A Few of My Favorite Things... About Henry

Every night, Henry forgets he's expected to go to bed. We haven't figured out if it's a "I don't want to miss out on anything" issue or something else, but every adult in the household has at least one night of pain-in-the-assness each week. This process can become so consuming and embittering. In an effort to celebrate all wonderful, quirky, hilarious, amazing parts of my first-born, I thought it would be good to spend some time on... 

A Few of My Favorite Things About Henry

• The phrases he's picked up and uses often in hilarious ways:
• "Check this out." Often used after the creation of new Mega Bloks vehicle, train track, crayon drawing, or preceding a spastic new gymnastic move. 
• "Can I get a little help here?" Most commonly used after a fall, his tiny hand emerging from behind the couch/chair/table accompanied by his tiny voice and adult inflections. 
• "He's got that head going." Sullivan's favorite new activity involves headbanging and this is Henry's response when he sees it.  
• "What the heck?" Nough said. 

• He loves to be helpful (on his own time). He puts away his laundry. Pours, cracks eggs into and stirs pancake batter. Feeds Sullivan. And loves to help set the table. 
• We now play HideNSeek and it's soooo fun! Henry either stays silent in his hiding spot (which terrifies me) or giggles. He asks me to "squeak" to give him hints where I am so I've renamed it Hide and Go Squeak. 
• He says "I love you" often. Sometimes it may be a procrastination technique to start a conversation before bed, but it works every time. 
• When Sullivan cries, he has a special voice he uses to say, "It's okay, Sully. I'm here." And then sings "Row, row, row your boat." To make matters better, the interaction
  
  usually ends with, "He stopped crying. Now he's smiling at me!" He's also invented a game called "Jhoop!" where he raises and lowers plastic letters on Sullivan's tummy while saying "Jhoop." They both seem to enjoy it. 
• For the past several months, he's gotten attached to a handful of stuffed animals. He carts them around with him and talks with them, generally reassuring them that he'll take care of them. They include a dog (which is actually a purse), a hedgehog the size of a yoga ball, a "winney pig" named Martha, a cheetah that's as long as him, a giraffe from the San Diego Wild Animal Park, and a blue jay. When he can't be with them, he asks us to keep an eye on them.
• How he hates wearing pants. 
• And shoes. 

• After he draws, there is inevitably marker on his hands or crayon underneath his fingernails. The surprising color melts me. 

Adventures of Sullivan & Henry

This should probably be two posts as they are unrelated - but here's two stories. One Sullivan and one Henry.

*******

Last week we experienced a parenting fail. Henry and Sullivan had faucet noses and coughs. We are used to Henry picking up stuff at school. Sullivan, though, has been a pretty healthy kiddo. He started waking up at night (he doesn’t do this) and fussing (he doesn’t do this either).

On the second night, hearing his little sad cough from the crib across the room, I said, “That sounds like it’s moving to his chest.”

“We should probably take him to the doctor,” yawned Jared from next to me in the dark.

He’d had the mildest of fevers when I checked the day before, but otherwise mostly smiles. I’m serious, this is one smiley baby.

The next morning, my mom was staying home with a cold and offered to take him in. I made the appointment and waited to hear.

Croup.

Conjunctivitis.

AND
an ear infection.

I’m honestly surprised they let her bring him home and didn’t just confiscate him. Poor kid. What’s even more surprising knowing this is the amount he didn’t complain. With Henry, that would have been a full-fledged code red, including a Jack Nicholson style “YOU CAN’T HANDLE THE TRUTH” baby freak-out. Sullivan just expressed genial discomfort. “I don’t prefer this,” he seemed to coo when we leaned over his crib. Which was replaced by a smile when we picked him up.

Jared brought home a chalky, liquid medicine to be taken twice a day for ten days. The first couple of doses went down pretty smooth. Pursed lips and questioning eyes, but still swallowed. After a few days, he started to close his mouth and twist his head, avoiding the plastic tool like… well, like his brother. A couple mini-altercations and forced cheek squeezes, I was perplexed enough to reexamine the bottle.

“Refridgerate.” I read.

D’oh. Had I been slowing poisoning my thrice-sick baby? I called the pharmacy.

After being on hold for 13 minutes and then explaining the situation, “It’s fine.” the pharmacist told me. “It helps make it last longer. And with the taste, of course.”

Of course. So I stuck it in the fridge thinking by the next dosage, we’d be back to miracle baby. Not so much. In fact, he developed a lovely blowing technique which shot any medicine that had made it inside through his sputtering lips to a sprayed pattern on the closest object, generally the medicine administrator's face. And then he’d smile.

********

Yesterday, Henry started our day asking me about death and marriage. In that order. When I told him he was at Daddy’s and my wedding, he liked that. Later on his new favorite show (a super disturbing cartoon where animated Russian nesting dolls pop open and tuck things into their bodies - no joke!!), one of the characters said he was going to “Pop the question” to the kids teacher and showed them a ring. Henry liked this phrase (there was a song that went along with it) and asked if Daddy had popped the question.

Fast forward six hours later, after no more discussion of marriage or rings, Daddy comes home. (Jared had been gone for the weekend so this was one of their first interactions in a couple days.)

Henry: “Daddy, Mommy told me how you got married. I was there and then you shared the problem.”

Jared looks at me in horror with the What have you been telling our son??? eyes.

“Popped the question,” I stage-whispered to Henry.

“Oh right,” he nods. “Popped the question. [Pause]  Daddy, want to play Mega Bloks with me?”

Hardy Har Har and a New Car

The weekend before last, we bought this:

And we moved out of this:

And into this:

I’ve been in my new job for eight days now. While I’m sure there is a honeymoon phase for every new relationship (romantic, friendship, job, etc.), that knowledge doesn’t keep us from loving it each time. My coworkers are great. My office is great. My Board is great. And the work that we do is phenomenal. I get to hang out with incredible women. They are intelligent, driven, socially active and funny. Last week I had three lunches with Board members: the board chair and two co-founders. In each one, it felt like an honor to be there. And not because any of them are high falutin, exactly the opposite. They all do important work in their fields AND are dedicated to Hardy Girls. I felt the same rush as when they offered me the position. The same sense of flattery and accomplishment. And, listening to each of them talk about the organization, I realize what I have to contribute.

I do miss the girls of MCI. They threw me a going away party and expressed real sadness at my departure. That, too, was flattering. They meant (mean) a lot to me and to know the feeling was mutual makes it that much more poignant.

For awhile, I kept saying I was just going to get a straight-forward job. Data-entry or retail. Something that requires skill, but a job I could leave at work. I was struggling with work encroaching my home life. That originally “working from home” sounded like a perfect solution to having babies and a job, but when your jobs don’t end and you’re on call personally and professionally basically all the time, time is like San Diego weather: it passes just as fast, but you have nothing to show for it. My mother and therapist (two separate people, just thought I’d clarify since my mother fills both roles occasionally) both said I wouldn’t happy in a straight-forward job. That I’d be typing or filing or answering phones and wondering why I wasn’t holding my new, happy, mellow, easier-than-making-cake-from-a-box baby. But I want something easy, I whined to both of them separately. Easy makes your brain atrophy, they both said separately. And they were right, as mothers and therapists often are.

In my new job, as I told my mom, it feels like my soul is refilling. I come home with more energy. I enjoy going to work. I feel lucky to have this job - a job I didn’t even really know was my life’s work until I started it. I believe most of the world’s problems can be solved (or at least greatly improved) by women. Therefore, these aren’t just women’s issues, they are people’s issues. When we limit each other so much, we limit our world. And who wants a limited world except for those 1% of people who aren’t limited (at least financially). I learned this week that girls’ ambitions peak at age 8. This breaks my heart. I still wanted to be president at that age. (If you really want to cry, google Dora, Strawberry Shortcake or Rainbow Brite makeovers - what is wrong in the world!?!?)

Point is, this job is a two-fer (It’s probably actually like a six-fer, but let’s just focus on two right now.) I’ve always felt the struggle of motherhood and working - not a unique thing, I know. But I have to work. In this position though, when I go to work, I feel like I’m helping to create the world I want for my sons. Maybe being away from them for a purpose only dissuades my guilt and they’ll still be talking about their absent mother in therapy in however many years, but I like to think not. I like to think they’ll be as proud of their mother as I know I will be (am) of them. I like to think my role here will teach me how to raise two kind, empathetic, considerate, intelligent, hardy boys who will be excited to be surrounded by so many hardy girls.

Cat out of Bag

Again, I’ve started multiple blogs since my last posting. I made those aprons I was talking about:

I also finished the poodle tree skirt for my mother:

 

But, I’ve had some news for awhile and haven’t been able to share it. So any time I’ve started a posting, there’s the Tourettes of “don’t say it yet” that spills out of me.

I have a new job. I start on Thursday. Yes, this Thursday. What that means for us is moving, getting another car, not living in a dorm, not being home with the kids, me working full time outside of our living room for the first time since before Henry was born and, well, big change.

I’m very excited (and very nervous). I’ll be President of Hardy Girls Healthy Women. On my very first trip to Maine in 2009, I saw their storefront when out with my mother-in-law. I liked their logo and looked them up when I got in front of a computer next. I’ve been following them ever since. It is an awesome nonprofit dedicated to the health and well being of girls and women. The vision is that all girls and women experience equality, independence, and safety in their everyday lives. To that end, the mission is to create opportunities, develop programs, and provide services that empower them. The coolest part is this (from the website):

Although many, if not most, national programs designed to support girls in the past 15 years have focused on self-esteem and other internal, psychological issues, HGHW is one of the few programs that addresses girls' lives in relational and social contexts. We believe that it is not the girls, but rather the culture in which they live that is in need of repair. The developmental psychology concept of "hardiness" shifts attention from the individual to their environment-families, schools, and community organizations- as the key agents of change in girls' lives.

So, when the president position opened up, I had to apply, what with my years-long professional crush on them. I’m still a little shocked I was chosen, but I think there is that fear of being discovered as a fraud in most of us, regardless of your experience and competence.

I’ve always considered myself a feminist. I went to an all-girls high school. Worked for WIC. Worked for Girl Scouts. But it really wasn’t until I became a mother (of two boys, go figure) that my feminism went into full force. This isn’t the world I want for them. Too many stories about victims and sexual assault and commercials with boobs and thighs. I’m saddened by how limiting we are of each other. And how those limitations make all of us for the worse. Why is the fact that our women politicians pioneered the shut-down of the shut-down not more prominent in the news? Why do people freak out when my 3-yr-old wears nail polish and pink, plastic light-up sandals? These things are important to me and I’m beyond thrilled to be leading an organization that addresses this and more.

Hope all of you had excellent holidays and your new year is starting off with something that thrills you.

 

Creativity required.

To begin with, Sullivan laughed today. Apparently me gnawing on his cheek is funny. He’s also such an easy baby. When I had Henry, he’s the type of baby I would want to punch parents in the face for having:

“He almost never fusses.”

“He sleeps through the night.”

“He smiles all the time.”

“Such a happy baby!”

Maybe I’m being rewarded for all the times I didn’t punch those parents. :)

I put him down on the chair today to hang out and kick for a bit, which he did, and then he did this:

So, as you can probably tell, things are better. I’m still pushing myself to do more creative things as an outlet. I started sewing aprons last spring sort of randomly. I've made five and have fabric for five more waiting for me. Here’s a few (I was seven months preggers in my pic):

And I have a few more to finish. For my birthday, my parents bought me a sewing machine because they said hand-sewing aprons seemed a little silly. My first project on the sewing machine was Henry’s Halloween costume. I made the shirt, hat and sword:

I’ve also been walking a bit (Sullivan loves being outside), finishing up some work-related projects and reading. And Monday, because I hadn’t done anything creative, in between rounds at work I whipped out a sestina. I love sestinas. I ignore the required couplets at the end so it doesn’t count as a traditional one, but eh.

Henry tells me he follows the moon,

pointing to the dark sky with markered hands

and kiwi-strawberry yogurt outlining his lips: a circle

of pink cream glowing on his face

from the blackness of the car. We were driving home,

stopped for seven minutes subject to a freight train.

“Where are the passengers on this train?”

he asks, naming the cars as they pass, the moon

blinking between them. “Are they all at home?”

I start to explain there are none, my hands

gesturing in my lap. I tilt my head to see his face

in the rearview, the blinking safety lights red circles

on his cheeks. When we drive on, the splotchy circles

pepper my vision and it’s like I’m still watching the train.

Parked, he asks for a piggyback ride, his moist fingers on my face,

the grass wet on my flip flops, the spotlight of moon

on the front door. He is heavy against me, but I need my hands

for the keys. “Hold on tight,” I tell him, “We’re almost home.”

In the dorm where we live (too many people to say home),

he asks to be let down and runs to announce himself. They encircle

him and after this greeting, he shys under their hands.

“We saw a caboose,” he yells, thudding in Thomas the Train

slippers. I let us in to a cramped living room lit by the moon

and Henry twists to take of his striped hoodie, his face

 serious with the task. “Brush your teeth and wash your face.”

I call, the words feeling more like home

than the place. In the bathroom on the stool, he moons

over the fish with their fake, blue eggs; ridiculous circles

bobbing in rocks. Henry leans over the crusty sink, his train

t-shirt polka-dotted with dirt and marker spots. “No hands

in the tank,” I remind him and, without a flinch, his hands

recoil as he smiles, his eyes looking at me but his face

turned away. He knows and in response peeps like a train

and tells me he doesn’t want to brush. “We get home,

we brush. That’s the plan.” “No deal,” he pouts as I turn him a half circle

to get at his teeth. There are no cavities on the moon.

Life after birth

You know what’s really not fun? Postpartum depression. It’s the pits. Here’s why:

·         Having baby #2 = cranky mom. Having PPD with baby #2 = cranky x 26

·         I can’t wear mascara to distract from the dark circles under my eyes because crying happens multiple times a day often at very inconvenient times.

·         It’s a challenge to feed another human when you have no appetite yourself.

·         Motivation plummets (aka, no blogging).

·         Baby #2 takes on the unattractive role of Obligation when I’d really like him to play more of Affection.

·         Baby #1 asks, “Are you happy, Mommy?” repeatedly which reminds me of why I can’t wear mascara.

·         I envy strangers who tell me how precious my baby is.

·         Fitting in therapy between getting Baby #1 to school and feeding Baby #2 while still doing my job.

·         Returning to work after four weeks of maternity leave and still feeling exposed like a grape with the skin off.  

As I write this it feels like I’m making light of it. Trying to be funny for my blog. The same way I wrote about Sullivan’s birth. But both were more than “not fun.” I have PTSD moments from his birth and PPD brings up such sadness. Something that would make a hollow sound if you could hit it. It’s embarrassing, if I’m being honest with myself. Not immediately loving the baby I housed for nine months. I compare it to going on a really bad first date (his emergency birth) and waking up married to the person. And everyone around me, even those not related to him, want to hold him and coo and tell me how cute he is. How lucky I am to have this beautiful, healthy baby.

But my body betrays me: simultaneously withholding serotonin and responding with milk to his cries. He craves the warmth of my body, curling around me and falling asleep on my chest. He clutches my fingers, his tiny nails digging into my skin. And I hold him, feed him, rock him, soothe him, change him, stroke his head, while feeling… well, not so much. It’s not negative feelings I have. But it’s like caring for a stranger. Which, in a way, is exactly what it is.

Recently, there’s been some prickling through the numbness. He’s starting to smile with regularity. I put my face close to his and ask for one. He holds my eyes with his, then the gaze tracks to my mouth and his lips pull up. And I find myself talking to him more. The silly terms of endearment coming without thought. Pumpkin head. Biscuit pie. Sweet boy.

I try not to blame myself or judge any more than I’m already prone to do. I’ve heard lots of metaphors for depression and even more for coming out of it. Like a black and white movie that rainbows into Technicolor. The off-beat metronome that regains rhythm. But it’s frustrating enough when the depression disrupts my own life. That it dislocates my barnacle feels unforgivable. My mantra becomes: He will be fine. We will be fine. until the moments of color outgrow the monochromatic beginning.

Cost/Benefit Analysis... Sorta

Things that are easier with child #2

• This time you know they don't break that easily
• You've been sleep deprived since the arrival of child #1 so the transition isn't as shocking
• Shopping/registering for stuff (since you know you don't need 90% of it) and already having most of what you need
• Realizing that noise while baby is sleeping is a good thing and NEVER get them used to silence
• Having two sets of grandparents within a 20 mile radius
• Having a co-sleeper

Things that are harder with child #2

• Child #1
• Mastitis
• Nipple confusion because of giving a bottle because of mastitis
• Working from home, but still having to interact with people (ie. giving new student and her parents a tour while leaking from my left breast)
• Not being a horrible, snappy, cranky parent to child #1
• Protecting child #2 from child #1 while still encouraging big brotherhood
• Convincing child #2 that 8pm to 6am is nighttime/bedtime/sleeptime... not 4am to 10am and most of the day
• Not waking child #1 while child #2 screams from gas during said non-sleeping, nighttime hours
• Imagining a functioning life with two children