conform to mine in the small space of the chair that stays the same, even though the both of us are getting bigger by the day.

Sometimes it's a song, sometimes he tells me don't sing that and we just rock. One more minute I whisper then we're going to your bed. No. Is the response. Thirty seconds. Twenty seconds. Ten. Nine. Eight. Sometimes I make it to one and even though I'm desperate for my own pajamas and warm blankets I hold him still.

Time for bed I say, wanting to lift him up and lay him down softly like I used to, but know now I shouldn't, so he slides down and shuffles back to bed. Hoisting himself up he positions himself back into the bag, waiting until he's cocooned once again to flop onto his belly, his most comfy sleep position and sighs.

I watch his hands, they give it away every time. Even if his eyes are closed, if they are moving he is fighting the sleep that is inching closer. If they are still he is almost there. Sometimes I escape while he is drifting through twilight, other times the creak of the old rocking chair stirs him just enough to say mama lay with me.   

I crawl over him and wedge myself into the divide of cotton that separates my two sleepy ones. I stroke his hair until he bats my hand away. I place a kiss where I always have, even when he was tiny. That sweet place on the forehead where it curves to meet his eyes. I wait. My own eyes close, then open and close. All of us soft and sleepy, I prop myself up on my elbow, wondering how I'm going to manage this in a few months, though desperately still wanting to, and shimmy till my feet touch the floor.

Later I creep silently back in for one more check, to nudge the dog away, to adjust, to unzip once more, untangling the arms from the rocket ship and blanketing him in stars.

My heart full, I sleep. Well.

Sleep well

The big poodle, getting older, now prefers his soft, low bed to ours. When the bath water runs the dog creaks up the stairs and curls up in a ball next to the spaceship sleeping bag with his name embroidered on it. The down is warm and envelopes him. Outer space litters the bed.

After the books, the potty, the four toothbrushes, the harmonica, the horse riding, the hat tipping and the drink or two of water he wiggles in. Zip me up, he instructs, as he rolls this way, then that way. We zip him up knowing it will only last a minute, maybe three. The lights are out and the gate is up. Un-zip me, he says, wiggling down to the bottom of the bed, careful not to kick the warm body next to him.

He climbs up onto the rocking chair. His feet clad in striped pajamas, once at my knees, now dangle closer to the floor as he finds a way to make his body still conform to mine in the small space of the chair that stays the same, even though the both of us are getting bigger by the day.

Sometimes it's a song, sometimes he tells me don't sing that and we just rock. One more minute I whisper then we're going to your bed. No. Is the response. Thirty seconds. Twenty seconds. Ten. Nine. Eight. Sometimes I make it to one and even though I'm desperate for my own pajamas and warm blankets I hold him still.

Time for bed I say, wanting to lift him up and lay him down softly like I used to, but know now I shouldn't, so he slides down and shuffles back to bed. Hoisting himself up he positions himself back into the bag, waiting until he's cocooned once again to flop onto his belly, his most comfy sleep position and sighs.

I watch his hands, they give it away every time. Even if his eyes are closed, if they are moving he is fighting the sleep that is inching closer. If they are still he is almost there. Sometimes I escape while he is drifting through twilight, other times the creak of the old rocking chair stirs him just enough to say mama lay with me.   

I crawl over him and wedge myself into the divide of cotton that separates my two sleepy ones. I stroke his hair until he bats my hand away. I place a kiss where I always have, even when he was tiny. That sweet place on the forehead where it curves to meet his eyes. I wait. My own eyes close, then open and close. All of us soft and sleepy, I prop myself up on my elbow, wondering how I'm going to manage this in a few months, though desperately still wanting to, and shimmy till my feet touch the floor.

Later I creep silently back in for one more check, to nudge the dog away, to adjust, to unzip once more, untangling the arms from the rocket ship and blanketing him in stars.

My heart full, I sleep. Well.