Morning with Deuce

The small moments I will forget, if I don't record them.


Scene: the boys' bedroom, in the morning, while Peanut is in school. Spring is entertaining herself by alternately pulling up on the window blinds and pulling books off the shelves. Mom is tidying up: making beds, tossing a few scattered Legos and matchbox cars into the toy basket.  Deuce drops his toy plane anxiously.

Deuce: "My cars! No, mama. My cars."

Mom: "It's OK. I'm just picking up the ones you aren't playing with. You can get them from the basket."

Deuce: (retrieves a few) "Where's Doc? Where's Mater?"

Mom: (locates them in Deuce's bed, under the blankets, where they apparently spent the night.) "Here they are."

Deuce: "Mama, play Doc. Talk, Mama."

Mom: (sighs, looks hopefully forward to playing dolls with Spring) "Ok."

(Part of Doc played by Mom. Mater and generic Monster Truck played by Deuce.)

Doc: "Hi, Monster Truck."

MT: "No, I tractor."

Doc: "You're a monster truck."

MT: "NO. I TRACTOR."
.
Doc: "Ok, whatever you say."


(Monster Truck, nevertheless displaying his true identity, attempts to drive over Doc and Mater.)

Doc: "Hey! Ow! Don't drive over me!"

MT: (giggles)

Doc: "Hey Mater. So...tipped any tractors lately?"

Mater: "vrooom. vroooooooooooooooom."

Doc: "Hey, everybody. Let's go to Flo's and have something to drink."

MT and Mater: "Yeah. Wess getsome appuh juice. Tum on! Over here!"

(cars congregate at specific area on carpet and slurp noisily. The juice apparently goes to the heads of MT and Mater, who chatter high-pitched gibberish. Doc suspends animation while Mom thinks about which laundry hamper to work on today.)

Deuce: "Mama! Talk!"

Doc: "I know. Let's read a book."

Monster Truck: "Wess wead dagon book!"

Doc: "Ok. The dragon book. Let's get in the story box."

(The story box is a large cardboard box turned on its side and lined with pillows. Deuce sits inside it, and Mom manages to get her head and upper torso in. The cars insist on sitting on Mom's stomach where they can see the pictures. We get through three pages of Ignis before being interrupted.)

Mater: "Hey Doc! Wook at dat!" (Deuce points to pic of dragons dancing around a bonfire.)

Doc: "Wow. Isn't that something?"

Deuce (role indeterminate): "Wess wead Widdle Engine dat Could!"

Mom: "Ok, you get it."

(Deuce goes to bookshelf, comes back with a Thomas book instead.)

Deuce: "Here! Wess wead DIS one!"

(The cars drive all over the cover.)

Mom: "Let's open it up. Then they can ride on the track."

(The book, a pop-up, is falling apart at every seam. The cars insist on driving on the page in the worst condition of all, where Harold the helicopter once stood upright and now lies listlessly to one side, propeller askew. Deuce tries numerous times to stand him back up.)

Deuce: "He's bwoken."

Mom: "Yep. Here, let's drive the cars on the track."

(Spring enters the box now, attracted by the book, and tears a piece off the propeller, blessedly unnoticed by Deuce. Re-direction success! She then crawls bodily over the book to get to Mom's head.)

Deuce: "(Spriiiiiiiing)! No! Mama, WOOK AT (SPRING)!!!!"

(Mom removes Spring from book, lays book on floor, where cars attack it determinedly. With Deuce thus distracted, Mom escapes to laundry room, and gets almost two loads of towels folded before the shrieks begin. Deuce enters room, noisily distraught.)

Mom: "You know what? Let's watch a movie!"

(Richard Scarry saves the next 30 minutes. Mom refuses to feel guilty, finishes folding laundry, puts Spring to bed, and updates neglected blog.)

Deuce: (climbs into Mom's lap when video ends) "Want some Mommy nuk."

Mom: "What do you say?"

Deuce: "Want some Mommy nuk, pease."

(Fade out.)

(Fin.)

Preschool Peanut

Peanut is a preschooler!

Our state offers free preschool through public schools and various private schools who meet the requirements. We are still deciding what to do about "real" school next year, whether homeschooling or charter or what, but meanwhile it seemed wise to have him prepared for the possibility of traditional schooling in a classroom setting. And, I won't lie, there was some appeal to the idea of having him out of my hair for three hours a day. The house begins to feel very small with two boys tearing through it all day long.

After a first week in which it was clear he was having to adjust to the novelty and schedule, Peanut has blossomed in ways I would not have believed. It's a montessori program, with a director who, from what I've seen, has high expectations and a no-nonsense policy. Though there is plenty of playtime, there is also actual "work" taking place, and the effects are showing up at home.

Peanut has always behaved as though he is allergic to paper and crayons. I had long since given up trying to get him to draw or color alongside me as it invariably turned into a battle of wills. His sunday school pages were mere scrawls, usually in one color only, and without any indication that he understood that the color was meant to be applied to the figures on the page instead of just at random. "Drawing" was nonexistent. The more I encouraged him to try making a mark - any mark - the more recalcitrant he grew, with a steadfastness that continues to mystify me. He seems to rebel against anything I am eager for him to experience, and the more excited about it I am, the less he is.

For an artist parent, it could not be more discouraging.

The first Saturday after school began, Peanut picked up some sidewalk chalk on the back porch, and began drawing bugs all over the concrete floor. He called me over and proudly showed me a series of large circles, filled with smaller circular spots, and bearing many legs. "Ladybugs," he explained. "And spiders."

I called MRB over and we both enthused effusively. Peanut beamed.

Since then he has spent many minutes drawing in the playroom, using markers and crayons on construction paper. More bugs, sunflowers, sunshine - and, with my assistance, butterflies, cars, robots and birds.

It is both encouraging and frustrating to see how well he is doing. That the abilities are there, waiting to be coaxed out, and that they come out so quickly under a teacher's guidance - this thrills me. And  yet - why was I not able to coax them out myself? Why does he fight me, refuse my help, push back my suggestions? There are so many things about homeschooling that are appealing - but if he will not learn from me, whatever the reason, it's impossible. And it makes my heart ache, but I realize I may have to let go of my dreams of learning alongside him, of being the guide as he explores the wonders of the world. My job is to give him what he needs, and if what he needs is an authority other than myself to govern his education - so be it.

But meanwhile, we have this year. And I have a little boy who, at last, will draw with me.

For now, that's enough.

 "Robot and Chick" by Peanut, age 4.

The Daygown

Having three children under five has made it difficult to blog much.

Who could have seen that coming?

In fact, it has been difficult to do much of anything not directly related to kids, housework, or (more commonly) both at the same time. But I try to stay productive, and have some project near-to-hand for those odd moments of leisure that crop up, a few minutes at a time. We've joined the YMCA, and I utilize their childcare to steal a few hours a week. I daresay I am the only member that wraps up a workout with an hour by the pool, handsewing.

Also, Spring is a thumbsucker, which makes her an amazing sleeper. If I'd known how effective it was, I'd have put chocolate syrup, or something, on the boys' thumbs in their infancy. Anyway - this gives me at least an hour or so every evening after all the littles are in bed.

Having fallen in love with the daygown mentioned in the previous post, I wanted to try my hand at making another, in hopes to carry on an heirloom tradition. So I decided to try out the pattern and lessons at Jeannie Beumeister's blog The Old-Fashioned Baby, which I've followed for a while. Spring's room and much of her clothing fall into the "shabby chic" style, and Jeannie's blog gives me great ideas for further froo-froo of that nature. Plus her photos and Southern Lady charm make me long exquisitely for my native Baton Rouge.

Here is Spring, in her newly finished handsewn daygown:

She has found effective ways of avoiding the paparazzi:

I absolutely adored doing this. Having a bit of a love/hate relationship with my sewing machine, I was both anxious and eager about handsewing, but it turned out to be easier than I expected, and a very relaxing, soothing, almost zen-like activity. Any slow process seems to slow thought, and my frenetically-paced days suddenly slipped into a meditative stream when I picked this up.

Of course, this also meant it took a long time to finish, even disregarding my lack of experience. Each of the seven lessons were only supposed to take an hour; I probably took more like three or four with some of them.

The whole project was nearly derailed when Deuce (now an eager and exploratory two-year-old) found my work foolishly left out somewhere in his reach, and decided to experiment with Mommy's scissors. The damage he did was mostly in an area that would become seam allowance. I had to fudge it, and make a larger allowance than was called for. I am still upset about this, as it renders imperfect a garment that otherwise was working up flawlessly, and it was too late in the game to start over (I was on lesson six at that point.) MRB says it gives the dress character and a "story". A man's answer! However, the alteration is minor enough that nobody will ever notice but me...I'm not entering this into any contests.

There was embroidery involved:

 Note: working on embroidery at the YMCA is a fantastic conversation starter with women, particularly with grandmotherly types, many of whom, it turns out, used to do it.

The entire thing took me almost four months. Spring is now wearing 6-9 month sizes, and I was terribly afraid that she would not fit into this by the time I finished it. I'm afraid my final work was rather rushed, and the stitches at the hem pucker a little. But overall, I am pleased, and I hope to do more things like this.

Maybe I'll learn smocking next! Then I can finish the next project by the time she's four!

And yes, I am enjoying having a girl. Need you even ask?

Spring has come.

Spring in the south may not hold quite the symbolic renewal it does in the North. There's no heraldic return of the first bird, no breathless waiting for snow to melt. Many of our trees melt from green to green as new growth pushes out the old. Our winters aren't harsh or long enough to make us truly miss the hot weather and wish for its return.

But the season does have its own glories here. Azaleas, riotous colors in February. Crape Myrtles, lifting their tiers of flowers like girls in ridiculously frilled skirts, lining every road. Honeysuckle and roses, magnolias and camellias. And Easter. I suppose it's not quite the same for those below the equator, but I do find it appropriate that for us, at least, the Resurrection is celebrated at a time of rebirth and renewal.

Speaking of birth...

 

She arrived on April 4, a successful induction and a peaceful, healing birth. Her name, loosely translated, means "spark unto a new day", a symbolic name for an April baby whose birthday will always fall close to Easter. We hadn't considered this when we were choosing it, but I am pleased to take it as confirmation that we chose well.

At 10 lbs 5 oz, she will have little need for the newborn clothes everyone gave me against my advice, but I am pleased to show that she fits perfectly into the family heirloom daygown my mother passed on to me during her visit. This handmade gown was gifted to my grandmother upon my mom's birth, probably worn by most of her siblings, and then wrapped me and my sister. It is now on its third generation.

I want a dozen more. Gowns, not babies. Although the newborn smell is an addictive drug, this is my last fix. I'm trying to make the most of it.

In accordance with my policy of No Real Names on this blog, she will be hereafter be known here as Spring.

Which may become my favorite season.

Strangely Familiar

They say the definition of insanity is when you do the same thing over and over and expect to get a different result.

So what do they call it when you do the polar opposite and still get the same result?

Whatever they call it, I'm it. Finding a new pregnancy care provider was evidently a waste of my time and energy. My doctor is turning out to be as induction-shy as my midwives ever thought of being, although probably for completely different motives. The result is the same. I am still pregnant.

The irony is breathtaking. Disillusioned with the natural birth philosophy, whose ancient wisdom my body steadfastly flouts, I decided to save myself the misery and anxiety of a post-term pregnancy by defecting to "the enemy" - the dreaded obstetrician, wielding his pitocin and his scalpel. Lo and behold, I wound up with apparently the only OB in existence who does not believe in inducing without a "medical" reason. A history of complicated labors and overly large babies doesn't seem to be enough. Nor does a scan showing a rapidly-calcifying placenta. I'm not sure, at this point, what WOULD be a good enough reason that wasn't, on its own, serious enough to warrant an immediate c-section.

He pontificates, hems and haws. I'm not dilating. The baby is too high. She's posterior. I know all these things. I also know they are not likely to change, which means the only thing gained by waiting another week is another pound, by the baby.

Today my scheduled appointment, which I had hoped would show enough progress to admit me, was canceled due to massive thunderstorms that knocked out power to the office complex. So even God didn't want me to be induced today. I get it.

Tomorrow morning I go back in. My guess is the dr. will refuse it again, on the grounds that he is not on-call this weekend.

I might as well have stayed with the midwives.

Goodbye, March. I had such high hopes for you.

Because I can't sleep

I am up at 4 a.m., thanks to a lingering cold complete with aching throat, clogged ears, and nagging cough that rears its head every time I lie down. Since sleep eludes, I may as well do what the kids don't give me time for during their waking hours - write a little.

Doesn't help that their waking hours have been so angst-filled lately. The viral nuisance plaguing me at present hit them first, beginning with Peanut two weeks ago, and though symptoms were quick to dissolve, their energy levels are still low. Peanut has been voluntarily napping every day, something he hasn't done for months and often without any warning - I simply realize suddenly that I haven't seen him for a while, and a quick search reveals a shock of curly hair or underoo-clad rear end peeking out from underneath a pile of pillows on my bed. On Saturday MRB had a panicked hunt while I was running errands, and found that he had squeezed himself into a nest formed by stuffing a sleeping bag into the top of the Little Tykes playset in the playroom, out cold. Oh, for the days when sleep was so easily achieved!

Deuce's convalescence has been much less pleasant. His happy moments have become short and far between - an hour or two, perhaps, of perkiness, sandwiched between long episodes of being my constant, miserably vocal shadow. He steadfastly resists distraction, and wants only to be held and to nurse - both of which are difficult for me at this point in pregnancy and preclude any possibility of doing anything useful. I could possibly have more sympathy for him were he still exhibiting symptoms of illness, but my general tendency to give my kids the benefit of the doubt when they cry is wearing thin when I have so few reserves myself. Fortunately he is sleeping well tonight, for the first time in the last 72 hours. UNfortunately how well he sleeps seems to have no correlation to his mood upon waking, so I cannot necessarily hope for an easy morning. I want my happy baby back.

Pregnancy is swinging along, par for the course in my usual fashion - measuring large, and fielding strangers' inquiries about whether I'm due "any day now" with somewhat less humor than I've had in the past. My OB is beginning to be squirrely about induction, chirping cheerily that he has no problem doing it at forty weeks "if my cervix is favorable". Since a favorable 40-week cervix would not be in any universe consistent with my history, this does not please me, although I suppose it should, indicating as it does a doctor with a more-or-less hands-off approach, which would have thrilled me in previous pregnancies. When I press him for a hard-and-fast deadline he says only that he "doesn't like" going past 41 weeks, but "as long as my fluid levels are good..." None of which is reassuring. He keeps telling me, with irritating smug confidence, that he has tricks to get things going on time; he is clearly unacquainted with my uterus. I think I can safely predict an April birthdate at this point, though nobody would be happier than I to be proven wrong.

Well, being upright for a while has allowed my head to drain; I suppose it is time for another Vick's-reeking, toss-and-turn session on the couch - my current abode, as it allows me to prop myself up at a better angle than in bed. Also because MRB's defining symptom of the viral beast is to snore all night long.

Jackpot!

Regarding my previous comments on the prevalence of pink in girl clothing...

I realized a few days later that it isn't pink I object to (although the particular shade of bubblegum that makes up the vast majority of baby girl stuff is still obnoxious to me), but the styles of clothing available.

I'm not sure why I expected differently; it isn't as though the girl section in any store isn't prominently on display, showing off its wares in a way that felt stingingly in-your-face back when I had no girl to dress. I guess I just never imagined trying to dress my own daughter, to spare myself that sense of loss, so I never realized that when the day came when I was free to do so, what I imagined and what was actually available would be many worlds apart.

My overall impression is that baby clothes fall into two categories. The practical: lots of knit - the modern baby basics of onesies and sleepers. In style they are gender neutral, thus the overwhelming pinkness to differentiate the girl items from the boys. Then there's the fashionable, which seems to be miniature versions of what teenage girls are wearing - flared-leg jeans, spaghetti-strapped tops, embellished T's, all in various vivid colors, with hot pink predominating.

I want my little girl to LOOK like a little girl. Not like a miniature thirteen-year-old. And herein lay my dilemma; apparently my version of what looks "little girly" is a few decades behind the times.

I'm not sure on what to blame that, but I'm not apologizing for it.

We were in Georgia for the holidays. My sister-in-law lives just outside a very tiny town in the middle of nowheresville, very picturesque and full of antique malls, several of which we visited. I stocked up on a few baby items that were more to my taste, but remained subconsciously frustrated over the lack of what I REALLY wanted.

Until our last day. When we visited a wee shop squeezed claustrophobically into an ancient row of buildings on the main drag through the village, whose sign - Dolls and Stuff - had caught my eye a few times in the previous days. We had tried going the day after Christmas; it was closed. In hindsight, this was terribly unfortunate, because if I had seen it before visiting all the other places, I would never have needed to go anywhere else.

I was in love the second we stepped in the shop, just over the dolls. I adore dolls. Never have collected, simply because I know it's a hobby I can't afford, but I could drool over them all day long. This tiny place was stacked, wall to wall, with collector-quality vinyl dolls of every size and type imaginable; I'd estimate there were at least five hundred. Many of them were life-sized, from newborns up to those about the size of six-year-olds. Limited editions, masterpieces. Dolls that made the American Girl brand look like cheap knock-offs. It took me half an hour just to leave the front room, figuring there couldn't really be that much more than what I'd already seen.

But it was one of these very old buildings that keep going and going, rounding corners and surprising you with little nooks and corners until you wonder where it ends. The second room had racks of clothing; ostensibly for the dolls, but the clothes were real clothes and O JOY CHRISTMAS CAME A SECOND TIME. Row upon row of crisp cotton batiste, smocked yokes, eyelet lace, sprigged florals floated before my eyes. I danced around the store as MRB laughed at me and kept the boys from wreaking havoc. I swept armfuls of pink and blue and yellow into piles and sorted through them, reluctantly putting back the higher-priced items and relentlessly weeding out until I narrowed myself down to five, because I was afraid, after all I'd gotten the previous week, of overdoing it.

 Each of the final cut was less than $10.

I have been gloating over them like Gollum over the Ring for the last week, but realized upon getting home that I didn't actually buy as much as I thought I had, and regretted putting back the last two or three that didn't make the finalists. We're going back in July for a family reunion, and I will be stocking up on a few more then - particularly in larger sizes, as these seem to be all in the 6-9 month range or so. (Hard to tell; most of them are not marked.)

Finally, I feel excited about dressing my little girl. And if she turns out to be a tomboy and refuses to wear such things as she gets older, I'll at least have enjoyed her first year.