Dirty Little Secret

I like to think of myself as strong. As someone who doesn’t take any crap (at least, not since I left my first husband). I like to think of myself as the kind of person who HANDLES things.

But as I’ve read over your comments on my last few posts, I realize that that woman seems to have left the building. Why am I taking all this crap and letting these people scare me? I’m THIRTEEN WEEKS today. This is when the FUN part starts. I should be happy. Soon nausea and exhaustion will be a faint memory, my maternity pants will stay up and the threat of miscarriage is now tiny. When I got to do this date with Ironflower, I was filled with joy.

Now it seems every week there’s been a new fear, a new stress. And I resent that. This is my last pregnancy. I should be happy, not shaking because the doctors are convinced that my old age (not one of them has mentioned my being overweight already, which you’d think would make a bigger difference) is turning this pregnancy into a melodrama.

Thank you guys for being so supportive and kind about the fact that my backbone went on vacation. It’s back now (no pun intended). So I checked out midwife options, but unfortunately I don’t really have any. All the (few) midwives around here seem to be about home births, which is not an option for a c-section veteran like myself (I know some people have VBACs, but I’m not going to be one of them, trust me). So I’m going to see a new doctor in my practice next week - one that the women in my playgroup say they like. If I don’t like her, I’m going to look for a new practice. I’m also going to ask her to explain in detail why they think I need all these tests and make the decision for my ownself. (Although the idea of finding out NewBaby’s gender in just three weeks makes a compelling argument for the early anatomy scan)

I promise I’m going to try to catch up on all of your blogs this weekend. I’m sorry I’ve been such a bad bloggy friend. Oh, I’m also going to try to catch up on emails, for those of you who’ve emailed me in the past month. I promise.

So this morning my regular OB’s office calls me (the whole nuchal translucency thing was done by the high-risk pregnancy office) and asks me if I’ve scheduled my early anatomy scan with the high risk people yet.

HUH?

The office girl (you don’t think it was a nurse or a doctor who called me, do you?) says that because of the high measurement, I need to have the twenty week ultrasound done at 16 weeks, and it should be done by the specialists. I mention my normal blood tests and the fact that the genetic counselor didn’t mention this.

Office girl doesn’t have my blood tests, but she says that the OB I saw last month (whom I disliked) says I need it. Because of the nuchal measurement.

Now then, part of me says - hey, it’s another ultrasound! If NewBaby is cooperative, I could find out the sex early. But the other part of me says, if this is necessary, why didn’t the genetic counselor mention it when she mentioned the blood test I need at 16 weeks and the fetal echocardiagram I need at 20? (BTW, I am using the term “need” loosely)

I cannot express how deeply I want to go back to my doctor in Kansas City, who had a sense of humor and never freaked out. Or possibly I should try to find a mid-wife, thanks to comments on my previous post.

Any thoughts? Suggestions? Ways to soothe my nerves that don’t involve beer or Brie?

So let’s talk about something close to my heart: bars.

Before I had children, I spent a lot of my social time in bars. Bars combined some of my favorite activities; people watching, football watching, trivia playing, drinking and smoking. Just typing that makes me long for the good old days - or at least one gloomy fall day in a sports bar with my friends Mimi and Lauren, several football games, an NTN trivia board and a pitcher of beer. Or maybe a table on the patio of a brewpub, with a perfect view of all the crazy people walking through the neighborhood. Or possibly. . . .

Ahem, I seem to have gotten a bit distracted. My point was that no one loves a good bar more than I do. And yet it’s never occurred to me to bring my children to one. How I missed this stroller ban drama, I’ll never know. Apparently some bar in Brooklyn tried to ban strollers which enraged the local parents. Where else could they meet on rainy afternoons?

Uh. . . .a coffee shop? Library? Someone’s house? Restaurant? Book store?

Personally, I like to imbibe when my children are already asleep or (even better) when someone else is taking care of them. I think it’s a slippery slope when you (I) pop open “just one” bottle of wine at a playdate.

But let’s suppose that these parents have more self-control than I do, okay? I still think the idea of pushing your stroller - or carrying your Baby Bjorn - into a bar is ridiculous. We’re not talking about bar/restaurants, either. Apparently, these parents don’t think they should have to “give up their lifestyles” just because they’ve had children.

I think that’s fine to a point - if they have money for sleek, designer children’s furniture/toys/clothes, good for them. I think it’s fine if they bring well-behaved children to nice restaurants. More power to them if they want to take their toddlers to Paris. But I’ve gotta draw the line at taking your kids to Happy Hour.

What do you think?

Today I brought Ironflower to school a little bit early. I had to hang up some notices on her class’ bulletin board, responsible class mother that I am. And I had to borrow Mrs.G’s stapler to do it.

I popped my head in and asked, simply mentioning that I had to post some class mommy stuff. A few minutes later Mrs. G opened the door and gave Ironflower the warmest welcome I have ever seen. She got a hug and a comment about her cute outfit (her shirt said, “Tiaras make you taller”, and its pink matched the pink flowers on her jeans - I love that outfit). I thought to myself, hmmmmm, that’s quite a change.

Lovebug and I went about our day and then went to pick up Hubby for the school pick up. Hubby has been dying to check out the situation, as he thinks I’m being paranoid about Mrs.G’s behavior. He went to the playground to get Ironflower while I watched Lovebug sleep in his carseat.

Ironflower got a hug from Mrs.G and Hubby got lots of positive comments about her behavior. Now Hubby is convinced that I’ve been paranoid and overly critical. I’m equally convinced that Mrs.G has put Ironflower on favorite status now that she’s realized I’m a class mother and could make her class parties a living hell.

(Class parties suck for teachers and never believe for one second that they enjoy them. I once blew off a Valentine’s Day date in favor lying on a colleague’s couch with a six pack after a class party.)

I know I should feel bad that Mrs.G is getting away with playing such favorites. But more than anything I’m relieved that Ironflower is getting the affection she deserves. I can’t believe I’ve turned into one of THOSE mothers. (In my defense, though, I will say that at least I stopped Lovebug from throwing mulch at the park today, even though he was enjoying himself immensely.)

parenting

preschool

Ironflower did a FANTASTIC job getting picked up from school this week. Today she even went to the place where they line the kids up BEFORE the teacher called them to line up. When she ran up and hugged me I was so happy. But I was almost as happy when she ran into the classroom this morning, calling “Bye Mommy and Lovebug!” and going to her place for circle time. The bottom line is that she is back to being her independent, sunny self.

I still think her teacher could be a lot friendlier.

Lovebug, is still struggling. He throws tantrums over everything that doesn’t go his way. The kind of tantrums that make it sound like I am beating him with a bat or a golf club. The kind of tantrums that make people stare at us. I was starting to get concerned that there was something really wrong with him, when today I realized a few things. One is that he can talk. Not clearly, not well enough so I can understand most of it. But it’s there. “Ks” means thanks and he is upset if no one says “you’re welcome”. “I-ah-wa” means I want. Two is that he knows at least three colors so it’s no wonder he gets ticked off when I ask Ironflower what color she wants and not him. I always tell him to point and apparently he’s offended. Three is that he needs a LONG hug before being strapped into his car seat.

Recording all the things that I missed in Lovebug makes me feel like a crap mother. But he’s only 19 months old, surely he won’t remember, as long as I manage to step it up now, right?

language development

toddler behavior

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It’s official. I must be the worst mother on the planet.

I took the children to the park this morning. I took them to what I thought was their favorite park. I took them early so we would have lots of time to play before lunch. Sure, some of it was guilt over the hard time Ironflower had staying over at her grandparents’ Saturday night. After being put to bed, she started to freak out. She wanted to go home. She kept my mother up until four am.

I felt bad, of course (though secretly relieved that my mom hadn’t called us to come get her in the middle of the night). I let her sleep extra at nap time yesterday and put her to bed early last night. Hubby talked to her about it. I thought everything was okay.

At the park today, it was apparent that she was still tired. She flung sand with her shovel. She’s done that before when she’s been ticked off. I got her to stop. Lovebug, for the first time ever (and completely independent of his sister), also did some sand flinging. He had to be removed from the sandbox.

We hadn’t been there for very long when Lovebug started trying to escape. The little boy who threw tantrums over leaving the park now wanted to leave. Ironflower didn’t. Until a seventeenth month old knocked her almost three year old self over. The little boy didn’t mean to and it’s not like Ironflower hasn’t been through it a thousand time with Lovebug. But today it caused hysteria.

When I gave up and decided to take them home, they both wailed all the way to the car - Ironflower because I wasn’t carrying her and Lovebug because I made him hold hands in the parking lot.

The day has not gotten better. We have had more tantrums and time-outs TODAY than we have had in the past MONTH. Lunch and snack turned into battles of will. Playtime was filled with grabbing and screaming. Despite the extra nap time they have both been just awful.

I keep telling myself that they’re just tired (although there’s no reason for Lovebug to be). I keep telling myself that they’re both very spirited. I keep telling myself that Lovebug will be really talking within the year. I keep telling myself that passion is a good quality. I keep telling myself that they must feel very secure with me to behave so atrociously with me and not other people.

But (much like my children) I am not a very good listener. I feel like the worst mother in the world. Well, except for Britney Spears.

Hubby (who is with them now, Thank GOD) is going out of town tomorrow. Tomorrow has got to be a better day, right? But if it’s not, how bad would be to let them watch Noggin for twelve hours straight while feeding them M&M’s and Cheetos? I know they wouldn’t protest, whine or throw tantrums about that.

tantrums
parenting

Lovebug stopped nursing in June. When he was fifteen months old. I shouldn’t say “stopped”, I should say “was weaned off the boob more carefully than the average heroin addict going into rehab”. Nonetheless, Lovebug is no longer nursing. In the last four months, I’ve had three nights without my children (yes, those are the only nights ever). They have spent the night with their grandparents. I have gotten drunk and slept late.

Except for last night. Because night off #3 was not for a special occasion, other than that of the Jerseygirl-is-going-insane variety. What last night was really about, in fact, was this morning. Last night was nice because we ate dinner while watching Ugly Betty and I didn’t eat any vegetables. Or anything that would set a good example for my children.

But today was even better because I slept until after 9am. Then I just made one breakfast (Hubby’s ability to sleep late is legendary, I will have to wake him to go to grandma and grandpa’s) and read Time magazine while I ate it. Now I’m blogging with no interruptions (you’d think this would be a better blog, wouldn’t you?).

I wonder if I could convince my parents to take them EVERY Saturday?

The kids have just finished their dessert. (Hey, if an after dinner cookie will inspire my kids to eat some veggies, I say Goddess bless cookies). As I was cleaning Lovebug, I starting doing some cooing. He just looked so cute with the chocolate chips smeared over his face.

Me: Are you my chocolate baby? Are you just as yummy as chocolate?

Lovebug: Out! Out!

Ironflower: Hey mommy!

Me (lifting Lovebug out of the chair): Oh, Ironflower, are you my chocolate girl?

Ironflower: No, I’m a CHOCOLATE PRINCESS! And Lovebug is a chocolate prince. You should know that.

Me: Sorry, kid. I forgot.

When does this princess fetish go from being cute to being obnoxious?

chocolate

kidisms

As I may have mentioned (here and to every other mother I’ve talked to in the past two weeks) Ironflower has been having a hard time leaving school. In fact, she has behaved better receiving shots than she has leaving school lately. On Tuesday, even though I made sure to drive around a bit so that Lovebug would fall asleep and thus stay in the car and I brought her juice, when I got to the playground Ironflower reacted the same old way. She screamed “No!” at the sight of me.

I did try not to take it personally. I really did. But I still cried on the way home. Though not as much as last time. I couldn’t help it. This resulted in her receiving a rather stern talking to from a sympathetic Hubby. And a suggestion for how to react when school is over and Mommy comes to pick her up. But I didn’t think it would help enough. So when I put her to bed that night (after I had calmed down considerably), I decided to really talk to her about it. Calmly, like you’re supposed to. She couldn’t verbalize her feelings, but I did find out (for sure) that it wasn’t about me, it WAS that she liked school. So I told her a story about some of her favorite characters that included the whole situation.

And then Shrek, of course, learned to act the way I wished Ironflower would. And they lived happily ever after. I told her the same story Wednesday night. And reminded her of it in the car this morning. Just in conversation, of course. All natural-like. (Thank the Goddess that pre-schoolers thrive on repetitive conversations)

And today, when Ironflower saw me and her teacher began sending kids out of the gate, she smiled and ran to me and gave me a big hug. And I only feel slightly guilty about manipulating her to do so.

parenting

preschool behavior

I try not to be a judgmental cow. I know that for every person I judge it’s going to come back at me tenfold. I know that when I judge other people, I’m only learning how to be harder on myself. I know that I’m not even in the same solar system as perfect. But once in a while I forget.

Lovebug and I had an exciting day while Ironflower was at school. First, we met the oldest child I have ever seen with a pacifier. She tried to take the swing Lovebug was standing by as he waited for me to catch up and put him in. The girl was coaxed away by her mother, but I couldn’t help but notice the large purple thing stuck in her mouth. She pushed it to the side of her mouth when she spoke, like a smoking waitress in a dive bar. Her mother told me that she would be five soon. Now, I’m all about comforting objects, but does an almost five year old need a pacifier while playing at the park?

As I followed Lovebug around the playground, I began to understand why the moms in the cute shoes congregate at the benches. I wore semi-cute black leather woven sandals with (small) heels today. The atmosphere at the preschool must be getting to me. Anyway, as I played with Lovebug, I got so much mulch stuck in my shoes I might as well have been barefoot. And I had to take them off to climb. It was almost dangerous. No wonder those women sit on the benches and let their kids run wild. How could they possible move around without getting mulch stuck in their Jimmy Choo’s?

Next we went to the grocery store. I parked in one of the “mothers with infants” spots. I felt a bit guilty, but they were all open and Lovebug is a lot more unwieldy than an infant. Since he usually has to be carried in a parking lot and since carrying him and pushing a grocery cart is a challenge, I didn’t feel too bad. I felt even better as I loaded up the groceries and a big, black SUV pulled up next to us. In another “mothers with infants” spot. (For the record, I think it should say “parents with infants” )A man and his daughter got out. I don’t know how old she was, but since she managed to open her own door and look both ways before entering the parking lot I’m going to guess far older than Lovebug’s eighteen months. Apparently the laws that protect handicapped spots don’t apply to infant spots. I wonder why not?

Anyone else got any snotty comments to report? Anyone think I’m being especially bitchy, or am I justified?

parenting