Three

Three years ago on this day, I gave birth to my last baby. It was a wild ride. Her heart stopped beating, my blood pressure plummeted, and at one point it looked like an operation was inevitable. But as babies have their own ideas about how or when they will be born, she decided to just come on out in a bit of a hurry.

My baby girl turns three today. She's still such a baby to me. It's hard to remember, that at this age both her older brother and sister were already the "big" kids. In many ways she is a big kid. She is completely weaned, she walks, she talks, she has a mind of her own and is not afraid to express it (and does she ever!), she no longer wears diapers (that was one milestone I was not sad to see pass) and can even dress herself.

But today she cried and told me "I don't want to be three! I want to be a baby!"

Luckily, she will always get to be my baby.

We Now Return To Our Regularly Scheduled Programming

Meredith was staying at Grandma's over night for the first time on Monday night so I could chaperon Sabrina's field trip to the Carnegie Museum on Tuesday.

Apparently she did not sleep well. Correction. They did not sleep well. It is a well-known fact that when a two year old does not sleep well the rest of the household is not permitted to sleep well.

I think my Mother-in-Law fussed too much. I told her to put her in her jammies, give her her books and animals, leave a nightlight on and close the door.

Meredith kept telling her she couldn't see and needed a light on. So Grandma, being a Grandma (read: SUCKER) put the dresser lamp on which is a full blown light up the room style lamp.

Well of COURSE she didn't fall asleep with that on! Around 10:00 p.m. Meredith cheerfully announced "I'm all done sleeping now!"

My Mother-In-Law is a bit of a throwback to pre-feminism. She feels compelled to pick up after, cook, clean and generally wait on the males in her life. (My husband tried expecting me to wait on him hand and foot once. He's still waiting.) Therefore when her significant other arises to work in a bakery at 5:00 a.m. my Mother-in-Law feels compelled to go and make him breakfast.

My Mother-in-Law SWEARS she was quiet as a mouse (she slept in the bedroom with Meredith) and she SWEARS she did not wake her up. But it just seems awful coincidental that Meredith also just happened to wake up at 5:00 a.m.

You might say she was a wee bit overtired last night which may or may not have contributed to her antics here at home. She was in bed by sound asleep at 8:00p.m. when I got back from taking Sabrina Christmas Caroling with her Girl Scout Troop (Chaperoning a school field trip AND Christmas Caroling in one day - do I get Mother of the Year Award or what? Where's that Supermom cape?).

At precisely 1:19 a.m. (yes I looked) I was woken out of a sound sleep by Meredith SCREAMING, not requesting, not demanding, not even merely shouting at me: "I WANT MILK WITH ICE!" (This is how Dave drinks his milk and he's inflicted it on Jamie and Meredith).

Dave got up (she even overcame the Daddy Powers of Superhuman Lack of Night Hearing) and offered her a drink of water which she batted away and continued to demand milk with ice. At which point Dave stated (yelled) "NO!" and "BE QUIET!" which of course just made her freak out more. Big help Dave thanks. And why is that? Why is it that Daddies can simply raise their voice and reduce a child to tears but I can stand and bellow at them at decibels to make ears bleed and they all just continue on as if I were merely commenting on the weather?

So he moves downstairs because it's not fair that he got up with them for all the night waking for the past eight and a half years. Oh wait no. That was me.

I just ignored her terroristic threats as best as one can when one is sharing the room with a small version of Mussolini, until she calmed down enough and said "But I'm thiiiiiiiiiiiirsty." I asked her again if she wanted a drink of water and she said yes so I got her one and she laid down and went immediately back to sleep.

She has no memory of any of it this morning that I can tell.

I am currently setting up the IV line with coffee.

And On The Eighth Day, God Created Starbucks

I apologize for the crappy photo quality. I own what is affectionately called a "welfare phone." It is strictly pre-pay and completely lacking in bells and whistles. Which is just fine with me. I've never found the need for a portable phone that can take movies, play music, speak in 5 languages, cook dinner and walk the dog.

Well, the cooking dinner part might be okay.

I promise you I have made the photo as big as possible without losing all resolution.


Meredith loves this water fountain. She adores this water fountain. It's in a beautiful courtyard in a park-like setting. You can take a short walk down a beautiful brick pathway to a nearby trail where you can walk along the river.

All I have to do is ask "Meredith, do you want to go to the fountain?" and she has a Pavlovian response of cheering, smiles and shouts of "Hurry up Mama! LET'S GO!"

I confess I have my own Pavlovian response to thoughts of this water fountain for a slightly different reason. Oh it's a beautiful place and I love our quiet mornings together (I'm starting to get used to this 2 older kids in school thing) and it's so pretty and relaxing to walk along the river's edge. But if you look closely at the background you will discover my true motivation for visiting this fountain a little too regularly lately.

Yes boys and girls, that's a Starbucks. Coffees, and Frappucinos, and Lattes, Oh my!

This morning we pulled into a parking space and as we got out of the car, Meredith told me, "Mama, I don't want to go to the Fountain House first."

I'm thinking this might be an indication we've been there a little too often.

One Of The Many Things We'll Disagree On Over The Years

I could have stayed for another week or five.

Meredith, not so much.

I'll Give You Thirty Xanax If You Promise To Leave The Building Now

We're leaving for Myrtle Beach on Friday. I can't wait to be there. It's the getting there I'm not real thrilled about. Two days, locked in a car with a seven, five and two year old is enough to drive anyone over the edge. Last year we didn't even get out of Pittsburgh before someone was whining they were hungry and bored.

Just to make things a little more exciting this year, Sabrina has developed something called Daytime Urinary Frequency Syndrome. I'm not making this up. God knows I wish I was. It's pretty self-explanatory. Basically it means she feels the need to use the bathroom 30-40 times a day, sometimes as often as every 10 minutes. And it's more intense when she's in the car.

I've also developed anxiety attacks while riding or driving on a highway.

Two day car trip. Frequent Urination. Toddler. Panic attacks. Yeah. Good times.

So today was my appointment to see the doctor to discuss the upcoming trip in hopes of some chemical assistance. I'm not sure why I thought it was a good idea to make the appointment for a Tuesday afternoon right in the middle of nap time, when I had no hope of a babysitter. I've taken all three of them out before, but for my sanity and the benefit of all mankind, I try really hard not to loose the Triumvirate of Terror on humanity. But no choice today, so along they went.

It went well at first. My Doctor has a small children's area in her waiting room with an activity table and two shelves of books. This seemed to do the trick until Meredith announced, "I pooped."

Why oh why, would a doctor's office provide a children's area, but no available changing table in the bathroom? I was called back to the examining room about when I made this discovery, so I figured, "fine, I'll change her on the examining table." Except in an unusual turn of events, the doctor appeared to see me promptly. Alright, other than a suspicious fragrance wafting from Meredith's general vicinity, things were still under control. The children were mostly quiet and well-behaved, charmed by my uncharacteristic willingness to allow them to touch my iPod.

As I sat discussing my anxiety and stress levels and the possibility of a prescription, Meredith quietly walked up to me and reminded me gently that she pooped. I turned to acknowledge her statement.

She brought me evidence.

On her thumb.

Which was now grasping my shirt.

Luckily my doctor possesses both a sense of humor and two children of her own.

She immediately sat down and wrote a prescription; there was no further proof of my need for drugs required.

She Keeps Her Halo Well Hidden

Biggie Size That Wine Please

I may have mentioned that I don't like needles. I would be a very very bad heroin addict. I have no tattoos, not because I don't approve or dislike them, but because they involve needles. Hell I passed out getting my ears pierced. All two and a half times. Including the one I did myself. Which is why it's two and HALF times pierced. It's hard to pierce the other side when you're semi-conscious.

And it's not even a pain thing. I'm pretty tough. I gave birth three times, only one of which had a successful epidural (But I sure as heck didn't want to see that needle they put in my spine). Something in my brain cannot tolerate the thought of an object penetrating or slicing skin. Once you're through the skin I'm cool. I can watch operations on television. Blood doesn't faze me. In college Biology I cut a deal with my lab partners. When it came time to do a Nephrectomy or Hepatectomy on our lab rats, I handled all the surgical details. As long as someone else made the incision.

When I was a child, my Pediatrician (Dr. Milton G. Tall, may he rest in peace) called me "Tiger Mary." Only half affectionately. The other half was genuine fear for his life and limbs. When he would walk in the examining room, he would immediately put his hands up in the classic "I surrender" gesture and say "No shot today." Of course this backfired when he walked in and didn't say it and I commenced to shriek and hide under the table necessitating a nurse to come in and assist my mother in pinning me down to the table.

I have passed on the gene.

Yesterday was Jamie's yearly check-up. I won't give my kids too much information ahead of time. No sense having them anticipate longer than necessary. But when asked the direct question, "Am I getting a shot?" I will not lie. I didn't appreciate being lied to as a child and won't do it to mine.

So he knew it was coming. And he held it together pretty well for most of the appointment, even loosening up enough to tell the Pediatrician about his recent pirate themed birthday party. But as soon as the good doctor left and sent the nurse back in, all bets were off. And as if one crying, shrieking child wasn't enough, Meredith decided to get hysterical in sympathy.

When the nurse instructed me to hold him on my lap with his legs tucked and locked between mine, and a bear hug around his arms holding his left arm as still as possible, I had sudden flashbacks to being on the receiving end of this situation. The nurse offered to get someone to hold Meredith, but I knew that in her current state, a perfect stranger picking her up would only increase the decibels coming from her mouth, so I made the decision to let her cry while I attended to the child with the more immediate needs.

Of course everyone survived, with a bright blue Band-Aid, small dents to my sanity and one minor bruise to my shin.

Happy Meals will wash away a multitude of perceived wrongs. And an Iced Mocha for Mom doesn't hurt either.

If only we could get McDonald's to serve alcohol, the world would be complete.

You Can't Polish A Turd (Especially When There's Corn In It)

SOMEONE has kindly reminded me I have been delinquent in my blogging duties (thank you Laura, how can I resist when you flatter me so?) so I have settled in here with a cup of coffee determined to write something.

DISCLAIMER: I cannot be held responsible for content. All potty humor forthcoming is a product of blogging under "duress", the fact that I recently read two hilarious pieces involving colon cleansing and chili respectively, and the fact that having three children just naturally means your life involves copious amount of poo.

We are not worrying too much right now about attempting potty training yet. And by "we" of course I mean me. There is no "we" when it comes to potty training believe you me. The other parental unit in this house abdicated all potty duties long ago. He seems to think our children just miraculously sit down on the toilet one day and produce waste products in a timely and tidy manner much the same way all laundry seems to appear in his drawers cleaned and folded as if the Laundry Fairy pays him a nightly visit. She got directions to our house from the Tooth Fairy. But I digress as I am wont to do.

So the only assistance I can count on in potty training is pretty much from the dog. But you really don't want to know what she does to help. No really. Even *I* have limits on what I will print here.

So anyway, I take the lazy approach to potty training. I figure it's going to happen somewhere around three years of age with or without my help. I know this from experience. Sabrina being my first child I thought it was time to potty train somewhere around 18 months of age. She disagreed. To the point where she developed severe constipation involving years of laxative therapy from trying to hold in her poop so she didn't have to use that potty. And after being exasperated for a year and a half, tearing my hair out and being certain the girl would have to pack diapers in her lunchbox, one day shortly after she turned three she solemnly announced to my mother "I have to use the potty all the time now."

And she did. From that day forward.

So I finally figured out the important lesson of "You can lead a child to the toilet but you cannot make them poop." The dog on the other hand will be happy to be led to the toilet and drink anything available, never mind mellow yellow or brown not yet flushed down.

Hmmmm, it seems I really don't have limits on what I will talk about here.

Moving right along.

Jamie was much easier to potty train once I realized it was really just a matter of providing him with tools (a convenient potty) and incentive (kids don't like when you leave their diaper off and the pee runs down their legs), and they learn pretty quickly to use the potty. Granted Jamie had more of a fire hose effect, but honestly, I let him run around bare-ass for a few days and that was really all it took. Yes it involved cleaning up some pee, but after three kids, a dog and a cat, I'm kind of used to that by now no?

But I can honestly say, none of my kids ever pooped without a diaper on or a potty under their butts.

So the other day, Meredith removed her diaper. She likes to do this. When you're two, something as simple as this is a major achievement in your life. She was going to take a nap soon so I felt no need to rush over and put a new one on for the 10-15 minutes before she took her nap. Besides I was very busy with important work, AKA surfing the Internet.

So she carried on playing with Play-Doh at the dining room table sans pants. And I will confess I forgot she wasn't wearing a diaper (I miss my brain cells sometimes), so when she sounded a little more alarmed than normal when she said "Mama poop!" it surprised me a little.

Then the hamster stirred from his Internet induced coma, got on his wheel with a creaky groan, and the synapses began to fire again.

Despite her complete willingness, I thwarted all of the dog's efforts to help clean up.

The dog won't eat the damn Cheerios the kids drop on the floor like snowflakes, but she's more than willing to entertain the end result.

Two

My baby. Forever you will be saddled with that moniker. One by one the other two gained a sibling and ceased to be the baby.

You are my last and final.

This saddens me because you are so obviously not a baby anymore and as you grow each day you become less an extension of me and more, well.........YOU.

But I am also selfishly cheerful. You see, each time I had a new baby, it felt like a slight betrayal of my previous "baby." Oh everyone adjusts and shifts and settles into their new position of oldest, middle, first, Big. But each time, I was just a little sad that my baby no longer held the position of "baby".

For better or worse, hate it, like it or love it, Meredith, you get to stay my baby. Happy birthday Baby Right Now.

Fanfare For The Common Man

This morning I was awoken by a not-quite-but-pretty-darn-close-to-two-year-old.

She had stripped off her pajamas, stood up straight and tall in her crib and announced,

"TA-DA!"

Who else but a Mom could be lucky enough to get this kind of greeting in the morning?

I'm just grateful she left the diaper on.

An Open Letter to Mother Nature

Dearest Mother Nature (Can I call you Mom?),

I realize this is the time of year when you have the most fun. It must be amusing to watch us mere mortals desperately attempt to predict your next move, and then completely change your course of action.

Today was an excellent case in point. We had a Very Important Doctor's Appointment today. You see, the boy has asthma and allergies. He has a wonderful doctor who attends to these things. But because he is such a wonderful doctor and pretty much the head of everything that has anything to do with asthma and allergies in Pittsburgh, and has degrees in such things coming out the wazoo (that is medical terminology coming straight from Harvard School of Medicine, I swear. I looked it up), it takes approximately three years to get an appointment to see the man. Really. We put Jamie on the waiting list before he was born. Just in case.

The weatherman, who obviously hasn't been calling you often enough like a good son should, assured me that you would be sending us less than an inch of snow today. Just in case your ruler was broken, here is a handy visual for you of what less than 1 inch of snow DOESN'T look like:That, by the way, is my van sitting exactly where I had to leave it in NOT less than 1 inch of snow after we attempted to visit the Very Important Doctor who was completely understanding of my need to cancel today's appointment and was kind enough to reschedule me for next year.

May I also point out that toddlers, after being cooped up in the house for over a week, are NOT amused by aborted missions out of the house. Again, I provide you with a helpful visual.
That amount of snot indicates a serious level of displeasure. Being a Mom and all, I'm sure you can understand that an irritable disposition in a toddler can make for a less than enjoyable day for anyone within a 5 mile radius.

By the way, I completely realize you are not responsible for this development, but just wanted to let you know that my television stopped working this morning, so your timing really sucks.

Love,
Irishembi

If Only ALL The Diaper Contents Came Wrapped In Plastic

Continuing the trend of a preference for junk food as opposed to actual FOOD, Meredith chose not to eat her lunch today.

Her lunch today was one of those Kid Cuisine meals. Heck they barely even qualify as real food. It's about as close as you can get to McDonald's in the comfort of your own home. If you have children already, you know that you may as well just go ahead and surrender to the ubiquitous chicken nugget. If you have no children, continue on swearing you will NEVER feed your child that crap. I promise to never say "I told you so" later.

Today, not even the chicken nuggets were acceptable. Instead she went straight for the low drawer where her Daddy keeps his stash of Hostess cupcakes. Why he insists on keeping them there I cannot explain. Unless he secretly wants to recruit a new addict.

I flatly refused to open it for her. Chicken nuggets may not be health food, but they definitely provide at least marginally more nutrition than a cupcake. This caused much weeping and wailing and screeching words at me, some of which were intelligible. I'd provide the translation but I think she used a lot of vulgar language, and I try to keep it clean here folks.

At 1:00 p.m. when neither of us had given up butting heads and proved that we were each equally as stubborn-willed, I ended the game by demonstrating that sometimes might does make right. I won the battle by simply scooping her up bodily and announcing it was time for a nap.

I noticed it was also time for a diaper change. Her diaper had reached that squishy consistency and was drooping somewhere around the vicinity of her knees.

However I didn't remember it ever being quite so......crackly.

Perhaps she was stashing the plastic wrapped cupcake in her pants to sustain herself during the long hard nap ahead.

Babel Fish

I was making Meredith a grilled cheese sandwich today. As I grilled I popped a mini Reese's Cup in my mouth (Ahem. The diet starts again on MONDAY.) and was totally busted.

She howled "CAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANDY! Um Um TOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

I'm pretty sure that translates to "I saw that, you evil serving wench! Now hand over the candy. And if you think I'm eating that sandwich you've lost your mind."

Just a loose translation mind you.

Tutorial - How To Say "Take That Photo At Your Peril" Without Words

Monsters - They're Not Just Eating Cookies Anymore

The other day when Meredith and I got up in the morning she accompanied me to the bathroom. This is a regular occurrence. In fact, I'm not certain my bladder can perform its duty without one or more pairs of eyes watching. You've heard of "shy bladder"? My bladder is an attention whore.

As I moved to wash my hands in the sink I said to Meredith in my usual happy sing-song-y voice that I use to narrate our day, "Did you see that little monster come up here to see us?"

I was referring of course to Hermione, AKA Kitten of Doom.

But Meredith responded by opening her eyes wide with fear and sidling up to my leg and latching on with a death grip, and quietly, but clearly said for the first time that I know of, "Scared."

I wasn't certain if it was the word "monster" that had caused this reaction or if it was possibly the actual kitten. God knows she scares me when my bare feet are exposed to her guerrilla warfare tactics.

Since my mind is like a steel sieve, by that evening I had opportunity to use the word monster with her again and find out. This time I was changing her diaper and she was happily chattering away and playing with a wipey. Again it was the cat that inspired me to say, "Here comes the little monster to see you!"

I didn't know a toddler could levitate off a changing table.

I did my best to point out the kitten, and she saw her, and acknowledged her, but frantically looked in all directions to see when and where this OTHER monster might be coming from.

I couldn't figure out exactly how she would have learned to associate the word monster with anything other than a friendly blue Muppet that devours cookies and the occasional letter of the day. And then I hearkened back to the days of Jamie's toddlerdom. When his big sister would regale him with tales at night of the monsters that lived under his bed and in his closet, ensuring chaos at bedtime and effectively procrastinating actual bedtime.

I must remember to thank Jamie for passing on the tradition of education in the art of nightmare induction.

Ass, Bitten

So there I was all bragging about my wonderful, compliant, EASY kid.

Oh yes, she actually loves the breathing treatments. That dinosaur mask is toddler gold! She won't take it off! What? You mean your kid won't sit still for those treatments? You poor dear soul. Excuse me while I polish my superiority complex.

My initial instincts were correct. The kid doesn't think the breathing treatments are so cool. We're down to sitting on the toddler pinning her arms together for eight minutes.

Eight...........loooooooooong....................minutes.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone. You go ahead and enjoy your turkey and stuffing.

I'll be over here eating Humble Pie.

Good Call

Despite the continued busy signal at the pediatrician's office, I decided it would be best to forge ahead and brave the pediatrician's office. Something in Meredith's cough was setting off my maternal antennae.

Turns out she has a double ear infection, but more importantly, she was wheezing a fair amount and will require breathing treatments. This involves a medication called Albuterol (normally used for asthma) blown into her face.

The last time she had these breathing treatments it didn't go so well, as chronicled by clicking here.

I realize she was only 6 months old at the time, but I figured if it was that difficult to pin her down and keep her still while she was basically a very cute pillow that had just learned to sit up, it would be next to impossible to convince her to do it now that she's a fully functional, walking, running and (back) talking small human with very defined opinions of what she will and will not (no how no way) do.

Those Irish eyes are smiling over the much coveted dinosaur mask. In fact, the only tantrums that have occurred came when I attempted to take the mask off.

All I can say is my kid is weird. Wonderful and delightful, but weird.

It Must Be A Day Ending In "Y"

You know it's bad when Meredith's newest phrase is "runny nose".

Meredith is sick. It's one of those low grade sick things that you sort of forget when it started, but you wake up one day and think, "Hmmmmm, that has been going on for awhile, now did that start this month or last month?"

Such is life with three small petri dishes.

I debated taking her to see the doctor this morning, but when I called the line was busy. As in busy signal, not put on hold to listen to a minimum of 20 minutes of admonitions to make an appointment for a flu shot, accompanied by the warning that my insurance may not cover all of my child's well-visits. No, that kind of busy I'm used to.

But a busy signal on a Monday morning at the pediatrician's office when they have several incoming phone lines is a Very Bad Sign.

Since we don't need to catch any new and interesting exotic viruses right now - we're doing just fine finding them on our own thank you very much - I made the decision to let it lie.

But my children have a habit of getting really sick on Sundays and holidays, therefore I'm guessing it would be prudent to take her before Thursday (Thanksgiving Holiday for my international readers). Otherwise I'll be stuck talking to the lady at the answering service who is really pissed off that she had to work today, and will flip a coin to decide if she will actually tell the on-call doctor that I called.

Screaming Earache Child + All Day Family Togetherness = Mom calling HER doctor to beg for tranquilizers.

Someday In Therapy She'll STILL Blame Me For Everything

I am on day three of getting up at an hour that involves a 3 or 4. In a past life the only time I would see that hour on a clock would involve copious amounts of tequila.

Nobody was serving tequila in my bedroom last night.

In general I follow the principles of what is called Attachment Parenting. If you Google that please ignore that weird video of the woman cheering because her kid did a poo on the floor at Wal-Mart.

Mostly it just means that I feel there is nothing wrong with attending to your child's needs in a way that is comfortable to both of you. I breastfeed my kids on demand (ignore that video of the woman nursing her seven year old too - I don't do that either), I will let them sleep in my bed, I carry them around as much as they want when they are babies, and most of all, I don't subscribe to the "Cry It Out" or "CIO" method to get my kids to sleep.

And since Meredith's crib is in my bedroom she'd basically be crying it out right there in my left ear anyway.

So instead we're practicing the CIO method for Mommies.

I cry while she doesn't sleep.

Do You Think This Was How It All Began For Ralph Lauren?

Jamie is a pretty normal four year old boy. He likes to play rough. He leaps and climbs and rolls and jumps and he seems to have a knack for getting dirty. But he does it all while impeccably dressed.

Don't get me wrong. He's not one of those foppish young boys that wears suits and little ties. But he does appreciate a nice pair of dress shoes. Or any shoes for that matter. He flatly refuses to be without shoes and socks at all times that he is not actually in bed. Sandals are even beneath him. And he will sometimes refuse to wear shoes that he deems too dirty or old looking.

His favorite thing to wear is one of his "handsome shirts." Handsome shirts are generally short sleeve polos or collared rugby shirts. He would wear one every day if I allowed it.
And for the most part I allow it. What my children wear is mostly up to the them as long as it is temperature appropriate. I learned early to pick my battles and clothing choice was one I was willing to forfeit.

But he also appreciates girls' clothing. No, no, no, he doesn't WEAR it. Dave's pretty tolerant, but I think even he might be bothered if I sent Jamie to school in a dress. But he's always ready with a compliment - or critique - of what I or his sisters are wearing. And it's genuinely insightful and accurate.

The day last year when his older sister came home from school and Jamie earnestly asked, "Sabrina did your friends like your new capri pants?" I thought this really isn't normal three year old boy behavior.

My girls on the other hand?

Well they inherited the "What Not To Wear" gene directly from their mother.