Scary Dreams

Dear Drake,

Right now, while you are four years and four months old, you are crawling into bed with us almost every night. Anywhere from about an hour after your Dad and I go to sleep, to 15 minutes before we have to get up in the morning. Sometimes I hear you wake up, obviously sad or scared from some unpleasant dream and sleepily welcome you into my arms when you show up at the foot of our bed. Other times, I roll over in the night and discover your small body sleeping next to me since who knows when. As squishy as it can be, and as much as I do not like your feet in my face, as you are known to do, I love it. I love how much you love to cuddle, and will be profoundly sad when the day comes that you decide you have outgrown it.

A couple of nights ago, Dad was away for work. You came into bed with me almost immediately. I don't think I had even fallen asleep when I heard you crying upstairs. I came up and found you wandering around the kitchen, half asleep and whimpering. I scooped you up, you wrapping your long limbs around me and resting your head on my shoulder, and carried you down to my bed. I think we both sleep better together, which might have something to do with the 14 months you spent sleeping in our bed after you were born. We cuddled straight through the night.

Somewhere around 5 in the morning, you woke us up with a scream that peeled through the dark room. The kind of gut wrenching wail that tears a person out of some terrifying nightmare. "NoooOOOOOOOOO!!!!" you screamed. "NO CHEESE IN MY QUESADILLA!"

It still makes me giggle. I am sorry you were scared, but good grief, Son. That is what scares you most?! Food. Our biggest struggle with you. The never-ending, completely nonsensical battle. You love tortillas. You love cheese. But how dare someone put cheese in your tortilla! Silly boy.

I related the story to Daddy, and he laughed, of course. As we chuckled together, it occurred to me that you really ARE the product of our marriage. Your Dad and I, we were meant for each other. We are best friends, and each other's perfect counterpoints. He keeps me steady, and I keep him dreaming. We support each  other. We make each other laugh. We communicate patiently. I'm telling you this to try to make your understand that your Dad and I are very well matched - in all ways but one: food.

I'm the hippie who wants everything to be non-GMO, organic, whole grain, pasture fed, locally raised, whole foods. I believe just about every issue we have with our bodies can be addressed by what we put into it, and that processed foods are the root of all evil. I was a vegan when I met your Dad. Your Dad, most decidedly, was not. The joke is that he is my Southern boy who likes fried chicken. The truth is something a little less stereotypical than that - for both of us -  but is certainly marked enough that it was the subject of much teasing from our friends when we first got together. "That will be the only thing they ever fight about," friends would say with laughing eyes, as your Dad joked about wanting to fry a Twinkie and I freaked out a little. And then we got married, and we made you, and here you are: a funny, sweet boy, a good communicator, a loving member of our family with whom our only fight is food.

Funny how life works.

I do hope to be able to teach you healthy habits and that you carry into your life a strong understanding of the way to nourish your body. In the meantime, I'm going to do my best to remember that this is the dynamic I created, and deliver my admonitions with laughing eyes.

I love you young man. I can't wait to cuddle you again tonight. I hope your dreams are full of grapes with no seeds and apples that have had every molecule of peel removed and absolutely no brown spots and that your cheese is safely separate from your tortilla.

Kisses,
Mom

What's in a Cry? {All Parents are Bi-Lingual}

It's 5:34 a.m. and the cry peels through the monitor. After nearly two years of the midnight call, I don't exactly startle out of bed. I slowly blink away sleep, but my body weighs heavy on my mattress. I lay there for a moment listening to the sound of my crying son and then whisper, "Baby? What do I do?"
It's decision making time.
You see, my son has essentially two different midnight cries. One sounds like, "WAAAAaaa..AAAaaaahh.... WAaaahh...... waaah.... wa......," which translates roughly to, "HEY! I woke up alone! I guess that's normal, but I don't really like it.... Mom?... Hello?... ZZzzzzzzzzzzzz." The second type of cry sounds more like, "WaaaaEEEHHHH! WaEH! WA! WA! WaaaaaEEEHHHH!" and means essentially, "Something is wrong! (Examples: "My teeth hurt!" or "I'm cold!") And I'm not going back to sleep until it's fixed!"
It is up to us, The Toddler Translation Division - otherwise known as "parents" - to decipher the sounds and proceed accordingly. Is he in pain or just protesting? Should we give it a moment or go check on him? He may fall back asleep... Should we try a bottle? Does he need medicine?
And then there are nights like last night, which present their own unique challenge. Our toddler may choose to practice his range of expressive abilities, resulting in something like this: "WAAAAaaaa....... WaEH!... WAAaaaaa... WAAaaaa... WaEH! WaEH!" Our best intelligence at this point understands this to mean, "I woke up alone! Oh, and my teeth hurt, now that I think about it. OWIE! But I am really tired... maybe I'll go back to sleep... NO! This hurts!! I don't like it! FIX. IT. NOW!! But I am really tired...."
In such a case, choosing the proper course of action becomes a matter of blind chance. Was that "tired"...? or "wired"...? If you take the time to fumble around for your pajamas, stumble upstairs and prepare a bottle, he very well may have chosen sleep by the time you reach his door. If, on the other hand, you choose to let him sort it out on his own, this could last all night. In which case, no one is getting any sleep. It's roulette. 50/50. Red or black. Dumb luck.
Last night, I chose to fumble and stumble. I bet a trip upstairs and ten minutes in the rocking chair that my son really did want to sleep. I won. The payout: me and my bed for three more hours.
Being bi-lingual is good, but being lucky is awesome.
That was two nights ago. In the small hours of this morning, my husband was not so lucky. Sorry, honey.

Everybody Needs a Break

My brother got married two weeks ago today. Crazy.
But that's not really what this post is about. (Though I should tell you about it! It was epic.) It's about the break we took on our drive out to Oregon for the wedding.
My son really did a fabulous job on our 13 hour road trip. Very few complaints. But at one point in the afternoon, you could tell how desperately he wanted out of that chair and to move around. Honestly, don't we all on road trips? We adults just suffer through, but a baby in the car means everyone gets what they want because the baby was smart enough to insist on it.
We spotted a park along the river in Kennewick, WA and it seemed like a good place to stop and stretch our legs. In fact, it was the perfect place to stop. It had one of those little water parks intended for smaller kids. A pad of concrete and a few fountains is all it takes to entertain a toddler.
I wasn't sure if Drake would be interested - he's been a little wary of water at times, and it did take him a while to warm up to it - but it wasn't long before he was sopping wet and happy.
Baba was the only one who could convince him to leave. He sure loves his Baba.
Afterwards, Drake decided it was his turn to drive.

these are the moments...

Our poor, sweet boy woke up sad this morning. He's been teething again, and I think the discomfort woke him up before he was actually ready to be done sleeping. Sleepy and sad, he needed some cuddles. I was, of course, happy to oblige. I scooped him up with his blanket and his Lovey and joined Daddy on the couch. Daddy wrapped his arm around us both and said, "Good morning, family."
There it was, Emily. The moment to hold on to. Moments that will be gone before I know it. Moments with a sweet, chubby little boy in a diaper. Moments in the quiet morning with just Mommy and Daddy and Drake. Moments when life feels complete and perfect.
Five minutes later, his diaper rode up without me realizing and he peed all over me and the couch.

My Funny Valentine

My sweet boy in his Valentine's Day gift from me - King of Mom's Heart they say - oh Lord, I couldn't resist.

Valentine's Day was extremely casual this year - we had no plans and no gifts. In fact, I was in Helena for the official day and didn't get home until 1pm the next day. We had decided we would celebrate on Friday but my only plan was to make something delicious for dinner, followed by some manner of chocolate. On my drive home, however, Montana was so incredibly gorgeous - just a fabulously, unseasonably sunny day - that I was inspired to go on an adventure. A few years ago, a day like that would have found Justin and I traipsing up a mountain or driving some windy country road with the top down in my old VW Cabby *sniff, sniff* But, alas, we have a 14 month old and a Toyota Corolla. So these days an "adventure" is a trip downtown with the stroller. Snarkiness aside: that can lead to a pretty awesome day, as it did last Friday.

Our first stop was a swanky little spot called Plonk. We have been going there on special occasions since before we were married, but this year we showed up during the quiet early afternoon hours, in our jeans and {accidentally matching} flannels, pushing a binky-sucking baby boy. That, however, did not make it feel any less special to me. I had a drink! Like, an adult drink. That's a big deal for me. The stay-at-home-mommy gig does not exactly lend itself to cocktail hour. We had these amazing appetizers that had me doing little dances with every bite. And the cocktail: a Cucumber Cilantro Gimlet. Oh holy yum. If you know me very well at all, you don't need me to say that - from that one little cocktail - I got tipsy, but I'm gonna say it here anyway just to set the stage. Because now we have come to the point of my Valentine's Day story.

From Plonk, we took Drake into a small toy store, where we may have had more fun than he did. And then we stopped into my favorite little cosmetics and skin care boutique. We walked into the small shop and were greeted by a big, beautiful German Shephard. "Oh, hello Handsome!" I said, bending down slightly to scratch the big dog's chin. I'm a sucker for a big lover dog.

The very sweet store owner walks up to us and says, "Anderson, leave them alone."

"Oh, he's ok! He's a good looking boy!" I say. Just then, a second dog runs up to me, this one small and scruffy. No, not just scruffy - mangy. See, I don't find many small dogs attractive. They can't have long, narrow faces, but they can't have smooshed faces, either. No buggy eyes, no bull dog underbite. Not too poodle-y, and definitely no weiner dogs. No shaking, no yapping, no frills. Pretty much, they have to look like this or this for me to think they are cute. But I really do love all animals. It's not their fault they're ugly. So I say to the dog, "Well, hello to you too, you scruffy little thing," scratching the top of his head and doing my tipsy-best to be polite.

"Bridgette, he needs another hair cut," says the owner over her shoulder to an employee, trying simultaneously - I would assume - not to be offended and to imply, "He doesn't always look so bad."

Not to be misunderstood, I decide to follow with, "He's so ugly, he's cute." Really. I said that. Yikes.

"Bridgette cut his little beard before but he's in need of another one," she tries again. She really is so sweet, she is earnestly trying to stay professional and let me off of the hook for my insults. But I continue. Surely she is simply misunderstanding me.

"My mom has a dog who has this same kind of crazy, wirey hair," I say, tugging slightly on the long white hairs on the back of the dog's neck. "I'm always loving on him and telling him, "You're not that attractive, but I love you anyway.'"

At that, the owner decided to move away from the dogs and talk about the business at hand. She kept a smile and acted as if I hadn't just called her dog ugly. Over. And over. And over. God bless her.

When we walked out, my husband busted up laughing and said, "Wow. You really don't have a filter when you're tipsy!" Oh geez. He noticed. And here I thought I had covered well. As we continued to walk around downtown and my one-cocktail-buzz wore off, I felt increasingly awful about what I had done. I can't believe I could be so tactless! Ugh. How embarrassing. If I ever go back in there - which I sincerely would like to do! - I think I'll go in costume and sport a British accent.

Noticing things

Drake is quickly taking on a lot of "big" boy qualities. (I recognize that it's all relative, and he only seems like a big boy as compared to his newborn-ness - and then, even, only to me. What a novice mother am I. Nevertheless.) He's beginning to notice the things around him. He sees the toys that hang from his bouncy chair and slaps at them wildly. Every once in a while he gets a hold of one - and seems completely confounded as to what is preventing him from pulling his arm back down close to his body. It's pretty cool to watch him slowly begin to discover the world around him. It's still a small world, but it's all new to him. It wakes up the up the sense of awe and wonder in me, too, as I see things the way I imagine he must see them. Pretty lights! Bright colors! So soft!
I've tried to facilitate these little exploratory experiences by placing things of various textures in his hands, setting brightly colored toys in his line of sight, and singing or playing music. The other day I was blessed enough to capture this "first" on video:



That duck had literally been hanging on his car seat since the day  he was born. Suddenly, it was hilarious.
By the way, I'm truly sorry you had to put up with my laughing like a hyena in the background. Hopefully Drake's sweet laugh made up for it.

Messy Pants

He saves his messiest diapers for his Dad. Justin starting saying so two or three weeks ago and I just laughed at him. I change plenty of messy diapers. But now I’m starting to believe it’s true. Drake already thinks it’s funny to mess (literally) with his Dad.

I was getting ready to feed him but he needed to be changed. I was cuddled up with a blanket on the couch and really didn’t want to get up again. I practically begged. Justin tried to refuse – Drake had been gassy and Justin thought for sure it was going to be a bad diaper change. I swore up and down I didn’t think Drake had actually pooped – just lots of gas. Justin finally gave in.

90 seconds later I hear, “Oh! No poop, huh?! Holy cow Son!” I decided to get up anyway and go see how bad it was.

It was bad.

Really bad.

And so freaking hysterical. It was the kind that starts to go up their backs. And seriously stinky. I don’t know what it is with my kid that he’s stinking so badly already! I tried to help Justin a little, feeding him wipes as quickly as I could, keeping Drake’s feet out of the mess. But mostly I laughed at Justin. He almost gagged. When it got on his hand, he made this sound that was something like the sad whiny of a horse.

And that was it for me. I was laughing so hard I couldn’t move. I was bent over my knees in a ball of hysterics, tears pouring out of my eyes. It really was the worst diaper in a week, and Drake saved it for Dad. Good boy.

I wanna talk about me

While I'm searching for the words to describe my perfect little boy, allow me, if you will, a moment for some self absorption.


I miss alcohol.
Yep. You heard me. I miss it.
Now, don't go overreacting, dear reader. I'm no alcoholic. I don't need to drink. It just tastes so darn good sometimes! And I miss feeling like a grown up. I miss sharing a bottle of wine (or two) with my girlfriends. I miss date nights with  my hubby that involve some wonderfully overpriced cocktails. I'm tired of, "Soda water with lime, please."
While I was pregnant, THE biggest craving I had - maybe the only craving, really - was beer. God, I wanted beer SO badly. It was such a hot summer, and I was so huge and tired. And hot! But I already said that. Nothing sounded better than cracking open a cold beer. And let me just say! If anyone in the world deserves a cold beer on a hot summer afternoon, it's a pregnant woman. Pregnancy is such hard work! Not to mention, we walk around at about ten degrees warmer than everyone around us. It's one of the great injustices of the world: getting saddled with the heaviest loads you'll ever carry, but unable to even consider 'taking a load off' at the end of a hot day.
Of course, I write this in jest. Sort of. The baby is, without question, worth a dry summer. But that didn't keep me from being jealous of my husband's cold brew.
Right after Drake was born, the craving made an instant shift from beer - which, I've been told, is even helpful to breast feeding women - to wine. I even had my Dad bring a growler of one of my favorite dark, malty, locally brewed porters to the birthing suite because I thought I wanted it so badly. I took one sip and pushed it away. Nope. Now I want wine.
So I'm excited to try something like this wine club idea. Thirty bucks a month is a totally manageable budgetary addition, and it will give me the occasional reason to feel like a big girl; an adult; a woman; a wife - and not just a mom. (Which is, of course, the best part - I just want the other parts, too. I want it all, dear readers.) Plus, I'll get to try a bunch of yummy new wines I probably couldn't find in tiny Helena, Montana.
Beyond that, I think I'll plan something fun for my birthday, which is coming up in March. I'll make sure I have plenty of breast milk stored up, find myself a baby sitter, and throw myself a party. A Put-On-Your-Cocktail-Dress, Pop-Open-the-Bubbly kinda party. Who's in??

Boobies

I've got 'em. And for a life time 34A, that's pretty awesome.

I can laugh about it now...

But it wasn't really all that funny at the time.
I got into the shower with a stomach on the edge of nausea. A little voice told me to eat before I got in my shower but I ignored it [mistake #1], desperate for a hot shower that was too long in coming. And it was glorious - it really was - but by the time I got out, food had moved from a good idea to a straight up necessity.
Enter my devilish husband.
He comes into the bathroom and tries to seduce me! And, of course, it worked. [mistake #2] I can't resist a handsome man who loves me, can you?
Ok. Fast forward. (Let's keep things PG, shall we?)
I saw a movie a long time ago (aprox. 16 years old - parents out of town - Blockbuster Movie Rentals - me unaware that 'not rated' probably means 'way way worse than R rated') that included a love scene after which the young, no-longer-virgin girl begins to cry. I just couldn't understand it. How ridiculous, I thought. You just had sex with a totally hot guy! What is your deal?
If I didn't have pregnancy hormones to blame it on, I would now be asking myself the same question. But with good reason this time! I really outdid that girl. I didn't just leak a few tears. I sobbed. I ran to the bathroom sobbing. I hit the ground in front of the toilet - sobbing. I sat there, on my hands and knees, sure I was going to throw up. Naked. And sobbing.
Like I said, I can laugh about it now...

Dreaming of Cheerios

This morning sickness (SUCH a misleading title! more like morning, noon, and night sickness) can really do a number on a person's sanity. My whole life, I've been prepping my self for the intense pain and brief horror of labor. You know about it from the time you're a little girl starting to ask her mom questions, you see it on tv and in movies, you may even get the privilege of witnessing a birth. And so you prepare yourself. You think, "Ok, yeah, I can do that." After all, you get the immediate reward of holding your newborn baby in your arms. But no one warns you about the early stuff. No one tells you to get ready to be so nauseous you can hardly keep a Saltine down. I never heard that the smell of coffee (one of my favorite things in the world!) would suddenly make me want to hurl. I had no previous awareness of the fact that a plain piece of toast might make me gag because, I swear to god, that little bite of bread multiplies in your mouth and the mush factor flies off the charts!
Maybe I'm just a wimp.
But I've decided I'm going to tell it like it is here on this blog. No making it sound easier than it is. No skipping the icky parts just to get to the fun and joyous moments. Be prepared for reality - in all its gruesome glory.
And the reality is: this part really sucks! I'm starving every second of the day but literally am doing well if I've consumed half of a package of Top Ramen. Something that sounds good one day and goes down relatively well, will make me gag the next. And when the nausea revs up, I better find something to put in my stomach that instant or I will be paying homage to the Porcelain God (no merry partying included). It's actually a very panicky feeling. I told Justin we might be going straight to adoption with our next one.
The night before last I had a dream about Honey Nut Cheerios. When I woke up, it was all I wanted in the world. Naturally, we didn't have any. My husband, who has already been a champ about running to the store to get whatever random thing I think I might be able to consume at any given moment, was asleep. He works late nights at the plant and often sleeps until 11 or 12, giving him only a couple of hours before he has to head back to work. I tiptoed through the morning on Saltines and Ginger Ale and asked him to please bring some home with him when he got off work. Like the great hubby he is, he called me from the store late last night and asked if there was anything else I wanted. I ordered some strawberry yogurt and pretzels. I was in bed by the time he got here and fell asleep comforted by the thought of the Cheerios that would be awaiting me in the morning. You can imagine my surprise this morning when I found our pantry void of new cereal boxes. Justin was up so I called to the next room, "Honey, where did you put the Cheerios?"
I could hear the trepidation in his reply, "You didn't pick them up?"
                  (In his defense for a moment: I had told him that I made a brief trip into town earlier in the day. He assumed that since I wanted the Cheerios so badly that I would have picked them up myself. Of course, I made no such stop.)
Panic.
"You didn't get the Cheerios?! [Now tears] Honey! That's the whole reason you went to the store!"[Melt onto the kitchen floor, a blubbering mess. Over Cheerios.]
Justin, of course, saved the day and made a trip to the store at lightning speed and all is as well as it can be now.
But really? Crying over Cheerios?