Family Fun

Growing Pains

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#2 and #3 wore these. Will I ever cuddle another babe close in these?

#2 and #3 wore and outgrew these. Will I ever cuddle another baby close in these fleece footies?

It never gets easier, packing away my children’s outgrown clothes. Folding and boxing memories. I tearfully hold up footie pajamas to see the outline of my growing child’s former frame. I touch the worn cotton of favorite shirts, feeling memories seep through the threads.

As I pack away #3’s too-small clothes, I realize it is entirely possible I will never see another of my babies wear these items again. There are so many ifs… if we can manage another child, if we have another child, if it’s a girl, if it’s a boy. My breath catches and my eyes well.

It’s an odd conundrum. Part of me wants one more child… eventually. Part of me thinks that other part is bananas. Do I not have enough on my plate raising 3 children under 5 while simultaneously pumping to feed another’s baby? Is the prospect of potentially filling out a set of fleecy footie pajamas one last time so compelling that it’s worth all of the added time, stress, money (and pregnancy)?

I don’t know. But it’s sad to pack these items away not knowing if I’ll ever feel them close to me again, filled and stretched by the warm girth of my chubby baby. Infancy, babyhood, toddlerhhood, tucked away in storage bins. It never gets easier.

Imperfectly Perfect

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Yesterday evening was Hub’s escape: softball. After a #1’s inner demons made a venomous appearance upon our arrival home from an afternoon playdate, just in time for #3’s “hell hour”, which conveniently coincides with dinner prep, the kids and I ate dinner then headed off to run two quick errands.

I had forgotten what 6:30pm looked like outside of our cul-de-sac. At that hour, we’re usually trudging through the last gruesome hours of the day at home. All of these people shopping, driving, some even caffeinating at this time of day… how other-wordly! “I used to be sitting in traffic cursing my way home at this time,” I thought, as #2 swatted at #1 in the backseat of the minivan. My cubicle-dwelling, kid-free days are like a past life.

We park. I free the kids from their carseats. I see #2 has mystery stains all over his shirt and #1 found a costume headband that Betsey Johnson would consider gawdy. I shrug. Off we go.

#3 strapped to my chest, #2 holding my hand and #1’s hand, we enter the store. A middle-aged woman looks at me in that smiling seeing-but-not nostalgic way I know all too well. She’s seeing herself, not me, in front of her. I smile back.

We continue. There was a minor shoe incident and a near miss with a stack of glass marinara jars, but we make it to the pharmacy counter. Prescription purchased: success!

As we get our hand holding order settled, a woman in a business suit pauses mid-stride. “How beautiful!” She says. I look around to find what she’s noting. “Your little family,” she clarifies, “The hand holding, the beautiful children… you’re adorable!” She scrunched her nose in a smile. I thank her. I’m flattered yet stunned. Did she SEE us? I mean, really. Just before we left the house, #1 was pretending to poop on #2 as #3 laughed. THIS is “adorable??”

We get side-tracked by princess cakes on our way out. #1’s birthday isn’t for months, but — according to her — one’s fifth birthday is akin to a quinciniera. So we scope out the confections.

A diligent staffer immediately steps to the front of the bakery counter and asks if we need help. “Nope, we just saw princesses. Thanks though!” She says my kids are “beautiful” — #1 and #2 are squabbling over which cake is better: pink princess cake or the “Frozen” cake — I graciously thank her but ponder internally if these people know what these “adorable” creatures are capable of. I mean, a day when I don’t have to clean poop off of the floor is considered a gold-star experience (and, no, we don’t have pets.)

We get back in the van. Load up, buckle up, gas up, then head home. Windows down, sunroof open, music bumpin’, Spring breezing through our hair… it’s a minivan dance party. In that moment, I realize this is adorable. This is beautiful. This is perfect.

 

 

 

 

“All I Wanted…”

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“Gahhhh!” “But whyyy???” “Nooo!” The moment of agitation and defeat when your seemingly innocuous plans have been thwarted by your own offspring.

“All I wanted was to…” it could anything: nap, pee in peace, make one phone call without stopping to referee or assist small humans, sleep, prepare a meal without having to drop everything to feed or wipe someone, exercise, have just one bedtime when everyone stays in their bed on the first try, arrive on time, have one drama-free playdate, pump, sit on my butt for five straight minutes, poop, wear clothes without stains, drink a hot beverage at its intended temperature, etc. Some days the plan change is easier to accept than others. Then there are those days when one untimely potty joke or one predigested milk deluge is beyond your patience level. You’re tapped out, the well is dry… and they can sense it.

As if driven by predatory instincts, our cherished offspring will claw, tantrum, and spew us into submission. Then, when we mourn the shattered want before us, they look at us with their saucer-like eyes in inocent bewilderment. As if they had no part in our mommy meltdown.

You have been defeated. Perhaps tomorrow you will be victorious… perhaps.

Nearly Human

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#3 used to be a decent sleeper — he was somewhere between the torturous night-grazing of #1 and the dependable slumber of #2 — but the 4-month sleep regression changed all of that. He never quite got the hang of regularly sleeping through the night after that sleepless tailspin.

For the last two weeks, #3 (9-months-old) has been in some sort of sleep crapiness. He awakes to nurse — we’re talking competitive eating here, no “human pacifier” stuff — 6 times each night. I’ve forgotten what being rested or having a functioning mind feels like.

HOWEVER, last night he only awoke three times. That means I got REM sleep. Oh holy sleep gods, I feel as if I can do anything!

I actually remembered to put my tea in the kettle to steep. I didn’t groan like an old ship as I pulled myself out of bed this morning. I didn’t zone out in the middle of assembling my pump parts trying to remember what day it was. I feel nearly human! 

**Third-time-mom disclaimer: I know full well the danger of claiming one’s baby is sleeping better or well. I am not expecting REM sleep to be repeated, but it was nice last night. Be kind sleep gods!**

First Kid vs. Third Kid

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My parenting has changed drastically from having my first child to now with my third.

Naps-

#1: In the early weeks, I remained completely still as she napped on me multiple times each day. Had to pee? Hold it! Had to sneeze? Don’t even think about it! Later on, our schedule all day, every day revolved around her 2-naps per day schedule. She always napped in her crib. Plans would be rearranged if she overslept.

#3: He may catch a morning nap in the carseat or Ergo, but it’s not guaranteed; the afternoon nap happens at home but he will be stirred if he over-sleeps. We’ve got places to be!

Nursing-

#1: I hid in another room to nurse at family gatherings, even when she was cluster-feeding. I pumped to bottle feed in public. We always had a suction bulb nearby just in case. I feared nursing in public.

#3: He nurses in the Ergo multiple times per day. He stays latched as I chase after #1 & #2… I suspect I could latch him on without the carrier and he’d be able to dangle their by way of suction

Germs-

#1: Everybody had to scrub up before touching her. I attached hand sanitizer to her stroller. Any sniffles and you were banned. I feared older kids sharing their schoolyard cooties with her. No sitting on the floor without a blanket. Pacifiers were thoroughly cleansed if they touched anything but her mouth. Bottles were sterlized.

#3: Germs boost the immune system.

Sleep-

#1: I forced myself to sit up and stay awake for every single night feeding. I fretted over every sleep grunt or hiccup. I was entirely certain I’d never sleep again.

#3: He nurses in our bed while I try to catch some shut-eye. I’m still not sleeping.

Development-

#1: I documented her every movement in a journal. I wrote multi-page letters to her biweekly. I read “What to Expect the First Year.” I encouraged her physical development with great anticipation. We attended baby gymnastics classes and mommy-and-me swim. (She didn’t regularly walk until 19-months any way.)

#3: I have maybe two passages written in his baby book (note to self: try to remember when he got his first tooth… he’s on tooth #4 now.) He’ll walk when he walks and then I’m screwed.

Clothing-

#1: Everything was new and coordinated. Getting her dressed was fun. I changed her multiple times a day, completely redressing her every time her outfit had a smear, dribble, or spot on it.

#3: Any top + any pants = dressed. Unless he pooped up his back, wipe the onesie with a baby wipe and keep it rolling, everything is hand-me-downs anyway.

Food Introduction-

#1: It was a momentous occasion to introduce solid foods. Each mealtime was an event. Each food was painstakingly introduced with cautious assessment of possible allergic reaction.

#3: He hated purees. He eats what we eat.

Putting Baby Down-

#1: I would place her in her Exersaucer or baby swing, ensuring she was reasonably pleased before I tended to whatever duties required me to put her down.

#3: I put him on the floor.

Toys-

#1: Most of her toys were new. All were thoroughly washed and were sanitized if she ever got the sniffles.

#3: I maybe threw some of his cloth toys in the wash during a nesting frenzy before he was born… I think?? He plays with his own toys, as well as #1 and #2’s toys, but prefers trying to tear apart the shoe basket.

 

Life is nuttier with 3 kids, but it’s easier not being so caught up in the first-time-mom worry. That’s just exhausting! You have to live it to learn it.

Lowered Standards

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Sleeping in used to mean an 11am wake-up and perhaps even a post-shower nap on notably lazy mornings. Now — after 4+ nighttime nursing wake-ups — if I make it to 6:30am I’m pleased (tired, but pleased) and 7am is downright luxurious.

After a long day and a nursing-heavy night, all I wanted to do was sleep until 7am on this Saturday morning. 6am I’m awoken to nurse, 6:15am my nursling dozes off, 6:17 am I am out of bed and heading down to pump because I am engorged, 6:45am #3 and #1 are awake. 7:15am #2 is awake.

Maybe I’ll just try for 6:30am tomorrow.

Ups and Downs

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#2 learning to rollerblade

#2 on his first rollerblading attempt

Falling. It’s a part of life. Bumps, bruises — to the body and the ego — are life’s way of teaching you, molding you, and keeping you humble.

Getting back up from a fall is painful, trying, and necessary. Learning how take a tumble and pull yourself back up again without becoming disheartened, that’s a valuable life lesson.

On this beautiful April afternoon, #2 tried rollerblading for the first time. “You will fall,” I warned him as I strapped on his safety gear, “it’s ok. What you need to do is learn how to get back up. Soon, with more practice, you’ll fall less and get up faster. Just know you will fall today. You’ll fall but you’ll get back up and be fine.”

He wobbled and rolled and tumbled. He scrambled awkwardly to coerce his bumbling toddler limbs, encased in oversized safety padding, to pull his 30lb frame upright. He’d try and fail, get halfway up and fall back down. I offered my hand for stability only. He — determined — refused. He plopped down on the driveway, deflated.

“You can do this. You’re strong and you’re smart. Think before you move and you’ll be up on your feet in no time.” He looked at me through the visor of his helmet, paused, slowly pulled himself up to squatting, and then to standing. He did it!

“My ride my bike now.”

Learn how to fall and get back up: check.

Froyo Meltdown

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A weekday outing to get frozen yogurt with friends… gold star playdate overflowing with giggles and sprinkles, no? Unless you’re #1. #1 took this sugar-soaked opportunity to release her inner demon spawn in public.

As I ensured #2’s container remained free from allergenic contents, #1 grabbed a mamoth paper cup and began pulling serving handles, pouring ribbons of frozen colors into her container. I caught her as she reached the fourth lever. I took the cup: “Only Mommy pulls the handles, hon’.” #1 was irritated.

I moved to the toppings. #2 wanted gummy frogs. As I plopped two jiggly, technicolored frog-shaped blobs into his dairy-free treat, #1 melted on the floor because she had a dollop of melting frozen yogurt on her finger. I handed her a napkin. Unsatisfactory! I offered to help her wash her hands after we pay. The horror!

“You have until the count of three to choose your toppings, or you don’t get any.” 1… no movement 2… a scowl. 3. I put the paper bowls on the scale, smiled, nodded, and paid as the teenage cashier looked back and forth between me and my enraged firstborn, who was now writhing like a rabid octopus and demanding toppings.

#2 and #3, completely unfazed by #1’s public display of demonic possession, sat and partook in the playdate. I invited #1 to calm down and join us.  “I don’t like ice cream without toppings!” “I’m sorry you didn’t choose in time. We’re here with friends. You can either be friendly and join us, or go alllllll the way down to the end of the bench and sit by yourself. I’ll hold onto your ice cream.” She wailed her way down the bench and curled up angrily in the corner.

The rest of us chatted and the well-behaved children happily slurped colorful frozen spoonfuls. “Stop talking!” #1 barked from her pouting perch. I glared at her and returned to the conversation. “This isn’t fair!” She lamented as she scooted closer. I turned to her and quietly gave her one more chance, reminding her that she’d be sad later if she wasted this fun playdate being grumpy. She fumed. I turned back around.

Then I see #1’s sparkly light-up sneakers next to me. She has returned. She scoffs at her naked, partially melted frozen mound — which #3 had sampled — and rejoins the playdate.

Frozen yogurt playdate: survived.