Better than Dog Kisses

Growing up Chez Bruno everyone in the family used the same stupid voice to speak to the dog. We called it, unsurprisingly, “dog talk.” And a common expression in dog talk was to request “kisses on the lips” from the dog.

I’m not proud of this, mind you, but one’s childhood is what is was.

Mark is away on a work trip so it’s Kate and I flying solo for most of the week. Yesterday was crazy hot here–and despite the fan and open window in her room, Kate woke up a couple times early in the evening covered in sweat and calling out for a drink of water in the funny way she does, “Wau-duh? Wau-duh, Mama?”

She’s a pretty damn solid 7-ish to 7-ish sleeper (knock wood), but there have been some intermittent nights over the past couple months where’s she’s had Mark or I (or both of us) up tending to her wau-duh or blanket arranging needs.

So last night when I was in her room twice before 10:30PM, I was fearful that my night of solo parenting had the potential to be a night of sheer hell. Just when I was looking forward to doing snow angels in the bed alone, not having to worry about all my tossing and turning and pregnant-belly pillow-propping keeping Mark awake.

Thankfully she settled in as did I. But at 6:15 when the garbage trucks descended on the ‘hood she was up again. (Can someone please invent the Bosch dishwasher of garbage trucks that emit barely a perceptible swooshing white noise? I can’t help but think I’m not the only early-morning sleeper who would appreciate this.)

Anyway, at 6:15AM, knowing the nanny wasn’t arriving until 8:00 so I couldn’t even get a jump start on my commute if I wanted to, I was just not willing to rise and shine. So I went into Special K’s room, which was still thankfully dark, and informed her of the unacceptable waking hour. And with some careful placement of her loveys and attentive reapplication of blankies I managed to convince her that we both should really sleep some more. (Realizing, in the karmic parenting cycle, that I will no doubt pay for this small miracle down the road.)

With the side of her crib up I couldn’t lean in to kiss her. These days even with it down the preg-o belly tends to get in the way. So bleary eyed I kissed my hand and put it on her forehead before turning to swan dive into my own bed.

That she didn’t go for. “No Mama! Kisses on the lips!” she cried. And that was too much for even my early morning exhaustion to resist. If I had to lower myself via crane to get to her I would have.

Oh Miss Kate, I will happily give you kisses on the lips whenever you want them, silly girl! Kissing you beats getting a wet one from an aging Dachshund named Schultz hands down.

Twilight on James Avenue

It’s 6:51PM on Sunday evening and here’s what’s happening.

Outside the James Avenue block party is in full swing. There’s a band playing some “oooh-eee baby” song, and a bunch of kids and parents across the street are making mondo bubbles. Kate and Mark are in the pink bathroom, as we call it, where Kate is holding court on the Big Girl Potty and Mark is running the bath water.

And here I am, in a peaceful moment with all the windows open and evening light casting a happy glow on the house. The house even seems to be in the afterglow of the day. Two red balloons from Kate’s birthday party divide the space between the living and dining rooms, and evidence of new gifts–dolls with bottles, books and CDs and a cool art easel are still in tote bags, hauled back from the lake where we had a picnic.

I’m in that in-the-moment frame of mind that I never seem to get to in yoga class where I’m enumerating the errands I need to run or letting work worries needle their way into my mind. Right now I’m right here, and life is good.

Today’s party for Kate turned out to be just the kind of party I wanted. Not too many friends–just some of Kate’s local chums and her cousins. And no excessive food or entertainment hoopla. Just a nice picnic in a lovely setting–complete with fried chicken, cole slaw, watermelon and chocolate cupcakes with strawberries on top. I think a 4-item menu is brilliant. Perhaps I’ll write an entertaining book based on the laws of four foods, and make a killing.

And tomorrow, little Miss Kate, long known as Baby Kate, turns two years old. And she continues to dazzle and delight us. My God, I adore her. She’s got her own ideas, her own agenda, and she walks around with her curly blond pigtails bouncing behind her just having herself a good old time. It’s infectious.

The other afternoon when I came home early from a conference Kate was hanging out with the nanny. Dismayed by all the branded party hats (Elmo, Nemo, Princess something or other) I’d bought some solid colored hats and pompoms, glitter pens, curly ribbon and foam stickers. We sat down and had a little craft party making silly colorful hats for today’s picnic. Kate was so delighted and engaged and sweet and luminous I turned to the nanny and said, “Look at her! How did you stand it?” To which she said, “I know! I can’t. I kiss her a hundred times a day”–which made me secure in the fact I wasn’t the only one who was under Kate’s spell. It’s good knowing if I’m not there to constantly adore Kate, there’s someone else who does.

In two years of parenting I’m not sure if I’m getting smarter or still feeling my way along–and I’d imagine that parents of teenagers and adults continue to wonder the same thing. I’ve recently had experiences that seemed to underscore both points.

The other day I realized what I needed to do was get duplicates of Kate’s favorite “loveys”–the stuffed puppy and duck she needs to tuck under each arm (dog on the right, duck on the left) at nap-time and nighttime in order to doze off feeling protected by her posse. Peggy had asked for birthday gift suggestions for for Kate and I called her thrilled to have an idea so wise and practical to proffer. (What a good mother I am!)

Later that night after Kate had been asleep for a few hours she suddenly started to bawl. Uncharacteristically, I’d just painted my nails so Mark went in to check on her and called out, “She threw up!” which put us both into turbo Silkwood shower mode–stripping both Kate and Mark down to shower, and me doing a toxic scrub on the crib and floor. Of course, the Essential Doggie and Duckie got, uh, violated in the episode, and I needed to toss them into the wash. So, a half hour later, squeaky clean and in new PJs with fresh bedding, I put our poor sickie back into her crib where there was a blatant lack of the Essential Doggie and Duckie. I’d found some other things that were dog and duck-like–a dog cum wizard hand puppet from Cousin Tikloh and a pink flamingo that was at least in the duck genus. Thankfully, it wasn’t that hard a sell to get her to accept these understudies, but I couldn’t help but think my brilliant Mom idea to have back-up loveys came a bit too late.

On the not-so-smart maternal moment, the other morning as we were all wrestling in bed Kate suddenly busted out “Don’t bug me!”, a line which amused Mark and I purely for it’s novelty, but also had us wondering where the heck she’d heard it in the first place. Mark and I looked at each other with innocent cow eyes–”I’ve never said that to her.” And even though the nanny is the other potential influencer (whose every word we obviously can’t monitor), we just couldn’t imagine her saying that to Kate either.

The next morning Mark mentioned Kate’s new expression to the nanny and she laughed and said, “I’ve heard her say that too and I don’t know where she got it!” That evening she said to me, “I asked Kate who says ‘Don’t bug me’ and she said Mommy.” I laughed it off as absurd. Oh, the things kids say!

But a few days later Mark had to reckon with me. “Uh, so I hate to tell you, but you did say that to Kate the other day.” I’d been trying to send an email for work or something and Kate was whining and demanding attention and, yes, shameful as it is to admit, I whined a bit back at Kate, “Come on, Kate. I need two minutes here. Please don’t bug me.”

The thing is, once Mark mentioned it, it seemed somewhat familiar that in my moment of utter frustration that was something that maybe I did say. Horrors! Twas I, the perpetrator!

Anyway, here we are the night before your second birthday my sweet angel Katie. I adore you more than words can say. I apologize for ever having requested you not “bug me,” and I’m sorry for all the other times when my words or actions haven’t been of the supreme maternal order. I’m just playing this whole mother thing by ear, but with the inspiration you provide it makes what could be a hard job the greatest joy I’ve ever had. I look forward to your first day of school, going with you to buy your first bra, and your father and I dropping you off at an ivy league college for which you’ve received a generous academic scholarship. I look forward to just putting a puzzle together with you tomorrow, or sitting on the kitchen floor and sharing a plastic bowl full of grapes.

You’re all tucked into bed now after having read some new birthday books with Dada, and even in your in-the-other-room-asleep mode, you still bring me joy and pride and a supreme sense of contentment the likes of which I’ve never felt, right though the walls. Thank you.

A million kisses to you dear Kate, and huge hugs with pat-pat-pats on the back. Your Mama loves you from here to the stars.

Song in her Heart

I put Kate down for a nap 20 minutes ago and just walked by her room. She is singing, “Are you sleeping? Are you sleeping, brother John? Brother John?”

Clearly, she is not sleeping. At least she is singing a sleep-related song.

The Baby in Kate’s Belly

About a month ago I was at a prenatal yoga class and we were doing the whole go-around-the-room-and-say-how-prego-you-are routine. It’s the kind of sharing with strangers that threw me for a loop at my first prenatal yoga class two-and-a-half years ago. It was weird enough to be in a room with 20 other pregnant women. And as a late bloomer to marriage and motherhood, it was even weirder that I had a legitimate reason to be part of the kind of pack I’d never been part of.

On top of that, the way everyone had a turn to talk in class was totally unexpected. Here I was coming to get some exercise, and suddenly this super personal thing–my pregnancy–turned into a slumber party-style sharing session.

Of course, it took me all of 4 minutes to drink the Kool-Aid and swap stories about late-night hip aches and perpetual peeing.

So here I was, back in the saddle at prenatal yoga for this pregnancy, and feeling smugly experienced as all these other women talked with wonder and amazement about their first times. Everyone else seemed to know down to the hour how pregnant they were–”On Sunday I’ll be fifteen-and-a-half weeks” they’d report smiling proudly–while I tried to summon up a reasonable approximation for how far along I was. (And spent the rest of the time comparing my belly-girth to still-slim first-timers who were even further along than me.)

When my turn was up I said it was my second pregnancy, and mentioned that my 2-year old also claims to have a baby in her belly. This resulted in some polite chuckling, and caused the only other second-time mom to exclaim from across the room, “That is so funny! My son says the same thing!”

Her son? Now that’s just weird.

Tonight Mark came home from work and was playing on the carpet with Kate in the way that’s so damn sweet you just bless your stars for your awesome little family. (I also get a strong hit of this feeling when Mark bathes Kate at night and I eavesdrop on their crazy-cute conversations. Some day I’ll tape them so we can play them back when she’s in the habit of stumbling home hours after her curfew and we need something to convince us to not put her up for a late-stage adoption.)

So Mark and Kate, playing on the carpet… After a few sessions of wrestling alternating with hugging, Kate pulled up her shirt and started to tell Mark about the baby in her belly. When he asked if it was a boy or a girl, she said matter-of-factly “Boy.” When asked his name, she said a quick “Ummm” in the new way she does, then said, “Rotto!”

This nearly caused Mark to fall through the floorboards with glee. “What’s that? What’s your baby’s name?” And again, with more confidence: “Rotto!”

“Rotto? The baby in your belly’s name is Rotto?” Mark was nearly as delighted by this name as he was when I came up with Wigwam Boy on the drive to our friend’s lake house in Minnesota. (I know. Isn’t Wigwam Boy a great name?!)

Thus far, Kate has only named one other thing. One of her small plastic baby dolls she calls Little Peanut, which, like everything she does, we find extremely adorable. And now Rotto. Well, it’s unlikely there’ll be a lot of other Rottos in his class at school.

I wonder what the son of that woman from yoga class named his baby.

I Didn’t Barf!

So here I am 21 weeks pregnant. I think. I mean, I know for sure I’m pregnant, unless I’ve just started really retaining water in my abdomen. It’s just hard the second go-around, as I’ve heard, to remember how far along you really are. I mean, with Kate I’d know at any time how preggers I was down to the day. “Oh, 23 and 3/4 weeks!” I’d sunnily respond to anyone who asked. These days when someone inquires I mutter that I’m due at some point in January, and hope that’s enough info for them.

I was obnoxiously healthy happy and fit when I was pregnant with Kate. One of those women with skinny arms and legs who was “all belly.” This time, uh, not so much. Let’s just say I saw a reflection of my butt in the mirror when I was getting into the shower the other day and I was stunned. It is vast. I am growing at a furious rate.

The first time I had the benefit of getting knocked up soon after my wedding when I was in peak physical form. I’d worked out like a demon pre-wedding, determined to have the arms of a goddess in my strapless gown. (I can’t help by imagine that our guests are still cooing over my buff upper bod three years later.)

So anyway, I hadn’t really “let myself go” as they say since Kate was born. But I was hardly the hard body I used to be. Besides, your body has this kinda “memory” to it from being pregnant before. So before you’re even ready to tell anyone you’re in the family way, your shirts start riding up like cropped tops.

Since liposuction during pregnancy is probably ill-advised, I guess I have no option other than to try to get some exercise now, and wrangle with postpartum saddlebags postpartum.

All that said, we are thrilled, delighted and generally giddy over the prospect of welcoming another creature into our family who has the potential to be even 1/8 as amazing as Miss Kate. And aside from my 7-week eye episode, I’ve felt fabulous, if a bit more flabulous than I’d like.

I’ve had friends who couldn’t even wear necklaces during their pregnancies because the chain around their necks made them nauseous. I’ve heard all about those who kept Saltines by their beds to calm their stomachs before their feet even touched the floor in the morning. One friend had evening sickness that was so dizzying she couldn’t even read or watch TV–she had to just brace herself to stop the room from swirling.

Comparatively, I’ve been one of those “I am woman hear me roar I’ve never felt so beautiful” kinda pregnant gals. Good hair, good skin. No stretch marks. Not a lick of nausea or food aversions. Happily making my way to prenatal yoga two times a week through Week 41. (That’s one week after Miss Kate should have qualified me for the Mom and Baby Class, for those who are uninitiated with the human gestation period.)

So, it was dismaying last week when I’d finished off yet another excellent meal prepared by my person chef (and life partner), Mark, that I felt not so fresh. I wasn’t nauseous per se, but strapped with a wicked case of heartburn. Heartburn is without a doubt the worst malady for not seeming like a bad thing when you don’t have it, and feeling like sheer medical trauma when you do.

I thought my chest would burst into flames. And that thought was actually kind of appealing, since I thought it might not be pleasant, but it’d probably feel a lot better after. Anyway, I ate 93 or so fruit-flavored Tums and tried to steady the ship. But at one point I had one of those saliva-rising-up-in-the-throat rushes that has undeniable portent to pukedom, and I sprinted to the bathroom without even stopping to pause the Tivo.

Any other normal human would be in the moment, but for me I clutched the porcelain god thinking to myself, “No, no!” And not because I simply didn’t want to deal with the unpleasantness of barfing–because I didn’t want to wreck my Perfect Pregnancy track record. No longer would I be able to smugly boast, “Never sick once!” to a friend who clearly wanted to stab me for it. Though that might not be such a bad thing…

Thankfully, my episode passed. I mean, subsided with no dinner passing back out my lips. So, my record is someone tarnished but still intact. And I’ve learned some tips from my friend Megan who has done a truly amazing job “cooking” twins alongside my silly little single pregnancy. She’s had episodes of heartburn which I’m sure make mine look like nothing more than a case of garlic breath. (Her advice: No lying down right after eating, and when it’s clear Tums won’t do the trick, go for the Pepcid.)

For now at least, I’m happy to report having a handle on the heartburn. The next step is reining in the expanding booty.