Rain Baby

Week Nineteen/Fifty-Two

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

The week he turned one. I'm sure several years down the road I'll write about how it felt when my last baby turned one. But for now...for now I just want to remember this. I don't want to think about all of the "lasts" (i.e. milestones) we've achieved in the past year. I don't want to think about him growing into a more independent toddler. Because what I want to do, when it rains and the baby loves the outdoors, is this.

Happy Birthday to my sweet, funny, loving, adorable, chubby, curious, heart-melting, little man. What a year it has been.

 

I am joining Jodi and her 52 Project at Practising Simplicity  http://www.practisingsimplicity.com 

(Well, not this week I'm not. Cause I missed the deadline AGAIN. Who frickin' knew?)



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!

 

 

Baby Steps

Week Eleven/Fifty-Two

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

 

Here we are again. This project surely does highlight how quickly the weeks do in fact pass. I feel like I was just here posting an entry! And now, it's time to post another one.

(So curious about everything!)

 

I feel like this has been a big week for the little man. I can feel him ready to walk. I feel like he feels ready to walk. He's taking bigger risks with standing alone. Stretching his little arms to the max to get from one object to the next. I will be incredibly sad when he takes his first steps. I should be joyful, but this will definitely be bitter sweet for me. Do I say that every week?

(He's perfected the squat)

 

This week is also the week we think he may have uttered his first word. I'm not ready to make it official just yet...cause it's kinda not the word Mumma...which is what I really want his first word to be. But we hear "up" from him all the time. We say it, he says it. With extra emphasis on the "p". It is adorable.

 

Screeching and maxing out the high pitchy-ness of his voice has also been high on his list of things to master this week. He certainly loves the sound of his own voice...yet don't we all?

 

And of course....more teeth, less sleep.

You are a happy, growing baby. You are moving towards toddler status faster than is acceptable. Of course I am so thankful for the happy part, and have resigned myself, once again...and one week at a time...to the growing part.

 

Also...first pair of sneaks!

 

 I am joining Jodi and her 52 Project at Practising Simplicity

 http://www.practisingsimplicity.com 



Stand Alone

Week Ten/Fifty-Two

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

 

Okay, so I'll concede. This whole picture taking, with my big girl camera, thing is proving more difficult than I had ever imagined it would be. I remember thinking, how difficult can it be to take a minute to snap a few (good) photos of my kids? As it turns out...very. Part of the problem is that my primary subject is constantly on the move these days. Part of the problem is that I am sick of photographing said subject in the same spot (read: indoors because Maine in February. And now because Maine in March). Part of the problem is that every single time I think to snap a photo, my subject is wearing the same thing that he was wearing the last time I posted a 52 Week Project picture. So you see...several problems.

 

And already I've missed the Week Ten deadline, but I definitely wanted to document the following. Even though I took the pictures on my phone. But for some reason, this is a big deal to me. I've been denying my baby's growing up. But now. Now he stands. Which means soon he walks. Which means...it's over. Done. Babyhood is gone and I've lost the battle to keep him snugly and tiny and babyish forever. And since I know my husband will dutifully read this post, I'll dare to say...standing means it's time for another. What's one more when you've already got four?

 

My baby turned ten months old on Friday. The same day that my oldest daughter and I lost our minds and subsequently forgot to get the dslr out to take real pictures of THIS:

 

  I am joining Jodi and her 52 Project at Practising Simplicity

 http://www.practisingsimplicity.com 

Spring Please

Week Nine/Fifty-Two

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

 Even this guy knows. It is March. It needs to warm up. The snow needs to melt. We are even anxiously awaiting Mud Season. This winter has been way too long. Way to cold. We want to get outside, instead of smearing grimy hands on doors and windows...we want to make mud pies.

 

 Loving this stage with my little one, who is growing up so fast. He is getting closer and closer to walking. He has worked up the courage this week to let go of whatever he is holding on to and stand unassisted for a few seconds. Of course usually we clap and make a fuss and scare him and he falls to the ground...but still. I feel as though he'll be walking sooner rather than later.

 

I think he's working on cutting more teeth as well. We've had a bit of a sleep regression...if there's even a way to regress from already crappy sleep. He has made huge strides in eating though. This boy who gagged and spit out and avoided food at all costs has discovered chicken, and ham steak, and carrots, and homemade chicken and rice soup, (and part of a McDonald's chicken nugget that his sister snuck him) just this week. Yay!

In other news. I attended a Kindergarten orientation for this love bug this week. We are both so excited for fall. Praying for all day K to finally be approved in our district.
 I am joining Jodi and her 52 Project at Practising Simplicity

 http://www.practisingsimplicity.com 

Man-ish

While I realize my little guy still has a vast amount of “growing up” to do (don’t they all really?), I’ve noticed recently that there are a few things that indicate he’s well on his way to becoming a man. For better or worse.

Don’t get me wrong; I love men. I married a good natured one who thankfully doesn’t mind the occasional blog post portraying him in slightly unfavorable light. Also, I’m tasked with raising two. And while I feel ultimately I’ll do a pretty good job, transforming my baby boys into men is also a undertaking that scares me to death. Cause God forbid either of them end up with a wife like me.

At the ripe old age of nine months my little baby boy-cub is becoming more man-ish. For instance:

1.   We don't nurse snuggled up and cozy belly to belly anymore. No. Now he sprawls out like a man on the couch. Feet up, arms askew, slugging a beer...straight from the tap.

2.   He whines. Of course all babies do. My girls did too. Still do in fact. But this little dude turns on the whiny voice. Just for effect and a little bit of attention. I hope he figures out that whiny men are never endearing to women. Neither are men that fake cough, drool excessively, or crap their pants. But for now, we’ll focus on the whine.

 

3.   He flips me off. A lot.

 

      

4.   His feet stink. Holy hell baby boy. I shudder thinking about future sneakers and gym socks and boy specific sports equipment.

 

5.   He tries to make himself fart (and is alarmingly successful). And he laughs when he succeeds. Actually he laughs even if he doesn’t fart on demand…cause farts are just funny. For a while now he’s been trying to make himself poop when he nurses, but he’s definitely upped his game with the flatulence.

6.   He sweats. Ick. And there goes the sweet smell of a newborn baby. Right. Out. The Window.

7.   He has attitude. And according to his pediatrician, he is a sleep manipulator. Apparently because I will do anything to get and keep my little to sleep, said little is a manipulator. Perhaps this is why I am the Mom, and not the pediatrician.

 

8.   He has a favorite chair, and likes to push it from room to room with him.

 

      9.  He is a terrible driver. It is inevitable I suppose.  Zero hands on the wheel. Looking around. Talking to himself. Drooling. Utterly unable to parallel park. Or get from Point A to Point B without me reminding him how to get there.

 

 (Can we pause for a sec and admire the chub!)

  

    10. He has no idea what to do with the laundry.

    11.  I don't even want to tell you what his favorite tub toy is...(hint: he's looking for it!)

Sick Day

Sick Day-Week Six/Fifty-Two
"A portrait of my children, once a week, every week, in 2014" 


This little guy developed his first true cold, one complete with a fever, this week. With four kids, we've had our share of craptastic and bizarre illnesses and hospitalizations, but even something as simple as a mid-winter cold can break a Mama's heart. The past couple of nights have been extra trying, so I'm so thankful he can still nap during the day.

Perhaps not coincidentally, he has also started chasing me down and trying to climb my legs in an effort to get me to pick him up and cuddle. And while it is endearing and heart melting that he chooses me, and only me, to soothe him when he's not feeling great, it also makes navigating the kitchen during breakfast, lunch, or dinner a bit more challenging.

And of course, one of the most challenging parts of having a sick infant, is managing the guilt that accompanies devoting all of your time to one child, even though there are others that need attention too.

While the oldest two are happily tucked away at school for a good portion of the day, my preschooler is still home most of the time. She is the child, who even after almost nine months, feels the most displaced by her baby brother. And it breaks my heart knowing she is watching television, or eating lunch alone, or talking to herself, while I am upstairs nursing, rocking, or soothing a miserable baby.

Days like today, weeks like this one in fact, make me think that next year, as a Kindergartner, she will be better off at school; far more entertained and engaged, then she would be at home with me.
This is a realization that is again, heartbreaking.

But perhaps I'm over thinking, and holding myself to unrealistic parenting standards. I am hopeful that my increased absence while I help the baby will be met with understanding and gratitude. Deep down I hope she sees my nurturing him as indicative of how much I love her too.

I am joining Jodi and her 52 Project at Practising Simplicity

 http://www.practisingsimplicity.com



For the Love of Hair

For the Love of Hair-Week Five/Fifty-Two
"A portrait of my children, once a week, every week, in 2014" 

It is so easy to miss the details, the subtle changes. To get caught up in the hurry-upness of every day life with kids. But this week I noticed something about the baby. I noticed his hair.

It’s growing. Becoming wispy and curly and thicker. And less red. And I realize he’s growing, and it makes me sad. Because while I am excited for this next phase of his babyhood, I’m also infinitely sad to think that he is the last baby that I will ever call my own. Bittersweet this business of growing up…

Just one week shy of nine months

I am joining Jodi and her 52 Project at Practising Simplicity

 http://www.practisingsimplicity.com

Sleepless--Week Four/Fifty-Two

Sleepless--Week Four/Fifty-Two

"A portrait of my children, once a week, every week, in 2014" 

I can become so frustrated with this little guy, and this week has been no exception. Some days my baby refuses to sleep for more than 30 minutes at nap time. This same little guy can also scream and cry and thrash around like no one’s business, when I try to get him to sleep. True sleep-training failed miserably for my first two children, and thankfully my third was a lovely little sleeper. After her, I was lulled into thinking that with my fourth, the business of baby sleep, and getting the baby to sleep, would be a walk in the park.

Unfortunately, it has turned into a walk into the Seventh Circle of Hell. Pacing the floors. Rocking so much that every nut, bolt and washer in the recliner squeaks plaintively. The other night in a fit of desperation I surrendered and drove the baby around town, in the snow. While he screamed and choked and gagged on his own vomit.

Sometimes I feel as though the days and nights will never end. That they will never get better. But of course ultimately I know they will. I have three other children who took essentially the same sleep path as this little guy. And we survived. We will survive.



But in my desperation; in those moments when I choose to walk away, or text my best friend to vent, or call my mom, or turn the monitors off to soften the sounds of crying, or pour myself a glass of wine…or better yet stick a straw into the bottle of wine…I also think of those moms and dads and caregivers who cannot cope. And those babies and their crying. Perhaps their diapers are full or their bellies empty. Maybe there is diaper rash or an allergy. Or perhaps they are terrible sleepers. Or terrible eaters. Or they need to be cuddled all the time.

Perhaps they are children of first time parents who do not know it will get better. Or perhaps they are children of seasoned parents who are overwhelmed by the needs of their older children. Or work, or staying at home, or life in general. Perhaps they were born to parents who did not want children at all. I think of those little babies, helpless and for whatever reason unable to settle. To stop crying. To be soothed. And my heart hurts for them. Because in those situations, with desperate babies and  desperate parents, lies danger.  I have been mired in my own parenting doldrums lately, exacerbated by a sense of helplessness for the little ones in my community, and communities all over the world, who are crying.

Looking at the beautiful face of my baby, I wonder: Is it as simple as holding a diaper drive and providing diapers to local families who can otherwise not afford them for their babies? Babies who could be suffering from severe diaper rash, and thus cry. Is it as simple as setting up a network of local families, of parents who can text or call each other at any time, just to talk about how much parenting can suck at times? Is it as simple as donating instead of selling unwanted baby gear to families, so babies can swing, or bounce, or play? I don’t know. I wish I had the answer.

I feel compelled to try to help these babies, these parents. Ultimately I have to believe that every parent loves their child. Every parent tries to do their best, but in crisis parents can lose sight of what is important. For now I will dedicate myself to being brave enough to keep thinking of these babies and their parents. I will keep researching organizations to support. I will hold space in my heart, and hope that these parents remember to love their babies. The way that I love mine.

I am joining Jodi and her 52 Project at Practising Simplicity

 http://www.practisingsimplicity.com



A Shoddy Birth Story

In June of 2003 I wrote my first birth story. At the time I didn’t realize birth stories were a thing. I also didn’t realize that having written one for my first child, I’d be compelled to write one for my second, third and fourth children as well. What a pain in the ass.

My first child’s birth story was all but written by the time I left the hospital. I had it drafted in my head, focusing on every detail and committing them to memory. Her birth story is also ten pages long. I was nervous that I’d forget something about that day, and was also paranoid that I was going to drop dead from some mysterious post-partum ailment (besides sleep deprivation). My fear was that there would be no one to explain to her how magical that day had been. Yes, her Dad could try…but when I made him write his version of her birth story (cause I’m cruel like that), I realized he got it almost all wrong. Especially when it came to documenting how much it frigging h-u-r-t.

In August of 2005 I gave birth to my second child, and while I jumped on his birth story pretty quickly, it took me some time to get it together.  I was more sleep deprived than ever. His birth story is lengthy simply because I repeat myself over and over again. I think I wrote his story with my eyes half closed. To this day I do not remember most of his first few months home.

When my third arrived on a beautiful stormy day in July 2009, I was over birth story writing. Sadly I saw it as something I had to do; more of a chore than an opportunity to record (what I thought would be) my last baby’s grueling entrance into this maddening and glorious world. 

Plus, she was my favorite and I savored every single moment with her. I held her while she napped. I held her at night. I picked her up just to smell her. I picked her up just to run my cheek over her amazing head of hair. I held her all the time; my third baby…the peace keeper, my mood stabilizer, the bringer of pure joy. I had long since become the queen of multi-tasking, but I hadn’t quite mastered typing one handed, and her birth story took months to compile and complete.

Now it is seven-plus months since the birth of my fourth child. And I can come up with very little for his birth story, one tiny little stack of post-it notes on a shelf in my closet. But never fear, my dear baby. You are now my favorite, because there is no way a four year old, an eight year old, or a ten year old could ever endear themselves to me as much as you do, with all of your baby giggles, squish, folds, rolls and snuggles.

I loved you from the moment I knew you were. But you terrified the hell out of me. I was silly to be scared of you. Because…well…I have a four, eight and ten year old, and they are far more menacing. Right now they are yelling at each other. Arguing over you. So please know that even though your birth story in no way compares to theirs, it is not for lack of love. It is from lack of energy, time, and brain cells. I am done, sweetie. I love you, but my birth story writing days are over. I will do your birth the honor of this though, the best I can do right now:

I walked around for many weeks feeling like you were clawing your way out. Then you were due and you didn’t want to come out. I really, REALLY wanted you to come out. My doctor was a turd and refused to take you out. I waited three extra days, and finally it was time to encourage you to come out with Pitocin.

I was 3cm on Monday night, without a contraction in sight, and so relieved when I was admitted to the hospital. There was a playoff hockey game on. The doctor sat on my bed and watched the game with your Dad. I sat on the edge of the birth tub, looking out the window, too lazy to suggest we fill the tub with water and use it. So I walked. The Bruins won. I walked. Finally I asked for drugs. Finally they whipped out the water-breaking-crochet-hooky-type thing. 29 minutes later you were born and I barked “get the camera and take a damn picture” to your Dad. True love right there. No drugs; things moved so incredibly quickly that the anesthesiologist could do nothing but fidget in a corner.

You were out. Your Dad and I ate lots of take-out from downtown restaurants we haven’t frequented in years. We drank lots of coffee and sent lots of texts. And we savored every last second in that tiny hospital room. We took the long way home. We were wise to the chaos that awaited us at home.

We love you baby boy. You are amazing, and we couldn’t imagine life without you. Sorry about the sloppy story…I’ll make it up to you by loving you forever. And always. And forever more.

 

Baby Loves TV

It never dawned on me that I wasn’t a good enough mother, until I started reading parenting books.

But as I become more weathered by this thing called parenting, I have learned to cut myself a little slack. I have learned to trust my gut and my instinct, and in turn live happier as a Mom.

I have discovered that each child brings a new set of firsts that need wrangling and understanding; each bringing a unique parenting challenge to the table. Thankfully as more kids have come along, I have learned to worry about doing it right less, and doing what I know is best, more.

My first baby couldn’t latch on to nurse properly. Turns out she was tongue-tied, and our pediatrician refused to do anything about it. For weeks she and I cried through every feeding. I hated nursing, and began to hate being my baby’s mother. Eventually I pumped and bottle fed her, and though there were far fewer tears and significantly less pain, I hated pumping too. Against expert advice, I eventually formula fed my baby, and as soon as I did, I loved her in a way I hadn’t before. As soon as I did, I wish I had listened to my mother and my gut sooner. She was happier and I was happier.

My second baby liked to wake in the middle of the night and behave like a belligerent drunk. He would stay awake for several hours at a time, often thrashing or crying. I do not remember half of 2005 and most of 2006 due to sleep deprivation. Against expert advice we began co-sleeping in order to survive. This bugger still likes to be in my room when he sleeps…but I’m pretty sure he’s not going to want me rooming with him in college. Instincts (and common sense) say it’s okay to let him ride out his nighttime issues on his own time.

 

With my third we thought we’d hit the baby jackpot. Until around 6 months when she decided to start screaming in restaurants. Blood curdling, mind bending screams. For fun. Except it was only fun for her. It was startling and deafening for the rest of us. I have never had so many nasty comments from strangers as I did in the three or four months she practiced her freedom of speech when out to eat. So I started drinking a lot when we’d go out to dinner. Or lunch. Or breakfast.  Against expert advice of course.

Our fourth baby was pure joy for the first two weeks of his life. Then we discovered rather abruptly that he hates the car. He too possesses the ear piercing screaming gene. Yay for us. There is not much worse than needing to run three kids in multiple directions five, six or sometimes seven days a week with a shrieking newborn in the car. Even though he is now better at controlling his emotions, I still break into a cold sweat every time I buckle him into his car seat. Of course, against expert advice, around this time I rekindled my romance with speeding. And listening to the car radio a leeeetle too loudly. It was kinda like being in high school again. ‘Cept for that screaming newborn in the backseat.

 

With baby number one I was doing everything by the book, and my baby and I were pretty miserable. I thought my baby had to sleep in her own bed. And therefore no one slept. I thought my baby had to be breastfed. And therefore she was starving for the first four months of her life. I thought my baby had to learn to fall asleep on her own and self-soothe. And therefore I drink drank a lot of wine at bedtime. And she cried a lot of tears. And it sucked. And I swore I would never put myself or one of my children through that hell again.

By baby number four, I refuse to read a parenting magazine or book. I figure thanks to my intuition I’ve got this good-enough parenting thing figured out. It helps that I now realize there’s no way I’ll ever get it all right, and frankly I’ve quit trying.

 

So the baby watches TV while I make dinner and the big kids do homework. Hell yes he does. He takes one for the team so I don’t stab someone with a fork or cry over my inability to understand third or fifth grade math. It also means I don’t have to wear him steam pressed to my saggy chest…again! And I’m a good-enough mother because of it.

So my preschooler spends time playing on my phone. Will she get kicked out of preschool? Will she feel neglected and unloved? Will she drop out of high school?  I think not. When she is engrossed in a good game of Pocket Edition (read free!) Minecraft, I get a reprieve from her complete inability to sit-freaking-still. I don’t have to answer the same damn question five thousand, three hundred and six times. In five minutes. And I’m a more focused mother because of it.

So summer vacation, winter vacation, spring vacation, half days, sick days, snow days, any day that ends in day may involve a movie. Usually my only stipulation is that it is longer than 90 minutes. Movie days don’t mean my kids will end up dull minded. It simply means that I’m not constantly looking at this: (and I’m a better mother because of it).

Yeah, my baby watches TV. But I think he’ll be okay.

I screw up a lot as a mother and I love my kids more than anything. I know that someday my kids will be parents, and they’ll be screwing up too. And that will make me love them even more.