Motherhood Uncensored

Drew - The Open Mouth Series

[Fake toddler surprise 1]



[Look at my teeth 1]



[Look at my teeth 2]

[Gargle 1]

 

[Home Alone 1]

You'll always be my baby

It only took my son just under 4 months to figure out that in order to get my attention, he should act like a baby.

I shouldn't really be that surprised, since every excuse I give him always has to do with Margot.

"I can't pick you up right now. I've got the baby." or "The baby is crying. I have to go get her."

I guess I should be a little disappointed that he didn't pick up on it sooner. What a slacker. A second born, obviously. (ha!)

But then, he figured it out.

"Feed ME milk, Mommy" he said, his little pointing finger precariously close to my nipple. It wasn't the first time he asked for a nibble.

"Well, that milk is only for babies, honey," I replied.

He paused for a few seconds.

And then he fake cried.

"Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah. Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!!!!!!"

Smart ass.

At first I thought it was sort of cute, mainly because he's yet to actually pretend to be anything, except a annoyingly loud dog and a really bratty, defiant toddler. Well, that's what I tell myself when I'm chasing him to change his poop or when he's trying to take a chunk out of Quinlan's arm - "He's just pretending to be naughty. What a smart and creative boy."

Right.

But surprise! Since I thought it was sooooo cute, he does it all the time - "Wah, I'm a baby, mommy. Carry me. Hold me. Waaaaaaaaaaaaaah."

Part of me can't blame him since he really is still sort of a baby, and has had to share the latter part of toddlerdom with a baby sister. But most of me knows it's not the greatest way for him to get attention.

So I remind him that babies can't play with trucks or eat ice cream. And I try to reinforce his "big boy" behavior in an appropriate way.

Lord knows we don't need another dude getting what he wants by acting like a big old baby, right?

Redefining Motherhood

Just when I sort of kind of knew what I was doing, I had Drew. Maybe it's because he was my second child. Or maybe it's because he was my second child.

I guess I'll never really know.

I've never brushed it off as being his gender, his birth order, or the fact that I drank a few cups of coffee and a vodka tonic when I was pregnant with him. 

It was just like meeting someone new - you're taught how to say hello, shake hands, and offer them a tasty beverage, but what do you do when they speak Portuguese, perfer to slap you on the back side of the head, and drink with the cup completely upside down so everything ends up on your carpet?

It doesn't make for very smooth introductions.

I'm learning how to parent Drew just like I learned how to parent Quinlan. It's trial and error, celebrations and failures. It's opening a new book that you've never read or watching a new movie that you've never seen, and no matter how hard you try to get your friend to tell you what the hell happens, they can't.

Because they've never read or seen this one before.

I often get frustrated. It's hard not speaking the language sometimes. It's difficult to find a happy medium between head whacking and hand shaking.

We try to meet him somewhere in the middle. Most of the time, it's closer to my end of things, but I've discovered it's not so bad hopping over to his side of the fence every now and then.

He's making us read his book. And he's forcing us to watch the entire movie, even the uncomfortable parts, with the sound completely on. No heads buried under pillows.

Happy 2nd Birthday, Drew. You've certainly redefined the word "tantrum," taught me the difference between an excavator and a front loader, and offered us a new appreciation for toilet locks.

And for this I am thankful.

Here's to another year of new adventures.

I'm running a fun little contest in honor of Drew's big #2. Humor me and come play along.

Doin' the Hump

I never thought twice when I went in to get Drew out of his crib after nap time and found him crouched on his stomach with his favorite blanket balled up between his legs.

But then he started humping it.

And humping it. And humping it.

I finally asked him if he wanted to stay in bed and continue humping or if he wanted to come down for a snack (how's that for offering choices, huh?).

He chose food, but not before he fit in a few more mini humps.

I've yet to encounter the little boy erection, and the most Quinlan ever did was stick her hands down her pants while watching television.

Apparently Diego has that effect on her. Latino men do the same to me. It must be hereditary.

I'm not anti-humping or crotch grabbing (hello Mominatrix), not only because it's human and completely natural, but because growing up, the discussion of anything sex related was practically punishable by death, or really, that's what the embarrassment felt like when I was so rudely informed by my peers that oral sex was not when you talked about it. And that making a baby involved actual contact between a penis and a vagina.

It's not surprising that when I did find and figure it out (at the ripe young age of 16), I just wanted to do it over and over again.

Funny how that works.

So, we've taken a pro-humping stance in our household, so long as it's saved for bedrooms only. That caveat was added when we mistakenly allowed him to take his humping security blanket out of his crib and he decided to go at it in the middle of our family room.

"Why is he doing that?" my husband asked.

"Um, because I think it feels good, dear" I replied (and you wonder why I worry about my husband's sex drive).

But hell, if it keeps him in his crib longer in the morning and puts a smile on his face all day long, then you won't see me complaining.

C'mon, y'all. Do the Humpty Hump. If nothing else it'll make you feel ooooold as shit to listen to this.

Jaded.

"Do you think he's delayed or something?" my husband asked me after having to put Drew in time out for the third time in 30 minutes yesterday.

"Um, I think he's just a two-year-old boy on crack," I replied. "I'm not sure that warrants early intervention."

Nonetheless, Drew is quite a challenging child, particularly compared to Quinlan, and to say he was a shock to our parenting systems is an understatement.

Try taser gun to the testicles.

If we were able to take a step back from his constant motion, chattering mouth, and complete bull in china shop approach to life, we'd see a fairly typical and not that difficult two year old kid. But it just so happens that he has to follow our consummate rule following, easy to occupy and generally compliant oldest which makes him look like a little blonde rabid monkey.

And thanks to her, we've been jaded.

All the bad parenting habits we formed with Quinlan, like asking "Okay?" at the end of every directive or providing absolutely no warnings or transitions between activities are coming back to bite us in the ass.

And hard.

We find ourselves scrambling on an almost daily basis, trying desperately to not raise our voices and provide him with consistency and structure.

I'm not completely convinced that he's that much more difficult than the average 2-year-old (I've seen many a tot in my days as a teacher and therapist), but rather that we're already accustomed to dealing with angel child and therefore we look like we've never had a kid.

He breaks down instantly when not given his way or "the big one" - which is any whole piece of anything - God forbid you give him half a carrot.

He requires constant redirection and supervision, as to avoid peas up the nose, chocolate milk in his sister's eye, and what we're calling "The Christmas Miracle" - when he pulled down the entire Christmas tree while my husband was on the shitter and did not hurt himself or the baby who was sitting right next to it.

And we end up holding him down in time out naughty "zone" since we can't exactly figure out how to keep him in one actually spot.

Don't even get me started with the whole biting thing. Good god almighty.

So, the huz and I are working together to come up with a game plan. We remind each other to be patient and loving with him, even when we want to pick him up by his ankles and shake him.

And if that doesn't work, we plop ourselves in front of the television and watch Super Nanny. Because when we're feeling like complete and total failures, it's nice to know there are people out there that are waaaaaaaaaay way worse.

This is What Three Kids Looks Like on Halloween

The Mermaid, the Pirate, and the Ballerina

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Make sure to enter your Halloween photos into the Blurb and Parent Bloggers Network Halloween Photo Contest and Flickr Pool! Visit the PBN Blog for details.

Two Babies.

Since his sister started school in August, Drew has shared our alone time with a computer screen. Bedtime, after long days as a then pregnant and mostly single parent, was the only time where we were truly just mom and son, and even then I was pushing him towards the short board books and one-verse lullabies, just so I could dive into those precious few hours at night when the house was quiet and still, the only noise being the buzz of my laptop and the low drone of our television.

Even so, he still begs for me at bedtime, rushing for the "big books" and asking me to sing song after song as I hold him tightly wrapped in his favorite blanket, rocking in the pitch darkness of his room, the sound of his rain machine as my accompaniment.

I gladly pass the baby to my husband just so I can hold him for those ten long minutes, and perhaps earn back some of the time I spent what felt like seemingly wasting away his infancy and toddlerdom.

He's so big now, compared to his eight pound sister - running fast, throwing hard, and recklessly clamoring through the house like a loose cannon shot without aim, though still gentle in face and spirit. He speaks in pseudo sentences -- a few words strung together in a way that one can figure out the story he is trying to tell.

As of late, he desperately tries to find space on my lap which is otherwise occupied by a small baby. He searches for any morsel of thigh so he can plop his still diapered behind down and rest his head on me, poking and petting the baby in his own loving way. Most of time, it ends with kicks, head butts, and time outs, clearly his way of getting what little attention I can spare.

Yesterday, as I carried both him and his little sister up the stairs, his face warm from a low-grade fever and his head resting on my one available shoulder, he said "two babies."

It stung a little - these words from my sweet baby boy who's made veritable meals from the crumbs I've been able to spare him over this last year. And while I know our time together will come, when newborns aren't eating every two hours and spending the other hours nestled in a sling, it's hard not to feel a tinge of guilt.

Because when it comes down to it, he is still very much our baby.

If Only This Were How They Arrived

 

Tribond Anyone?

Home Alone

Of all the wonderful words of wisdom you well-meaning moms of two imparted on me before I had Drew, no one (no, not one of you!) told me what to expect when I sent my oldest off to school.

Hello liberation!

Okay, so that's not the only thing. But with a smarty pants four-year-old who watches tampon commercials with the same intensity as Word Girl and Super Why and stands staring at you with those big brown eyes as you try to get five solid minutes of work in, the three straight hours alone with a 20-month-old is like being released from prison.

Well, the prison that is pretend babysitter and princess dress-up and "what is water made out of, mommy," and "I was just washing Dora's hair that's how the 4 gallons of water got on the bathroom floor," and the sassy never stopping mouth.

You know, that prison.

Don't get me wrong. We're catching up on all that four-year-old goodness every afternoon when she comes home. But for those three sweet hours in the morning when it's just me, Drew, and the remote, I can't say I miss those metal bars.

Considering my son finds the trucks racing on the road behind us more entertaining than anything on television (even Sesame Street -- oh the horror!), I've caught up on my fair share of depressing morning news, Project Runway reruns, and hell, even Jerry Springer "My Husband is Sleeping With Your Husband So I Got a Sex Change."

(Okay, so maybe not the last part but the point is if I wanted to I could, damnit!).

And while I'm not sitting at my computer the entire time she's gone, my son doesn't send mommy guilt "signals" every ten minutes if I happen to get caught up in an extra compelling series of emails about bibs and baby onesies.

However, the real discovery since the start of my daughter's school career has been my son's brilliance, which apparently was being suppressed by the presence of his sister. Since she began school last week, he's started building huge block towers and connecting legos, and he's even tried to do a puzzle (A PUZZLE!) -- pretty amazing for a kid who just two weeks ago was throwing any and all of those things at my head.

I shouldn't be that surprised at his developments in the physical and verbal skill areas since individual attention tends to help those things along. And I admit that when I'm not ingesting large amounts of bad televison and non-guilt computer time, we've spent our mornings playing alone together, which is something my 2nd child and I have never really ever had a chance to do. I've even registered us for music classes so I can at least tell him I did one activity with just him -- well, at least for the next 5 weeks until the new baby arrives.

Sorry son. I tried.

My only problem is that based on the time I have to pick up his sister from school every day, he'll be taking his nice, long, over-the-lunch-hour nap during the not long enough car ride.

And while I love me some crappy television and time alone with my precious son, I really really really love that nap.