My playgroup mom friend Megan and I had a blast being pregnant together, swapping sick tales and comparing belly sizes. By the end, I was convinced that Megan - who was due two weeks after me - would have her baby first. Happy for me and my belly, Arden was born nine days before Helen. They made fast friends at playgroup last week, which wasn't hard because Helen was out like a light. (Why don't my kids ever pass out with their arms over their heads like that?)
I am constantly asked what Sawyer thinks of Arden. While I can't read his mind (sadly enough) I can attest that he seems to genuinely love her. It's amazing to me that it's just built-in like that. I mean, what has she done for him? So far, she has generally disrupted his life and constantly demanded his parents' attention. Yet, he doesn't hold it against her. He wants to be helpful. I've already mentioned how he brings me her burp clothes and pacifiers when I leave them lying carelessly about. He likes to push her in her swing, and he's very gentle about it (in a jerky, aggro sort of way). When she's crying in her room, and I seem to not be noticing, Sawyer will stand in the hall and wail - just passing the message along I guess. And, he likes to give her kisses, which is really just breathing on her really close to her face. (I cringe as he leans over her, the snot-cicle dangling from his nose).
Last weekend, she was playing on her mat and he crawled down on the floor and buried his head into her stomach. I was a little concerned at first, wondering if he was going to hurt her, and then I realized what he was doing. He was trying to get some "shuga." Belly Button Sugar. It's a high commodity in the Armstrong family. Just ask my Aunt Bonnie who used to chase my brother Ross around the house begging for "shuga." Gimme Some Shuga! she'd call, sweetness dripping from her southern accent.
The way you extract belly button sugar, in case it's not completely obvious, is with a sloppy wet zurburt directly to the stomach. Sawyer, of course, has given up more than his share of belly button sugar, and he's decided that it's his sister's turn.
Unfortunately, I didn't get the camera fast enough. This is Arden, having just given up her first dose of "shuga" to her big brother.
Sawyer's behavior has been getting increasingly worse over the past seven weeks (coincidence? i don't think so). But, it reached at all time low this week when we dropped him off at daycare. As soon as we let him go, he would run clear across the room and ATTACK the other children. They weren't taking his toys or getting in his way. He just wanted to maul them - grabbing their shirts in his fists, trying to throw them to the floor. So, I was a little relieved when he was diagnosed with a double ear infection and pneumonia on Wednesday (maybe my child really ISN'T the devil incarnate.)
I've set Sawyer up a little snack shelf in the pantry, and when he's hungry he'll toddle in there and pick himself out something to eat. It's all junk food, mind you - Goldfish, fruit chews, apple sauce, cheerios - stuff like that - no substitute for a hot breakfast or dinner. But, with Scott off this weekend on a man-cation, telemark skiing with a friend in West Virginia - Sideways meets Brokeback or something like that - I'm not feeling like fighting any big battles. (Please note what a GOOD WIFE I am - letting husband leave for weekend when toddler has pneumonia and ear infection. I want BIG bonus points.) So when he came out of the pantry with a bag of Goldfish this morning (ignoring the plate of french toast and banana I had made him for breakfast) I said, Okay. Whatever. And opened the bag for him. He walked over to his breakfast, dumped the Goldfish on the plate and THEN ate the French toast and bananas (now covered in a fine dusting of cheddar cheese) and left me with a plate full of sticky Goldfish to clean up.
Growing up, my parents often reminded me that the average American newspaper is written so that anyone with an 8th grade education can read it . . . it's all about keeping the masses informed. I doubt many eighth graders are reading the newspaper these days, and if they were to, say, pick up the Washington Post, I'm not sure how readable they would find it. But, fortunately, they can always follow along with the most exciting of events right here on my blog. My friend Maria found this website that calculates the "readability" of your website or blog. I have no idea how it works, but I had fun testing it out on a bunch of my friend's websites. Here is my result:
Just before bedtime tonight, Sawyer was hunting for a late-night snack. Half a banana seemed to be doing the trick until he discovered a Tupperware of brownies that Scott left out. I let him have one. He stuffed, actually, forcefully crammed the entire brownie into his mouth at once. I could just imagine the chocolate melding into a thick fudge-sludge toward the back of his throat, and the gooey chewing sounds were gross. He finally got it down, and I gave him a sippy cup full of cold milk. He took a big long swig and his eyes literally rolled into the back of his head. Ahhhh. There is NOTHING like washing down a mouthful of brownie with cold milk.
Check out how haggard I look!
I've been practicing getting the two kids out of the house in the morning and arriving somewhere - anywhere - on time. Today was the first day I actually succeeded, and I want a big gold star. Yesterday, I was late to a meeting, but I blame ice on the road and the Godzilla-sized temper tantrum Sawyer threw at the sitters when I dropped him off.
Ooooh - the temper is bad these days people. My good natured boy has finally showed me his other side. It's so awful and embarrassing - snatching toys from other children and throwing them across the room, screaming "NO" and breaking down on the floor in tears. The pediatrician told me that the closer they get to really communicating, the worse the tantrums will become. They understand but can't explain. It comes in small doses, but I've already tasted enough to last me for a lifetime.
Work starts for me Monday morning. These last six weeks off have done me some good. I do feel like we are just beginning to get a handle on surviving life with two kids - bath time and bedtime is like an assembly line. But, I haven't done half the projects I imagined, somehow, that I would have time for. Scrapbooks remain uncreated. Walls unpainted. Taxes unfiled. It's about all I could do to keep up with the laundry, cleaning and dishes. And, look at me, I'm haggard. Hardly looking refreshed and ready to return to the workforce. But it's like ripping off a band-aid. Best to get it over with sooner than later.
I'm not usually one to vote and tell, but I can't help myself this time. I walked into the booth for today's "Potomac Primaries" with no clue who would get my tally. I stood with my bubbles and big black marker (remember I live in the country) and did a little soul searching, right there in the polling booth, no curtain to hide my hesitation. I thought about a recent conversation I had with my most Republican friend in the world. I mean, this girl knows people in the White House. She's worked on Republican campaigns. And, the other night, at dinner, she told me she was voting for Barack Obama. (She did admit that Montessori school was possibly having a more profound affect on her than her children). That news rocked me to my core. Six months ago I was joking that I didn't know if America was ready for "Obama" when "Osama" was still on the loose. He's young and inexperienced, and I really would like to see a woman be president. But, in that soul searching moment in the booth, I had a vision of a kilted Mel Gibson grabbing Robert the Bruce in Braveheart and saying in his lusciously thck Scottish accent: "Unite us. Unite the Clans. They will follow you. I know they will." And thus I joined a shocking 63 percent of Virginians in voting for Obama. I just hope America is ready.
I am working on revising my template - although I liked the look of my old one, the layout was limiting - so you may notice some changes in the coming weeks - and some snaffus: photos being cut off or links that don't work. Hopefully, when all is said and done, the new layout will provide some fresh elements and a sharper look.
Her newborn wrinkles and b'acne are fading, soon to be remembered only by photos. Since her sole job in life, at this point, is to grow, I don't have much else to report. According to yesterday's doctor's appointment, Arden's plumping up - now weighing 9 lbs, 11 oz - she's put on more than two pounds in a month (My breasts, apparently, produce pure cream - no skim milk here.) That puts her in the 75th percentile for weight, but she's only in the 10th percentile for height. (She's only grown an eighth-of-an-inch - is that possible?) So, if her stats are right, I'm raising a beachball - soon to be as wide as she is long.
Everybody always wants to know how she's sleeping. I'm doing all the things you aren't supposed to do: letting her sleep on her tummy, letting her sleep in bed with us, letting her sleep in her swing half the night - and it's working out great. She pretty much sleeps all day still and wakes up two or three times at night (between 10 p.m. and 7 a.m.) So, I'd say we're sleeping pretty well, given the possibilities.
Really, I don't know what to do with her when she's awake. I feed her, burp her, change her, and stare at her for a few minutes and then I start to panic. If I don't DO something, she's going to start crying. So I spend the rest of her waking minutes trying to put her back to sleep. I'm not a huge newborn fan. I mean, its really sweet when they cuddle up and sleep on your chest, but that's about their only redeeming quality. They really don't look cute in clothes yet. They all have that same scrunchie look. And they don't DO anything. Thank God for the Baby Bjorn. When all else fails, I can just carry her around with me. (I would also like to take this moment to thank God for my hands free bluetooth cell phone device that Scott gave me for Christmas, which allows me to do all sorts of unheard of things while talking on the phone - like change a diaper, breast feed and pump.)
I took both kids to the doctor Wednesday by myself - double booked Sawyer's 18 month and Arden's 1 month appointments. I thought I was being clever at the time. Advice to mothers: NEVER do this.
It was February and the waiting room was packed with fever-flushed children rubbing snot all over their parents' shoulders. I am terrified of getting sick at our 'Well Baby' appointments, and the new office doesn't have a separate room for healthy children. So I held Sawyer in a death grip and prayed that we'd get called in quickly.
Getting both children naked for the weigh-in was an interesting juggling act between me and the nurse, especially as Sawyer was trying to dive off the scale and into my arms (where I was desperately trying to cover a screaming naked Arden with a blanket). And then we were sent to the examination room to wait for the doctor.
ONE HOUR LATER - she arrived.
I thought I kept things pretty under control for the first 45 minutes - Sawyer running around in nothing but socks and a diaper, playing with germ laden books and puzzles; Arden nursing quietly. But then Sawyer discovered the step stool on the examining table and decided he wanted to use it as his own personal snack table (Sawyer-sized tables and chairs are his new favorite thing - see photo above) and he just couldn't come to terms with my insistence that I hold the snack bowl (visions of cream cheese and jelly sandwich pieces spackling the walls). The screams of protest could be heard at the neighboring ophthalmologist's office.
The best part of the whole appointment - the part that will shine brightly in my memory the day Sawyer gets married - was when he figured out how to make fart sounds by zurburting the leather chair next to me while the doctor examined Arden. Our pediatrician has the driest personality I've ever encountered, and I could see her trying to proceed with the question/answer session, her eyes shifting over to the small slobber puddle Sawyer was creating on the seat. But the corner of her mouth began to twitch the more grotesque the fart sounds became. Sawyer was so completely compelled by this new discovery he didn't even look up to see our reaction. I could hardly think straight - half stifling laughs, half worried about the germs.
Both kids had to have shots. Arden is a breath holder - it took a full minute of screaming-red-anguish before she inhaled again. Sawyer tried to be brave with a trembling bottom lip and crocodile tears. How do you comfort them both? You don't. I left the office with two crying kids. Headed strait to McDonald's. Bought Sawyer a vanilla milkshake that - shock - he was covered in head to toe by the time we got home. Made Scott clean him up.
Arden is now 4 weeks old - can you believe it? - and today is my first day home alone with both kids. I have been living in a state of denial, pretending most of the time that I really only have one child because the truth is just too much to handle. So, it was a pretty crazy morning with everyone having stayed up too late watching the Superbowl and thus in fine meltdown form. By 2 pm the house was a wreck and I was too tired to do anything more productive than lay on the couch and let Arden hang off my boob while Sawyer watched CARS for the 53rd time in five days. I couldn't even motivate to take the poor children outside for a walk. But, I would like to note that it is now 4 p.m. The house is clean, I have showered and I am sitting down to write on my blog. Everybody is SLEEPING!! God Bless IT. I love naps. I may survive this parenting thing after all.
Sawyer is single-mindedly obsessed with cars and trucks. It's so stereotypical I could puke, and I swear we didn't nurture it. I gave him a doll. He threw it on its head and ran over it with his truck. He can flip through the pages of any book we own and point out every wheeled object in sight. Car. Car. Car. Even if it's a wagon or a tricycle or a tiny little car the size of a flea on the page. Car. Car. Car. I might as well rip out the useless pages that don't have a car or truck on them. He is getting better. He's added the occasional truck, train and tractor (Notice a T-rend?) to his repertoire, though I will admit its hard to explain the difference. It gets really tricky when we get into the finer points of construction vehicles - Heck, I don't even know the difference between a loader and a backhoe. My favorite it when we put the cars and trucks pajamas on and he literally can't get enough of himself. He turns in circles trying to point to every single one. Car. Car. Car. Rescue vehicles have their own special place in his heart with the added sound effects, and airplanes are awarded a whoosing noise. Mimi got him this age inappropriate collector's edition car with working doors and hood, which can entertain him for hours on end. When that gets boring we just give him the Sunday automotive section of the newspaper and that will keep him busy for a while. Oh, and Mimi got him the movie CARS. Wasn't that a fun 56 minutes: Car. Car. Car. Car. Truck, Car. Car, Car. Tire. For Pete's sake, the kid knows what a tire is, but he can't say 'Mama.'
At Sawyer's 15-month check-up, our pediatrician asked me if Sawyer was coloring yet. This, of course, threw me into a fit. I had no idea kids were supposed to be coloring at that age - I mean, wouldn't he just eat the crayons and draw all over my walls? She promised that crayons are non-toxic and totally washable and specifically recommended the jumbo crayons. "One more thing," she added, "some kids are coloring book kids and some are plain paper kids. So make sure you have both."
While still recovering from the shock of having almost missed an important developmental milestone, I headed straight to Wal-Mart and bought the jumbo crayons and a jumbo-sized coloring book - figuring the larger the paper, the less likely he would draw on the rug, the table or the floor. Actually, I couldn't wait to get home and introduce Sawyer to the wonders of doodling, one of my personal favorite pastimes. The pages of my reporter's notebooks are filled with cartoon faces, flowers and big leafy vines winding between the words. And I have many fond memories of sitting at the foot of my parents' bed at night as a child, coloring carefully and lightly inside the lines of my coloring book while my dad read aloud from Anne of Green Gables. And the big question pressing on my mind was: Will he be an in the lines our outside the lines kinda kid? Will he prefer the blank canvas or the paint by numbers?
Sawyer immediately LOVED the crayons. And the crayon box. He took the crayons out. He put them back in. He took them all out. He put them all back in. Over and over. Meanwhile, I doodled all over his coloring book. I doodled all over the plain paper. He tasted some crayon. He somehow managed to draw a blue line all the way down the hallway when I wasn't looking. And then we moved on to something else.
Several months later, the novelty of organizing the crayons in the box still hadn't worn off. So I threw the box away and started storing the crayons in a larger container. Still - he was all about the PROCESS of removing and replacing the crayons in the box. All I'd done was take away the challenge of fitting so many crayons into such a small box. I'm convinced he knows what the crayons are for. Every once in a while he'll make a move like he is going to color. He'll scribble a line or two and then decide that the other game was more fun. Turns out, he's not a plain paper kid and he's not a color book kid. He's a crayon organizer. He'll be the kid that spends the entire art class socializing by the pencil sharpener.
I guess I have to let go of my dream of wallpapering the bathroom with children's art. Arden is my only hope - if I can just nurture her angst enough, I can envision her dressed all in black in some trendy loft space, drinking coffee in the wee hours of the morning and throwing herself into her latest "piece."
