It Sucks.

Week Twelve/Fifty-Two

"A portrait of my child(ren) once a week every week in 2014"

 



You guys. This is not right. This can’t be happening. My baby, my little ten month old chunk of chub is taking steps. He. Is. Taking. Steps. And I’m not nearly ready to have a walker. He is my baby. My serenity, the peace maker and happiness bringer, and glue that currently most strongly binds the family (save for at nap and bedtime of course).

 

He is still tiny enough where I willingly smell him, burying my nose into the sticky crevices of his neck rolls. I still carry him around and snuggle him and think his farts are adorable and blow raspberries on his belly and the bottoms of his tiny, sweaty, stinky feet. He still seeks my fingers when he nurses. He still sticks his fingers in my mouth. He tries to feed whoever is sitting next to him at the dinner table. He giggles. He gurgles. He drools. He is my baby. And he is taking steps.

I didn’t believe it at first. Out of the corner of my eye I had seen a step here and there over the past couple of days, but really, a step, or half a step, hardly qualifies. And I was in denial. Then on Saturday my husband insisted he counted four. Four steps. And the kids are watching him like a hawk. Stalking him with the camera. Screaming when he even so much as leans in to move in the upright position. This of course startles the crap out of him and he falls, which I secretly love.

But last night, March 29^th it happened. I saw it with my own tired and teary eyes. Three steps. My little guy. The one who needs me most right now; the one who needs me for virtually everything still, is rapidly becoming a walker. And I hate it. I don’t know why…but I do.

(He has been practicing by pushing this toy & anything that isn't bolted to the floor all over the house...including any one of his siblings)

 

I really don’t want to concede that he’s my last baby, especially here…because my husband reads and watches and jumps on ANY chance to remind me that I SAID that our current baby is our last baby. I’m beginning to think that he pays attention to the posts where I claim we’re done, and flat out ignores the posts where I proclaim that there’s room for just one more.

But I digress. I’m late in including this post, these pictures, in The 52 Project, as they’re onto next week already. But I had to take a minute to write down how I feel about this new found skill…and really it’s quite simple. It sucks. I feel like it sucks. It sucks because of everything walking symbolizes, and it sucks because I’m going to seriously miss the way this little bugger crawls.  I’ve got to get the crawl on video before he abandons it all together. And I’ve tried to snap some pictures of it here and there, but I always fail in capturing the true essence of his plump bum in the air, legs wide and angular, whizzing around on his toes like a little sand crab.

And to my sweet, patient, quiet and strong husband. This is your fair warning. It’s only going to get worse for you from here. With each big boy thing the baby boy accomplishes…I’m ramping up the ‘nother baby nag. Except on those days when I want to rip out my fingernails, set my eyebrows on fire, eat toenails or…even take some glow stick goo to the eye (read about that fun here). On those days I’ll be perfectly content with four. For now, I suggest you start helping me push the baby down whenever he tries to take a step.

 

(For now, we savor the moments he's not taking steps!)

 

(Do you know how hard it is to photograph a crawling, or newly walking baby)

 

(Love how he's on all fours here!)
 

And here's the video proof. Though I refuse to watch it. Cause what I don't see isn't real!

 

 

Night Life

During nights like last night, when I'm up every 20 minutes soothing, bouncing, burping, or nursing a very uncomfortable baby, I like to catch up on my laundry.

Usually I am at peace with the fact that I am up. This middle of the night work, these measuring doses of gas drops and Tylenol, this running to the garage to retrieve medicine from the diaper bag, stopping only to sop up water from a leaky dishwasher, is part of the job. And of course, between longing glances at the clock, diapers and pajamas are changed, and there is hope that at some point during the night the baby’s whimpering will cease, and even he and I will settle into a deep and comfortable sleep.

I’m so groovy with these nights that at first, when I quietly walk up to my husband’s side of the bed I only gently nudge him in the gut with my knee, just briefly interrupting his sleep. At first, I just want the snoring (think herd of large animals engaging in group flatulation) to stop so that I can think.  Or hear the TV. Or concentrate on Instagram. And in the beginning, say the first hour or so, I truly appreciate my husband groggily picking his head up off the pillow, as if to ask if I need his help or a break, and then laying it gently back down again without saying a word. I think he thinks I don’t see him. Initially I really don’t mind when he scowls at me through sleepy eyes, disgruntled because the hallway light is on, or, heaven forbid, I flushed the toilet. But in the spirit of honesty folks, it gets old. After three or four hours, it gets really old.

Thankfully great clarity comes to me during nights like last night. When I am up. And exhausted. And my husband is, well….not up or exhausted. I am able to plan my day; get a jump start on my list of things to do. I make a mental checklist and settle on laundry. Laundry is perfect.

Since the baby and I are in this together, we pad down the dark and quiet hallway. I survey the laundry room, assessing each pile and settle on towels. Filling the washer I make sure to use the hottest of the hot water settings. And I smile as I set the delay start, knowing that this is where the magic happens. Because the one thing that sleeping through the night will allow my husband to do, is roll out of bed when his alarm chimes, and go about his very predictable weekday routine.  Alarm. Pee. Shower. 5:30, 5:31, and 5:32. Monday through Friday.

Coincidentally I am loading my washer at 2:30 in the morning. And not coincidentally I am setting the washing machine to start in three beautiful hours. Thinking of our inadequate well filling the machine with lots of hot, hot water at just about the time my husband attempts to take a hot, hot shower will undoubtedly bring me a deep sense of peace. And make my four hours of sleep some of the best four hours of sleep I’ve had in a long time.

There wasn’t a whole lotta this going on last night…



Opening Day

Game one for the Cubs is in the books…

 

As Opening Day commenced, I had every intention of capturing just one snapshot of father and son together on the field, as this is the first time my husband has coached one of our kids. I dutifully clutched my phone for the first ten minutes of warm ups. Well, no, that is a lie. For the first ten minutes of warm ups I spread blankets, positioned a stroller, a chair and a shade umbrella. I readied toys, rattled off available snacks and started to sweat. Like a lot. Looking back I realize I should have called it a day when my shins started sweating. Damn capris.

 

So, let’s say that for the next 10 minutes after the first ten minutes, I diligently clutched my phone waiting for the perfect shot: Dad and son side by side. One learning from the other; each searing these moments into their infinitely inadequate man-child memory. But in those first few minutes, as shin sweat puddled at my feet and back sweat zinged down my spine, their smiling faces, pats on the back, and all that camaraderie crap blurred.

It coulda been the sweat dripping into my eyes. Or it coulda been that I began bouncing a fussy baby. And then attempted to discreetly nurse a screaming baby.  Surely the realization that I had to put my phone down had nothing to do with an awkward mixture of exposed breast, squawking baby and uncontrolled milk spillage.

The game hadn’t even started and I had already changed two poopy diapers, sopped gobs of spit up out of my tank top, bought a stroller full of snacks and water for the girls (even though I brought from home a van full of snacks and waters for the girls), made at least one pilgrimage to the van to feed a baby, and changed said baby’s outfit cause he peed on himself.

To be fair to the baby, the part where he peed on himself was totally my fault.  I had been hot-shotting the diaper change and momentarily forgot that the baby was in fact a boy with a pretty solid track record of peeing or pooping all over the van, not to mention his impressive range-of-stream. Temporarily forgetting that I was not in fact at the game to say...enjoy myself...I took my eyes off the diaper region to chat, and was swiftly put back in my place by my three month old.

New outfit for baby, myself soiled from boobs to ankles; I mustered all my strength and dragged my soggy self, the girls and the baby back to the field. And I left my phone alone, giving up hope of making any moment a Kodak/Facebook/Instagram one. But I watched (and doled out quarters for sugar, and bounced a baby, and chatted a little with myself). I focused on my boy and my husband and the fun they were having.  And I will remember. Their smiles. The pats on the back. And all that camaraderie crap.

And if I worried about missing a moment of the game, I shouldn’t have. Because in the cool tranquility of the van on the ride home…I got the play by play. In great detail. Twice.

I volunteered my husband as a Coach this season. And even though I had clearly been drinking heavily when that idea seeped into my pickled brain, I am happy for them. They will remember. 

What's For Dinner?

Last week was one of those early August weeks. The kind that creeps around at this time of year. A week full of back to school anticipation and agitation, as well as deep remorse that the summer is indeed drawing to a close...rapidly. Yes, we've got a couple of good weeks left, but in mere days we will start football practice, back-to-school shopping, and dry-running some sort of morning and bedtime routine so my kids will not go into shock come August 30th.

It's also the time of year when I start dreaming of applying chap stick to lips rather than sunscreen to faces; of strapping ski helmets to heads instead of boogie boards to ankles or wrists; fastening boots and binders instead of bathing suit hooks. I'm just about ready to hang up my beach chair for the season. Every year at this time I begin to look forward to more crisp, less humid days... days that are slope and not sand filled.

So while last week I could have gone the beach route during the day with kids...I just didn't have it in me. I simply wasn't in the mood for another trip to the ocean. Yet I also felt as though I were robbing the kids of another beach experience during summer vacation.

Then it dawned on me to shake it up a bit. To think outside of the box. Keep everyone happy...relatively; have dinner on the beach, picnic style. Clearly this isn't a novel idea on my part. I've been reading lots of blogs, lots of Facebook, and lots of summer mini-bucket lists that others have so dutifully created. And the beach at dusk, (with or without food) seems to be high on a bunch of other people's must-do lists. (Unfortunately for my children, I'm more the kind of mother who will sit down in September, pen in hand, and list all of the things I meant to do, but forgot!)

Regardless, with this sunset trip to the beach I had my kids in mind. But I also had myself in mind. If I planned an evening picnic at the beach I could accomplish so many things at once. #1 I wouldn't have to cook dinner, because for me, dinner at the beach = take-out. #2 I would provide my kids with a great beach memory, yet avoid the hassle of another trek to the beach in the heat without my husband.  #3 The kids could splash happily, ankle deep, while my husband and I sat in our chairs, toes in the water, sipping wine, holding hands...talking about the future. #4 I would finally remember the camera, and we were going to make such good memories they would be photograph worthy! #5 The drive home would lull the littlest to sleep (yes, I brought their jammies!) and we'd have one less monster to deal with at bedtime.

With the best intentions carefully laid in place, we hit the road, and then we hit a few snags.

#1. Take out...delish, unless you are Gillian and picky as all get-out. And yes, I didn't have to cook...but keeping four out of five of us happy, and full, cost nearly $50.00. And I still had to wipe grease from faces, and pick up trash...and worry about being bombarded by seagulls.

Someone wasn't thrilled about their pasta...

but someone really loved the pizza...

#2. While my husband was there to co-pack mule with me, it was kinda still a hassle. First, my great idea seemed to be shared by hoards of others, who had all found the best parking, and the prime spots on the beach! And shame on me, I just can't make a trip to the ocean without mounds of gear. Although, man was it nice. I mean really nice...a gorgeous night! No heat. No sunscreen. Warm water. Low tide. Beautiful sunset.





And the best part...





Three someones thought it was another "best day evah!"



#3. My husband and my post dinner relaxation plan, the one that had us sitting in our chairs, holding hands and chatting quietly, instantly became a frantically-trying-to-collect-the-blowing-trash-while-standing-up-and-waving-our-arms-while-screaming-at-the-kids-to-come-back kind of thing. We hadn't even uttered the words "stay close" and they were off. Running. Like. The. Wind. It didn't help that the tide was excruciatingly low, leaving sand bars, tide pools and islands begging to be explored.

Also, the kids weren't having any of the "ankle-deep" idea and they refused to even entertain the "knee-deep" idea. I'd tried to outsmart them by leaving the tops to the girls bathing suits at home and forcing Quinn to keep his t-shirt on, thereby tricking them into thinking they were actually mostly dressed. In clothes. That weren't waterproof. But eventually Quinn fell in the water. Then Sophie begged me to get wet. I told her I didn't want her getting her whole body wet, but if she fell...well than what could I do really? Seconds later she fell into the water too. Head first. And Gillian...she didn't even bother asking. Or pretending to fall.

#4. You know that one great shot...that one picture that we all want of our kid? The one where her back is to the camera and she seems so deep in thought? Where she portrays wonder and hope, contemplation and deep understanding? Where she gives us a sense that she is looking deep within herself, deep into her little girl soul? I thought I had that shot too...


Turns out she was just peeing.

#5. The drive home. Boy were a couple of us exhausted. But then again, three of us weren't. In fact, one of us...wow. One of us was full of energy. All. The. Way. Home.





Daddy-Daughter Dance

This weekend was the annual Daddy-Daughter Dance in our town. A lovely event that my oldest daughter and husband look forward to each year. It is the one special night that she has; the one big event that is just hers. The one that really doesn't involve me at all.

My participation surrounds her dress, her shoes, the jewelry and corsage. I help with hairstyles, and putting on just the right amount of lipstick; enough so that she feels glamorous, and looks eight at the same time! But once she is showered, blown dry, straight-ironed, polished, lip-sticked, blinged, zippered, tied and has done a practice twirl, I hand her over to her Dad. He bends down on one knee and puts on her shoes, Cinderella style. He gently puts on her corsage and gives her a kiss...they are so happy together. Quietly I watch as my involvement in the night ends. 

The night becomes one for a little girl and her Dad. Despite my many texts, I hear very little throughout the course of the night. My husband, quite suspiciously, doesn't receive cell service inside the school gym where the dance is held. He gets fantastic cell service in Japan, but for some reason, on this night, in this gym, with his little girl all to himself...he doesn't get my texts...at least not all of them.

They dance; she still wants to dance with her Dad. He watches her twirl, and hold dear her friends. He experiences her pure happiness on that special night, a night they share. At home I anticipate their return, their stories and giggles, their secret looks. If I am lucky they show me a new move they discovered together under twinkling lights. As I listen to them recount their night together I am reminded;

she is just as much her Dads as she is mine.

And we both love her so very much.