That is not a handle!

I'm so tired of Bigga using my ponytail as a handle and all the pulling and grabbing of my hair in general. I mean I'm REALLY tired of it. To the point that I don't like to pick him up right now and I have to carry him facing away from me. I swear his first words will be, "Let go. Let GO! LET GO!!!"

I told Mr. P that one of these days I'm going to chuck him across the room in frustration ... but unfortunately he'll be attached to my head, so that won't work. I'd just end up tossing myself with him.

At least he hasn't discovered my earrings ... so far. But I'm sure that the day he realizes they're there will be the day I lose an ear.

Mommy the Sailor

Well, it's official. I have to start watching my mouth around Kiddle.

I know that I've been saying that for a while. And I've eliminated (ok, maybe just cut back) on the really offensive bad words around Kiddle. But I'm not that careful about things like "damn," "crap" and a well-timed "JEEES-US CHRIST!" But no more, no more. I really have to stop.

We went to Queens today for Thanksgiving dinner with Mr. P's family. (Now THAT is a place to learn some colourful language!) Nothing interesting to report — except that on the way there, we passed a minor car accident. A Mercedes had rear-ended a BMW and the two drivers were standing in front of the cars, assessing the damage. I let out a little laugh as I drove past and said, "A BMW and a Mercedes? I guess those guys will have to dick it out." And what do I immediately hear from the back seat? A sweet little echo saying, "Dick it out!"

Whoops! Yep, it's official.

It ain't easy being green.

VEGGIE ALERT!

Kiddle willingly ate a (teeny tiny) baby carrot with garlic hummus today. Is the world coming to an end? Surely that's a sign of an impending apocalypse.

One little monkey jumping on the bed ...

He fell off and bumped his head. Mama called the doctor and the doctor said, "Get that monkey to the ER for a CT scan!"

Man, I've got myself one mobile little monkey. I was changing Bigga's diaper on my bed early this morning, when Kiddle asked me to put Diego on for him. I made sure Bigga was smack dab in the middle and positioned so he'd roll either toward the headboard or the footboard, then went to help Kiddle. I was on my way back to the bed less than a minute later ... and heard a big THUD, followed by a piercing shriek. Damn kid had rolled DIAGONALLY down the bed and right off the corner by the footboard. And, boy, he was PISSED.

It took a bit to get him settled down, but he eventually got over it and took his morning nap on schedule. And even slept over an hour — despite the fact I was hovering over him, checking his breathing every two minutes. But when I was nursing him after his nap, I noticed some swelling on the side of his head. Uh oh.

To say I'm an underreactor when it comes to falls and runny noses and head bonks is an understatement. But even though he was alert and generally happy and not showing any typical signs of a concussion, I didn't feel good about this one. We dashed over to the pediatrician's office and she sent us on to the ER for a CT scan, just to rule out a skull fracture. Or, as it turns out, rule one IN. Yep, he's got a small fracture on the right side. But, thank goodness, no bleeding or swelling in his brain. We're at the hospital overnight for observation, with another CT scan in morning. If all goes well, we'll be out of here by lunchtime.

And, lord, my freedom from this place can't come quick enough. I've been here for 12 hours now and have pretty much decided that holding us for observation is my personal punishment for leaving him unattended on the bed. ("I swear I won't do it ever, ever again! Can we go home now? Pretty please!?") With the added torture that a hospital is the LAST place you want your five-month-old hanging out. I can practically see the H1N1 and staph germs wafting down the hall. Ugh.

I do remember not to whine too much, however, when I think of friends who have spent a truly unfair amount of time in hospitals with their little ones, battling heart issues and other things I can't bear to think about. Our (hopefully) brief stay here is really just a minor inconvenience in the grand scheme of things. His pediatrician commented that skull fractures from that type of fall are rare and we were just "unlucky" this time. But considering how little damage occurred, as Mr. P said, "We'll just hope this is as unlucky as he gets!"

I've been so impressed with his spirit through all this. Everyone keeps asking me if he's "doing better" but I don't know how to answer that. I can't say he's doing BETTER, because he wasn't ever doing badly in the first place. He's been his usual sunny self, charming everyone he comes in contact with and taking everything in stride (except blood work and IV attempts ... that was traumatic). If we were doing this whole scene with Kiddle? Shudder. I can't go there.

***

One thing I'm grateful for during these extended hours in the ER and PICU: Kiddle doesn't get home from school until 3:00 and I knew I could count on two different neighbors to lend a hand with his after-school hours. Although two wacky coincidences threatened those positives. First, as I was leaving the pediatrician's office, on my way to the ER, my phone rings. It's Kiddle's teacher. Fuck. I answered with sinking feeling in my stomach. I just knew he'd gotten hurt or had a fever and she was calling me to come get him. But, no, he was fine. She just wanted to talk to me about the upcoming Halloween party. Whew!

Then, once we realized Bigga was going to be admitted, I left a message for LK's mom to see if she could meet Kiddle's bus at 3:00. But, a few minutes later, I see Mr. P outside our ER bay talking to someone like he knows them. I pop my head out the door and see LK's parents. And LK ON A STRETCHER. Fuck. It turns out she'd had a really scary respiratory episode — couldn't catch her breath, gasping, lips turning blue — so she was whisked away from the pediatrician's office by ambulance. Terrifying. Last I heard, her flu, RSV, etc. tests had come back negative, so they aren't entirely sure what happened and she's doing ok now. But that was sure the saddest, most forlorn little face I've ever seen on her. Poor thing.

Eventually Mr. P headed home to meet Kiddle and pick up the things I'd need for our overnight stay in the hospital. Kiddle went over to our other neighbor's house for a playdate with Jack and dinner — where he ate MEATLOAF, MASHED POTATOES AND APPLE PIE without question (although he did turn down the carrots). I think I'll send him over there for dinner every night. After getting us settled in for the night, Mr. P went back home to handle the bedtime duties. And you know what? The damn kid NEVER EVEN ASKED ABOUT ME. Hmmpph.

Update: And then he got up in the morning, got ready for school, got on the bus and still NEVER EVEN ASKED ABOUT ME. Where's the love, little man?

***

So here I sit, on my really uncomfortable chair that will turn into my even more uncomfortable fold-out bed, listening to the surprisingly noisy sounds of the Pediatric ICU. I'm so grateful that Bigga is relatively undamaged and handling the situation with ease, but so mad at myself for letting this happen in the first place. And thankful that, rather making me feel bad, almost everyone I've come across has countered with their own story: a friend's nephew with a skull fracture from a misguided game of throwing rocks, a pediatrician's son who rolled off a super-high pillow-top bed, a nurse's daugher who fell down thirteen steps onto a concrete floor. Accidents happen, I know. And I'm sure this won't be the last time we're in the ER. But it's simply the worst when your child bears the brunt of a quick decision you made.

Big sigh. Of relief and regret.

Staph, Blood and Hives, Oh my.

All sorts of medical drama in my extended family this week. My sister has an MRSA infection in her leg. Naturally the pain and swelling reached its peak while she was away on a girls' weekend. Nothing like a small-town emergency room on a Friday night. And Mr. P's two-year-old nephew had to have a rather urgent blood transfusion last night when it was discovered that his red blood cell count was dangerously low. It turns out he has an uncommon form of anemia that will correct itself eventually, but will require close monitoring and possibly more transfusions over the next few months. Very scary stuff, but we're grateful it isn't leukemia or lymphoma. And that we don't have to start referring to my sister as "Auntie Hop" anytime soon.

On a much smaller, less scary scale, I had my first call from the school nurse today. Kiddle has a runny nose, so I was expecting to hear that he had a raging fever. But instead she said, "Do you know he has a rash on his legs?" Er, well, yes I do. But it's not really a rash-rash ... he had hives on Sunday night and still had a couple of slightly red, slightly bumpy areas this morning. No big deal. Unfortunately she seemed to think it might be a big deal, and was concerned it was either ringworm (what?!), or Fifth Disease because his cheeks were so red. I can certainly understand how she might leap to that conclusion, so I had to reassure her that not only does Kiddle the Rosy Cheeked Boy always look like that, but also that we think he had Fifth last year. Fortunately this call was only about half an hour before the end of the day so I didn't have to pack up Bigga and go drag Kiddle out of school early.

Then he got home. And when I took off his pants, this is what I found. ALL OVER his legs and butt.

Um, that's disgusting. And definitely not what he looked like when I sent him off on the bus this morning. Dear School Nurse, I'm sorry for poo-pooing your earlier concern about my son today. Yes, now that I see him, I also think he looks like Patient Zero for a new strain of the plague. My sincere apologies. We're headed to the doctor RIGHT NOW.

But the doctor confirmed what I thought: no ringworm, no Fifth Disease. It really is a form of hives, simply a reaction to the minor snuffly-nose virus he has right now. The only bad thing is we have to push his flu shot off for another week.

Somebody put some pants on that kid! Gross.

Are we talking the same language?

Here's what happens when my regular English runs into Queens English (as in Da Queens, not The Queen's).

Me: Sweetie pie, will you rub my shoulders tonight?
Mr. P: Ok. When I'm ready.
Me: Will you be ready in two minutes?
Mr. P: No, I'll do it in a couple of minutes.
Me: Like I said ... two minutes.
Mr. P: No, in a few minutes.
Me: So ... three minutes.

Mr. P: Argh! Several minutes, ok?
Me: Well, why didn't you just say that in the first place?

Over the years we've encountered our fair share of regional differences in our speech. I say tennis shoes, he says sneakers. I say have my picture made, he says have my picture taken. He thinks I sound like a dumb hick, I think he sounds like an obnoxious Yankee.

But this concept of "a couple" continues to be a roadblock for us. It took me several years of "I'll be home in a couple of hours" turning into three or four — or, "I need to go to the office for a couple of hours on Saturday" really meaning five or six — to finally realize that a couple does not mean TWO. It means way more than two, in fact. Sigh. Why can't he just use English the right way? And, of course, that would be MY way. Sigh.

"I love trains!"

Note to self: Do not give the three-year-old a new train set at 5:30 in the evening, unless you want to have the following conversation an hour and a half after he's gone to bed, already clutching three new train cars.

Kiddle (sobbing hysterically in his room): Mommy! Mommy!
Me: What's wrong, Kiddle?
Hysterical sobbing continues.
Me: Kiddle, what's the matter?
Hysterical, yet suspicously fake, sobbing continues.
Me: I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong.
More sobbing.
Me: If you don't stop crying right now, I'm going back downstairs.
Silence, at last.
Me: Thank you. Do you need me to help you with something?
Kiddle: Yes.
Me: What do you need?
Long, quiet pause.
Kiddle: I need train tracks.

Needless to say, no train tracks were forthcoming. And he finally went to sleep about 10:00.

Perhaps it does grow on trees.

How exactly does a three-year-old know what money is? I kind of get that he understands that bills are money. But coins? Hmmm. I've certainly never made a point of talking about what money is. And, the reality is, he doesn't see actual currency that often since I put everything on my AmEx. Now, if he called a credit card "monies," I'd totally understand. A few recent financial transactions we've had:

A couple of weeks ago, he pulled out a change purse of random foreign coins from my desk drawer, opened it and started passing out "monies" to me. Um, thanks. That's MY money and I'm not headed to Europe anytime soon.

At the zoo last week he wanted to go on this little carousel ride (it had an elephant ... need I say more?) that cost 75 cents. He first said to me, "I need monies," so I, of course, directed him to his father. "Daddy, Daddy, I need monies!" he cried and POINTED TO MR. P'S POCKET. "I need monies in dere, Daddy." Yep, he's definitely got the concept down.

And today was the best. He dashed into the kitchen and said, "I found a penny!" Seriously, how the hell does he know what a PENNY is? Someone explain this to me, please. I'll have to test him tomorrow to see if he knows the difference between nickels and quarters. Perhaps I can train him to scavenge for quarters in the fountain at the zoo and actually contribute a little to the family coffers. He's extra cute. He can get away with it, right?

It ain't easy bein' cheesy.

Dear Bigga Bit,

I'm sorry. I know you're not into dairy products, but that slice of leftover pizza was calling my name this afternoon. I simply had to eat it. I know I said I'd cut out cheese for a few days to see if you napped better, and I really, really tried. But it's HARD. Cheese is so tasty and apparently a more common ingredient in my diet than I ever imagined.

A piece of string cheese for a mid-morning snack. Sprinkled on my favourite salad. A slice of provolone on my turkey sandwich. Melted and gooey in a black bean burrito or a chicken quesadilla. And pizza. Yummy, yummy pizza.

But not yummy for you, it seems. Unless all that wiggling, crying and man-sized tooting this evening was just part of you and your brother's master plan to torture me. Good job, by the way. Tell your brother the plan worked.

I didn't complain (too) much when I had to stop drinking milk and eating ice cream. It was tough to give up ice cream — after all, it was summer and I had already suffered through an ice-cream-free pregnancy thanks to gestational diabetes.

But cheese? You're asking too much, baby. Too much. But a necessary sacrifice, I suppose, to keep you sweet, happy and SLEEPING.

And just so we're clear ... don't get any ideas about chocolate. Capiche?

Love,

Muenster-free Mama

Of course, THIS is where he naps ...

A little background: Bigga has been DRIVING ME CRAZY with his no-more-than-30-minutes-at-a-time naps this week. Three two-hour naps? Great. Five half-hour naps? Not so great.

So when he fell asleep on my lap after nursing this morning, I just sat there. And sat. And sat. Eventually my need for coffee won out and I gently transferred him onto the couch. And he stayed asleep. Miracle of miracles.

Even more miraculous? He's been that way for almost two hours now. Wonderful. Except that you KNOW as soon as I leave him for any amount of time longer than a coffee refill or a trip to the bathroom, he'll splat right off the couch. So I'm trapped in the living room with him.

Great for watching reruns of "Angel." Not so great for my mile-long to-do list.

Gloom and Doom

WHAT I NEED:

• Exercise.
• A drink.
• Kiddle to eat his dinner.
• A clean house.
• A break.

WHAT I'VE GOT:

• An elliptical so buried (and dusty) in the garage that it will cause more frustration than I'm already feeling just to get to it (and clean it).
• Not a drop of wine or beer.
• A three-year-old who doesn't want to turn off the TV long enough to eat. (NOOO!!!! I NOT HUNGRY!!! NOT YET!!! NO DINNER!!!)
• A mess so out of control I'm simply paralyzed.
• A husband who has disappeared to the basement to work on his soon-to-be work-from-home office.

It's just one of those days and it's made me realize I've had perhaps six hours totally to myself since Bigga was born. And there's no glimpse of any me-time on the horizon because Mr. P really does need to get his office space renovated AND he's going to be out of town the next two weeks. Kiddle starts school on Thursday and I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to it — on a personal level anyway. Hopefully Bigga will cooperate and I can get closer to regaining a sense of control around here.

Beach Babies

A good example of our crazy cold wet summer ... yesterday was our FIRST beach outing. And also a good example of the weirdness of three-year-olds. They always do the exact opposite of what you expect. So I guess I should expect it by now, huh?

Last time we were at the beach was a random day in April or so. The Atlantic Ocean in New Jersey that time of year is FREEZING. Yet Kiddle eventually made his way down to the water and would not come out. Seriously. He was blue and shivering, but he kept getting further and further in. Eventually we had to drag him away from the beach, with him screaming, "I GO WATER! I GO WATER! I GO WATER!" all the way to the car and all the way home.

So I was thrilled to finally make it to the beach yesterday, thinking that Kiddle would absolutely LOVE it this year. Silly me. He had a great time running around and digging in the sand. But he wanted NOTHING to do with the water. And if I went in just to rinse my feet off, he stood on the beach screaming, "NO MOMMY! GET OUT OF THE WATER!" Weird, weird, weird. The only thing I can attribute his fear to was how rough the surf was. The waves were pretty intense, and — as a child of the bathtub-water Gulf Coast — I can certainly understand how intimidating it can be.

This, of course, marked Bigga's very first beach trip. He was a trooper as usual, napping in the stroller and hanging out under the umbrella tent.


Want some chips to go with that sand?

Running with scissors

So I was on the phone with my sister early this evening and around the corner from the dining room comes Kiddle — WITH A PAIR OF SCISSORS IN HIS HAND. I jump up and gasp, "Where did you get those?!" as I dash past him to inspect for damage. This is what I found.

"Is that dog hair? (We don't have a dog.) What is that?! Oh. My. God. Tash, I gotta go ... KIDDLE'S JUST CUT HIS OWN HAIR!!"

Shockingly, thankfully you can barely tell what he did. Even in person it looks pretty good. Even more amazing considering how big that pile of hair is. And the irony of it all? I finally broke down and trimmed his bangs a few days ago. Now they're just layered, I suppose.

Please, sir, may I have some more?

I have a sneaking suspicion it might be time to move him into his 3-to-6 month wardrobe.

I can't imagine why I think that, though. Hmmm.

Happy Birthday Grandpa!

In a happy coincidence of events, Mr. P flew back in to LaGuardia this afternoon AND it's his dad's birthday, so I packed up the boys and met everyone in Queens for a little birthday celebration.

The not so happy part was that Kiddle fell asleep on the way over there. Normally that would be a positive thing since he still really can't handle going out to dinner without a nap. But this was one of those impossible-to-wake-up-from slumbers and, once he was finally up and relatively coherent, he was a completely grumpy-to-the-point-of-embarrassment BEAR. His immediate reaction to any and everything was "NOOOOOO!!!!" He seemed to have forgotten that he hadn't seen his dad in three days. And I had to drag him into the restaurant while he protested loudly that he wanted to stay OUTSIDE, MAMA!

Back to the positive side, at least we were at a tiny, neighborhood restaurant where Mr. P's parents are regulars (and Mr. P worked at in high school). And since we were there at 4:30 (yes, I said 4:30!), we were literally the only customers. There was absolutely no way Kiddle was going to sit at the table without a meltdown, so I finally just left him lying on floor by the front door. Eventually he got over himself and managed to join us for a bit.

I'm a firm believer that kids need to learn how to act properly in public. Although, I'll admit we've been debating if we should start bringing his little Leapster game while we're out to eat. CON: he's not gaining any dinner time skills; PRO: he's quiet, sitting in his seat, and I can actually enjoy my food. So it was more than a bit mortifying to have such an ill-behaved kid, but at that point I simply didn't care and I didn't want to turn Grandpa's birthday dinner into a major scene.

At least there weren't many witnesses.

"THE CALLER IS INSIDE THE HOUSE!"

My lord. I just had a classic horror movie sort of moment.

Kiddle was theoretically in bed and I was sitting peacefully on the couch with Extra Little ... when I hear a phone ringing. Not my landline. Not my cell phone. Not any of Kiddle's random toy phones. And it sounds like it's coming from UPSTAIRS.

Then I hear someone talking.

I creep up the stairs to check it out (I know ... that's the WRONG move to make in a horror movie). Of course, it's pitch black up there because Kiddle is supposed to be going to sleep so I can't see a damn thing. I turn on a light and peek into Kiddle's room. He's not in his bed, so my not-yet-adjusted eyes automatically go to his usual alternate location — under the chair. Then I hear this little voice floating out of the darkness, from the chair.

"I call numbers, Mommy!"

He had managed to call some random number. ON SPEAKERPHONE, I might add. And got the classic "Beep, beep, BEEP ... the number you're calling in not in service; please check the number and dial again." Jeez, Kiddle. Way to take 10 years off my life!

What the damn phone was doing in his room is beyond me.

Criminal mastermind in the making.

But he's not one just yet.

I was upstairs putting away some laundry, while he was downstairs watching TV. I heard some suspicious, not-watching-TV noises so I headed toward the stairs, calling down, "Kiddle! What are you up to?"

Thump, thump, thump, thump, as he runs back into the living room.
Click, as he turns the TV back on.
Whump, as he throws himself on the couch.

Nice cover. Except that he left the water running in the bathroom.

Uh oh.

Just got back from an ultrasound where Extra Little's CURRENT size was estimated to be 8.5 pounds. Yikes! That's the same size Kiddle was when he was born and I couldn't get him out. So I definitely might be looking at another c-section. I really don't want to go through labor only to end up with major surgery again.

Here's my big dilemma. My parents just left yesterday for vacation in Florida, returning to Oklahoma on May 10th. My mom is scheduled to come up here on May 12th and my due date is May 14th. Based on a couple of conversations with my sister, I had pretty much decided not to tell them when I went into labor, but just to call after the baby arrived. My mom is already more excited/stressed about my impending delivery than anyone else — including me — so if I call too early ... vacation OVER. Not only for my dad, but also for the other couples with them. She's just too high-strung to be relaxed (and silent) about this.

But if I schedule a c-section? Ay yi yi. Not sure what to do. I still think my instinct is just to let them know after it's all over. I don't need her to change her travel plans, so why create drama any earlier than needed?

Right?

I'm going to burn in hell for this, aren't I?

Am I in Oklahoma?

Because it sure seems like it. Sunday was 92 degrees. Monday was 89. Yesterday was 94 ... and today the high is supposed to be 58. That sure sounds an awful lot like Oklahoma weather to me. Of course, if you crammed those extremes into one afternoon, that would be even more familiar.

Seriously, weather gods, it's freakin' APRIL! In New Jersey, no less. Sunday we filled up the kiddie pool. Yesterday we spent the afternoon at my neighbor's house in the sprinkler. I was so glad I already bought some shorts for Kiddle. And I had been really quite pleased that, once again, I would avoid being pregnant in the summer. Or so I thought.

I did handle the heat much better than I thought I would, though. When I was pregnant with Kiddle, I remember swelling up a bit when the weather got a little warmer in March and being so thankful my due date was in April. So I really expected the worst with these extreme temps this week. But no swelling, no other issues. Yay!

Hopefully that's it with the crazy weather — for the next couple of weeks at least.

Where's Kiddle?

Oh. My. God. Kiddle just about sent me into labor a bit ago.

I was upstairs, sorting laundry. Mr. P was in his basement office, working on his thesis. And Kiddle was on the couch watching "Cars." At least that's where we left him.

I thought I heard him crying, and since I knew Mr. P was in the basement, I came downstairs to check it out. He wasn't in the living room and I continued on toward the basement, looking for the source. It sounded like he was crying OUTSIDE so I paused by the side door and called out to Mr. P, "Are you with him?" "Nope," came his reply wafting up from the basement. Fuck.

Kiddle had gone out the side door by himself and was on the driveway sobbing because the asphalt was burning his feet. (I should mention it's almost 90 out today and he was only wearing a diaper.) I almost had a heart attack or, at least, a baby.

In the last week or so, he figured out how to unlock and open the front door. I got an alarm for that door on Friday, but hadn't dealt with the side door just yet. It has a double key deadbolt so he can't get out that door (although he already swipes my keys on occasion and attempts an escape), but today it was open to the screen door because of the heat. Looks like we'll be headed out to Home Depot soon to get another alarm.

Or maybe a lo-jack for Kiddle. They make those for toddlers now, right?