Surprise!

Imagine my horror when I opened this week’s shopping list for the cleanse and saw….

An Enema.

Two of them.

I should have known.  I guess that’s why they call it a cleanse.

When A Parent’s ‘I Love You’ Means ‘Do As I Say’

Love the Alfie Kohn in the New York Times this week.

Letter to Henry Wallace, Summer 2009

Dear Henry,

I know it’s been awhile since the last letter.  It doesn’t mean I love you any less.  I’ve learned to fit my life into 140 character updates while I’m juggling two careers is all.  But now I’ve finally dropped the PR, for the most part, mostly so I could have more time to annoy you with pesky questions like, “Henry, why are you sticking that tampon in your nose?”, “Henry, is that your poop or the dog’s poop on the floor?”, and “Henry, was that a french press you just threw at Nacho’s head?”

Lots of big life changes for you over the summer.  After waiting for you to wean yourself of the boobie, I decided to take matters into my own hands.  It was time.  I felt like boobs had become for you what straightening sheets is for me: a compulsion.  Like maybe you really were tired of ordering the caesar salad every single time, but since it was on the menu and you knew you liked it you had to stick with it.  The dressing is just so hard to get right.  But then someone showed you the club sandwich and you realized, oh, snap, what have I been doing all these years? You thought the caesar salad was the main meal but you realized it could be a prelude to something bigger and better.  You could still order it, have a few bites, but then you move on.  Or, in your case, you can still lift up my shirt, ask to see my “mountains” (which are now flat as flapjacks), and stick them in your “eye, other eye, ear, other ear, and nose.”  Whatever works.  I know someday you’ll be able to soothe yourself, but in the meantime, I’m just so over the moon to still have this close relationship with you without the breastfeeding component that I will allow most any fetish.

After months and months—since January, really— of the stripping and pissing the bed so as not to piss your diaper routine (despite duct tape and backwards zipped pajamas), we bit the bullet and potty trained you.  Perhaps it would be more accurate to say you potty trained us.  It took a weekend— and that was more us getting used to the idea and remembering to take you to the bathroom upon departures and arrivals.  Dinners may be difficult: you will only eat oatmeal, eggs, applesauce, nut butters and toast; driving can be repetititve: you will only listen to Elton John, over and over and over again; dressing in the morning can be a struggle since you hate wearing clothes and shoes.  But you love wearing underwear and you know how you like it: clean.  You get really offended when I bring out the pull-up for overnights, but you know, I’m just not ready to go there yet.  We tried that once (on accident) and I woke up in a puddle of pee.  Since I didn’t have the requisite 12 shots of tequila it would take for me to wet the bed, I’m pretty sure it was you.

So that brings me to our last big change which is that you’re back in our bed again for the most part.  I actually really love it now that you’re not attached to my boob the entire night.  I can actually sleep!  With you in the bed! It took me awhile to get used to the fact that those hands in my shirt waking me up for the day at 5:30AM were not your father’s, but once I hear your little voice asking for a kiss or to see the mountains or go get a snack in the kitchen and go to the lake for a run, I remember.  Once Ikea gets the bed we want for you back in stock, I’m sure this will all change (yeah? maybe?), but for now it’s the sweetest part of my day and totally makes the early wakeup calls worth it.

Love,
Mama

New World Record

Tonight I breastfed a frog, a lizard, a cheetah, a cat, a doll, and a toddler.

Did the Universe Just Slap Me?

Total weirdness: On the day Henry was born, Buehrle pitched a no-hitter.  Today, the day HW was conceived, Buehrle pitched a perfect game.

And my maiden name was Pitcher.

Like Father, Like Son

I should never have laughed at the story where Matt crawled up in his older brother’s bunk in the middle of the night and bashed him in the forehead with a metal dumptruck.  When I picked up Henry from school today, I was informed that he hit a 4-year-old over the head with a shovel and the boy had to get stitches.  And in the time I was being told this, he picked up a basket and threw it at a girl’s face and she started crying.

I guess it’s time to go spend this week’s paycheck on koosh balls so we can practice throwing soft objects vs. throwing hard objects.  And throwing into space vs. throwing at people’s heads.

Our pediatrician always tells us how little boys are way more difficult than little girls and that by the time our friends who have girls start freaking out, we will be in the clear.  But this man has three boys himself.  Is he just trying to make himself feel better?  Because then our boys will be driving. Thank goodness I never laughed at *those* stories about Matt.

Welcome to Motherhood

As I was leaving the doctor’s office today, I glanced at the bottom half of the checkout sheet: “Diagnosis: weight gain & fatigue.”

A Healthy Way to Process Anger

It seems Henry has learned something that took me 32/33 years and countless therapy sessions to realize.  Actually, it’s a work in progress for me, still.  I’d say 90% of the tantrums occur when we are coming or going—transitions are a real bitch.  We were getting ready to leave for the morning, and the screaming started. Henry pulled his placemat out from underneath his dirty dishes and they broke into a million pieces.  He stopped for a second to look at the mess, looked up at me and said, “I’m frustrated, Mama!”  I asked him what we do when we’re frustrated and first he went and hit the door and cried even harder because it hurt.  But then he remembered and went to the couch and started hitting the pillows.  I joined in and then he looked at me and started laughing.  And we had a truly awesome rest of the morning.

Thanks, Carrie and Bernadette!

Scientists Say Buchers Are F*cked

Well, I wonder what they would say about a 25-month-old who has probably not napped 1/3 of the days of his life already:

No Nap Days Spell End of the World For Your Child

Henry is actually happy and incredibly focused (read: tenacious).  Except when he won’t nap on command—and then it’s really just me who’s unhappy and anxious.

Boundaries, Illuminated

Henry and I took a little walk after dinner last night, and we saw two very fat cats sleeping in a neighbor’s front yard.  Of course he wanted to go kiss them, and I told him that the kitties felt like being alone right now.  He furrowed his brow, nodded, looked at me and said “The kitties need their space.”

Rest assured I will be repeating this back to him when he’s begging for boobies at 2am.