Compromising Christmas

Holiday dilemma:

I grew up in a household that had HUGE Christmases.
-Big, live tree, decorated within an inch of its life.
-Gazillions of presents big and small for all five of us siblings, plus cousins, nieces, nephews, aunts, uncles, Grands, and friends of the family.
-Lots of decorations all around the house. It was kinda insane.
-Christmas cards sent to a hundred thousand people - and received from twice that many.
-Christmas music blaring in the house and in the car.
-Christmas dinners; Christmas cookies. Christmas fudge. Christmas weight gain.

But Lester grew up in a household where his mother -- a single woman who worked 6 days a week, sometimes 7 -- could afford just one big gift for her only child and one small gift. And that was during good years. There was plenty of warmth in his house because the two of them were best friends, and there was no shortage of love. But glitter and tinsel and fudge and credit card debt and singing Christmas cards? No. Not by a longshot.

I LOVED my Christmases growing up and can still vividly feel the warmth and emotion and excitement the holiday brought. But I can also see how there was way too much of an emphasis on demanding and getting lots of gifts, giving lots of gifts to others, and spending way too much money. And when I see the ritual repeated nowadays with my siblings' kids, I can really see just how ungrateful it makes them. They open one thing, toss it to the side and dive in to the pile for something else. When they run out of things to open, they pout. They count who has "the most" gifts and have temper tantrums if they feel slighted in any way. They trash their toys and leave a mess for the adults to clean up. By the day after Christmas, they're over the entire thing.

Meanwhile, Lester didn't exactly LOVE his super-sparse Christmases, but he definitely feels like he was much more appreciative of what his Mom was able to do each year, and is a more grateful and less materially-needy person now. (Except for shoes. That man loves shoes.) He's witnessed the carnage that occurs on Christmas Day with my siblings' kids and his takeaway is that he didn't miss much growing up, if that's the way it was for us.

So...now that we have our own kids, how do we combine the best parts of both our memories of and lessons-learned from Christmas?

This is a tough one.

Neither one of us wants to raise ungrateful, spoiled-brat, gimme-gimme, little "Me!-Me!-Me!" kids. But we differ on how to make sure we don't do that.

Lester wants us to go the one-big-gift, one-small-gift route. I appreciate the sentiment, but it still seems awfully austere to me. (Yes, I know this is the Davis Family Year of Austerity. But it's Christmas, good grief.)

I have 6 or 7 developmental toys I want to get the boys and some things to decorate and populate their new, bigger room. But I realize that it is silly to buy 18-month-olds a bunch of stuff to open on Christmas. So I don't know what to do. I'm really torn. I WANT them to have those toys and things for their new room. I DON'T want to start a tradition of three kids getting a glut of crap on Christmas.

This year, we're already eschewing the live tree ( a major part of Christmas to me) -- only because we have no confidence that the two rascals who live in our house won't pull all the ornaments off and try to climb up the tree, or splash in the water in the tree base, or yank on the light-strings, or tear open the presents that are there for other family members. In other words, just be general pains-in-the-neck the entire time the tree is up.

We're putting up a smallish, artificial, pre-lighted tree that is usually for decorating the back end of the house. This way, we can put it up on something where they can't reach it and still have at least something of a tree to speak of. But it's an artificial tree. It's small. It's not the same. (Waaaah!)

We're not sending Christmas cards. We're only buying gifts for children this year. I'll try to decorate the house some, but floor decorations are out this year (see our issue with putting up a live tree) so I'm limited there, too.

We certainly aren't going to Christmas Eve services with Cary and Dean anytime soon. At least not until they stop turning into the Grinch Jr. and Ebenezer Scrooge in miniature when they're overly tired.

So even CHURCH is getting left out of this Christmas. Bah humbug.

I'm feeling a little blue about all the minimalism, or maybe just a little underwhelmed.

I'm hoping that this is just a temporary, toned-down way of celebrating Christmas, until our boys are a bit older and we're finished with the Year (or Years) of Austerity. And I know that in some ways, things will pick up when those two things happen, especially when it comes to decorating and baking cookies and going to Tree of Lights festivals and watching "A Charlie Brown Christmas" together as a family and all that stuff that is so much a part of the holiday.

But I'm not sure where we'll end up even then when it comes to merging our very different ideas about the gift-giving part of our holiday traditions.

We're usually good about coming to a meeting of the minds about things. Let's pray this issue will be no different.

Big happiness in the little things

We had five full days off for the Thanksgiving break (including the weekend) and it was great to be able to spend so much time together, hanging in and hanging out. We played games and read books and ate meals together and it was lovely. (Why do we have to work again? Blah.)

So I am very,very, very thankful for honest-to-goodness quality time with my husband and babies. (Thank you, Lord.)

I am also very thankful that my brother Rashad is still alive to celebrate Thanksgiving (and Christmas and many holidays to come) with us. (Yessss, Lord! Thank you!)

Other things I am thankful for:

Cary and Dean's inaugural trip to the grocery store!

Yes, it took us 18-months to get these boys out to experience the magical world of the grocery store. It was always too hard with two infants, and then when they were new, unsure walkers, it wasn't any easier. Now that they're much more confident walkers, eliminating the need for a stroller and a cart, Lester felt like he could handle a trip to the store with them. In his report back he said the trip was..."fine." Not a ringing endorsement, but certainly not a total mess.
He said the babies sat in the car above for all of 10 minutes, and then they were done. They wanted to run around or be in the cart. They screamed because they saw cheese. They screamed because they saw milk. To keep them from totally losing it, Lester had to give them stolen contraband (string cheese -- which he did pay for, eventually.)
Note to Davis parents: Next time feed boys before going to grocery store and/or bring snacks.

I am also grateful for this video (shortened) of my boys, my Dad, my brother and my husband raking the leaves at my parents' house.
Things to note:
1. My brother!! Operating a leaf-blower!!! Alive! Well! Dressed like a homeless person! But here, with us, participating in family events just like old times! Praises and honor and glory to God!!
2. Dean "helping" put leaves in a trash bag.
3. Cary "raking" the leaves with a stick, and totally getting in my Dad's way.
4. Family togetherness that is worth more than anything.



(To keep this blog honest, I was going to add a section about all the things I'm NOT thankful for. Mostly family annoyances and growing pains-type-stuff. But you know what? I think I'll just leave this the way it is.)

Date day!

Since it is a holiday week, Lester and I took the day off to have date day!

Guess what was the first thing we did on our day off from work and babies?

We got our flu shots!! Yessss! We are so HAWT! lol...

(Seriously, folks, the flu is nothing to play with. If you haven't gotten yours yet, get it soon. There's some nasty stuff going around already this year!)

After getting stuck with needles, we went to a new Thai place that opened recently in midtown Baltimore. Can you say all kinds of AWESOME?

Then we went to a cute coffee shop, ordered holiday drinks and banana bread, and sat in a corner and just talked. It was really nice -- like way back when we were dating, and there was no end to the conversation topics we could come up with, despite the fact that our coffee had long gone cold, and our butts were sore from the wooden chairs.

Thankfully, we looked up from our chat-fest in time to see that we had 10 minutes to get to our movie -- The Descendants -- so we boogied on over and watched a real, full-fledged, grown-up movie (which is pretty good, actually, if you're thinking about seeing it). Just me and my sweetie pie, sharing a buttered popcorn. Heaven.

Delicious lunch. Coffee shop lounging. A cozy matinee. I'd say all in all, we had a truly wonderful, super great date day.

Note: To reprimand us for going out and having fun without them, the boys were NUTS when we got home, crying and whining like professionals, refusing their dinner, and generally acting the fool. I was excited to see them while we were driving home from the movie, but we put those crazies to bed before 7; that's how bad it was.

Lester said no good date goes unpunished.

But I'd do it again in a heartbeat.

What's in a name?

Lester and I STILL don't have a name for our baby.

I am 26 weeks today, and I know we have plenty of time, but it just seems so weird because by this time in my last pregnancy, we knew who both babies were and called them by name. (In the house that is. We kept their names a secret from the world until they were born).

Cary's name came from Lester's mom-- who died when he was just 19. Carrie (his mom) was the only parent Lester had, and she was his very best friend. They were seriously inseparable; even after he went away to college, they talked on the phone just about every day. She died of a heart attack, alone in her house, on Lester's birthday weekend before he could get home from school to go spend the weekend with her. :-(
I never got to meet his Mom, but I could tell from the stories he told me, and from Lester's amazing character and capacity for love, that she was a truly, wonderful woman. Even before we got married, we said if we ever had a baby boy, we'd name him Cary, after her.

So Cary got to be Cary -- as a result of being Baby A -- and all we had to do was come up with a name for Baby B.

Over the course of a week or so, we tossed out a few options, and vetoed most of them. (Funny: Both of us liked the name Grant for a boy, but you can't name one baby "Cary" and then name his brother "Grant." I mean, come on.)

But pretty much right after the gender scan, when we knew we were having two boys, we settled fairly quickly on Dean. I thought it sounded smart. Lester agreed and said it had the added benefit of sounding strong. So Dean it was. Just like that. (And we were right on the money with that one. Dean is SO Dean...)

Later on, after they were born, many people told us that the names sounded "Old Hollywood" to them, but we honestly hadn't thought of that when we named the boys. But now, when people ask us how to spell their names, we always say, "Cary, like Cary Grant. And Dean, like James Dean (or Dean Martin)."

Anyway, so now here we are with a girl child growing inside me. We did have a list of potential girl names picked out for Baby B when we didn't know what his/her gender was. But for various reasons, none of them work anymore. (We don't want to name this baby a family name, for one thing, because Cary has a family name, but Dean doesn't. No need to perpetuate the "middle child syndrome.")

We have tried to think of elegant-sounding "Old Hollywood" names, since we inadvertently started a theme here with the boys' names. But the only ones I like -- Ava, Grace and Lana -- won't work either. There are too many Avas these days (it's on all the most popular baby names lists, in the top 10, no matter which one you check); Lester doesn't like the name Grace; and my sister's youngest girl is named Alahna, but we just call her Lahna, for the most part.

And we've pretty much settled on short, one- or two-syllable names, so that eliminates hundreds and hundreds of perfectly good names out there.

Sooo...we're stuck.

To be truthful, we have agreed on three names, off and on, throughout this pregnancy. But then I always decide I don't like them anymore -- and I honestly can't tell you why. We'll just start calling her by the name we think we've decided on and then one day, it rings hollow in my ears.
"That's not her name anymore," I'll declare, pulling the covers back to get into bed at night. And Lester will look at me, sigh, and groan.

Yesterday, as I was doing the dishes, looking at her sonogram picture on the refrigerator, I just flat out asked her, "What is your name, child?!?"

And just like a girl, she is being coy. She won't tell me.

I'm hopeful that at some point -- soon -- she will. Until then...Curve Ball it is.

Emerging independence

In the mornings, the boys hang out upstairs with us while we get ready for work. They usually do a fairly good job of destroying the upstairs, but there's not much we can do, as we have to get ready and the boys are too young to play downstairs by themselves while we get dressed.

Or are they?

This morning, Cary decided that he was going to go downstairs, by himself. I was unaware that he had ventured to the first floor because Dean was still around distracting me by handing me stray bobby pins he found lying around, and pulling on Lester's phone chargers.
Then I heard the melodic sounds of "Old MacDonald" coming from downstairs.
"Where's Cary?" I yelled to Lester, who was in the next room.
"Downstairs," he said, nonchalantly.

My first reaction was to go get him, but then I thought about it. The baby gates are up. We've pretty much made sure the first floor is kid-friendly. What's the harm? He wanted to play with his toys, and we were taking too long getting ready, so he took matters into his own hands.
I decided to let him be.

A few minutes later, I noticed that it was awfully quiet down there. No B-I-N-G-O. No annoying Cookie Monster "C-is-for cookie," toy going off incessantly. Just quiet.

I leaned over the banister and yelled: "CARE-EEE?"

"Hmmm?" he said.

"What are you doing?"

To which, my 18-month-old child actually replied, "Reee!"

I stepped down a few steps, in order to peek between the stairway slats. And sure enough, there he was, sitting on the playmat, books strewn all around, "reading" his "Beep Beep" book.

And when he was finished, he simply crawled back up the steps and began taking things from Dean, causing the normal weekday morning commotion.

As much as people always say, "It's so great you have twins; they can entertain one another!" I have to say that -- surprisingly -- I liked it so much better this morning when at least one of my boys discovered he could entertain himself. By himself.

Skipping meals and popping pills

It appears the sleep regression in our house is something that will wax and wane.

For about the last week or so, the boys have been blissfully sleeping through the night (cue the angels singing). The only person waking up a million times at night is their baby-resting-on-her-bladder Mommy. (cue the heavy sighing).

I knew a week of STTN meant that we had had too much of a good thing, so I wasn't surprised when Dean woke up last night around 1:30, crying, needing a hug, his Lovey and some more hugs. And then I wasn't surprised when Cary then woke up, too, saying "Ma-ma! Up, pees!"

No, I was not surprised. But as this would not be my life if there weren't some drama involved, of course I had to worry about something.

Two things had happened earlier in the night that have never happened before in our house:

1) Dean refused to eat even one bite of his dinner. Instead, he decided it was better to get remanded to time-out -- twice -- for throwing food on the floor or across the dining room table. Nothing I could do would make this child eat. The pediatrician had just told us a few days earlier that we should not allow Dean to continue with dinnertime if he insists on quarterbacking his meals. "Two times," Dr. Bodnar says. "And then dinner's done." He said if he was hungry, he'd eat and not throw. And the fact is that kids his age eat so much during the day (with snacks and all) that by the time they reach dinner, they're often not all that hungry. And that's OK, he assured me.

But is it? IS IT?

Because when Dean woke up last night, all I could think of was: "This child is starving!! He needs to eat! What should I do? What should I DO??"

2) While Lester was getting Dean undressed for his bath, Cary somehow, somewhere unEarthed an old pill that was hidden God-knows-where in our bedroom. I think, from the size and shape of it, that it is one of the old diabetes-related pills I was taking pre-pregnancy, and that it must've fallen at some point and I forgot about it. Whatever it was, Cary found it and of course, ate it.
Thank God the pill-makers purposefully make pills bitter, because Lester spied Cary's (actually quite-hysterical) screwed-up, sour face and immediately removed the pill from his mouth. So he only sucked it a little bit, as opposed to gulping the thing down whole.
Helpful-Poison-Control-Man assured me over the phone that this particular medicine was fairly benign, even in small children, and besides, 'it sounds like he only sucked off the coating anyway." So, he summed up, no need to worry. Cary should be just fine.

Will he? WILL HE??

Because when Cary woke up last night, all I could think of was, "This child has been poisoned!! He needs his stomach pumped! What should I do? What should I DO??"

I really considered filling Dean's stomach, and emptying Cary's (somehow), but then Lester got up, went in the room with the crying babies, said something I couldn't hear because I was too busy thinking of what I would tell CPS when they came asking me why my one child was sucking on diabetes medicine and why my other child was starving to death, and then came back in the room and said, "Go back to sleep. They're fine."

About 10 more minutes of really half-hearted crying later, they were both knocked out again -- this time until 7:15 this morning.

And they've been fine since.

The moral of this story is....I have no idea. But I am certain I will have more such stories to tell in the future. Stay tuned.

No, no, no!! No blessings!!

We've entered the early stages of the "No's".

Call me crazy (because I know this will only get worse) but right now, it's kinda cute.

This morning, Dean woke up in a totally contrary mood. He was fine, mood-wise, as long as you didn't try to kiss him, touch him, or ask him to do something.

I said, "Let's change your diaper, baby." He said, "NO!"

He said he wanted milk; when I gave him milk, he shook his head and said, No!"

When Lester came to say good-bye to him on his way to work, Dean refused to allow a kiss or a hug. "NO!" he said, twisting his body in the chair.

When I was leaving, I tried asking him sweetly if he would give Mommy a kiss good-bye. And of course he said, "No."

And then he sneezed - twice. So I said, "God bless you, baby."

And what do you think Dean said?

"No!"

18-month check-up

Cary and Dean went for their 18-month check-up yesterday, and here are the details:

Cary weighs 22 lbs., 8 oz. and is 32.5 inches tall.
Dean weighs 26 lbs., 2 oz. and is 33.5 inches tall.

It is still very interesting to me how much heavier Dean is than Cary, especially because (Dean's love of snacks notwithstanding) the two of them eat about the same amount of food. Neither is a very picky eater or eats like a bird. So it's clear that the two of them are just composed differently fundamentally, and also, likely, have very different metabolisms.
It'll be interesting to see how that plays out over the years.

Dr. Bodnar was VERY impressed with my boys' language skills. He said, with surprise, "How many words do they have?" And, then, when Dean asked for a tongue depressor by saying "Stick, pees," he asked if they were putting more words together, so I listed some of the phrases I could remember: "All done." "No more." "Bye-bye, truck." "More, please." "Bye-Bye, Da-Da." And Dr. Bodnar said, "They're putting that many words together already?"
I couldn't help but smile.
My boys' talkativeness is gratifying because I was so determined that they would NOT fall into the "preemies, twins, boys" trifecta of late-language-development that I had heard so much about. So we read, and read, and read, and read, and read, and read some more. And we talk, and talk, and talk, and talk! Oh, the talking! Frankly, it's exhausting (just being honest), but it is clearly paying some dividends, so far. So I will gladly talk/read myself hoarse.

Dr. Bodnar was no more help in the sleep-regression department than my blogfriends have been, but he did let me know that we were doing the right thing by continuing to reinforce their self-soothing skills, instead of acquiescing. Even if it means no one is really getting any sleep, for now, anyway, he assures me it's better in the long run, and that the boys will eventually get back to normalcy. (whatever that is)

As far as the nighttime bottle is concerned...well, I decided to come clean and tell our doctor that I had been too wimpy to let it go. I was honest about it -- it's just way too easy right now to get them to fall asleep at night, no crying, no fussing, no whining, no protesting. In fact, they clamor for their bottle and bedtime, and once they get 'em, they are quiet as church mice. It is ONE predictable thing we can depend on, and when you're dealing with crazy twin toddler terrorists, it is hard to give up that one thing. Does anyone feel me on this one?

To his credit, he did not make me feel like the WWM (world's worst mom). And he said that, of course, what we do as parents with the bottle is up to us. In the scheme of things, is it the worst thing we can do? No. But he did leave me with this scary little tidbit: If we try to stop the bottle now, it'll likely take about 10 days or so of bad nights to break the habit. If we wait until they're 2, it'll take twice as long.

20 nights of screaming? Lord have mercy. Nothing about that sounds appealing. Of course, I don't intend to wait until they're 2 to stop it, but then again, Lester and I don't really have an endgame planned. I suppose we need to get one.

One other thing that Dr. Bodnar reassured me about was this:

I have been secretly worried that Dean's tantrums and clinginess and crying and defiance and anger issues meant that he was emotionally marred in some way. I thought to myself, "Cary is so much more affable; what can we do to help Dean be more agreeable?"

Dr. Bodnar spent 45 minutes in the room with the boys before saying that, in his professional opinion, DEAN is the more typically-behaving baby, and CARY is the one who is atypical! Wha-what? Really?

He said for their age, Dean acting like one big raw nerve is pretty much what he's supposed to be doing right now, and Cary just la-la-la-ing through the day (for the most part) is just a lucky boon for us. This made me feel so much better, because I always think everyone else's toddlers seem so compliant and well-behaved and agreeable and cute and normal. I'm so glad to find out that my non-compliant, sometimes-well-behaved, occasionally-agreeable, almost always cute Deaniekins is also normal! Whew! I totally slept better last night.

On the flip side, Dr. Bodnar also jokingly said that it was good that Dean was slightly less talkative than Cary because (pointing to Cary, who was running his mouth a mile a minute) "you couldn't possibly have two of those!"

Imagine the thought!

At the end of the appointment, Dr. Bodnar declared my boys, "quite frankly, amazing," and I have to say, I couldn't agree more!

(Note: I don't have to bring them back to see the doctor for 6 months. SIX months! Wow. But we will see Dr. Bodnar again in February when Curve Ball is born, because he'll come to the hospital to examine her while I'm recovering. Curve Ball will get to meet Dr. Bodnar! Awwwww. Sooo sweet! I hope he'll think she's amazing, too!)

Happy 18-months Cary and Dean!!

Today, Cary and Dean turn 18 months old!

Hooray!

Halfway to 2; a year-and-a-half on this Earth. I can't believe it.

And they are so incredibly cute and funny and gratifying at this age (in addition to being maddening and frustrating and insane, but I've blogged about that enough -- for now).

This morning, Dean climbed into the laundry basket and sat there, as content as a bug in a rug. It was too cute. Cary, on the other hand, was none-too-pleased with this apparent "misbehavior" and stood over the basket, yelling "OT! OT!" at Dean, which is his way of saying, "Out! Out!"

They walked around the upstairs, pretending coat hangers were lawnmowers (of course). Cary cracked up at Dean "mowing" over a pile of books. Dean hugged Cary for too long, apparently, after hitting him in the head with the hanger, prompting Cary to tell him, "All done!" They somehow found their old bathrobes and begged to put them on -- Dean saying, "Hep, peees. Hep." (Help, please! Help!) Dean tried to put on Lester's flip-flops, and looked so cute with his entire foot hanging off the side of Lester's size 12s. Cary asked me 50 times if there was a "trrruck" "ah-sye." Not until I held him up to the window did he believe me that there was, in fact, NOT a truck outside. Dean showed off his He-Man tendencies by picking up the stainless steel ice bucket we've been using as a toy container and carrying it around, and then picking up the laundry basket -- with laundry in it -- and bringing it into our room. Cary sat on the floor and flipped through books, asking me about the "bay-uh" in Corduroy, and the duck floating in Alexander's bathtub in Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No-Good, Very Bad Day. (He's obsessed with that duck!)

I could barely get ready for work, I was so engrossed in their adorable activity, and in all the little mini-conversations they were having with me, Lester and one another. Seriously, I wish I had a camera in my house running all the time to capture their exceptional intelligence and hilarity! I LOVED it.

When I look back on their first days on this Earth, their tinyness and sleepiness and relative mute-ness, it is amazing -- truly -- just how far they've come in 18 months. They're little people, now, walking and talking, fighting and hugging. They laugh at things the other one does; they hear the ducks "rapping" on the Aflac commercial and come barreling around the corner, nearly falling in the process, to see them. ("Ducks! dee-bee! Ducks!!")

They are wonderful, miraculous, beautiful little beings who bring so much joy and happiness to our lives. And every milestone is a blessing I thank God for.

Happy 18-months Cary and Dean Davis! We love you!!

(P.S. Did I take a picture of these grown-up babies to mark the occasion, you ask? Of course I did not. I will try to do that after work. Let's hope they cooperate.)

The irony of having a light-sleeping baby

By now, I have griped enough about Cary's inability to sleep past 6:30 in the mornings (6:30 is a good day!) and his newfound love of waking up at night, like a newborn, despite months of sleeping through the night blissfully.

It's irritating, no doubt, but what's interesting is how it starts to become something you get used to.

So this morning, I woke up at 6:17, and immediately strained to see if I heard him in the room, whimpering. I did not. Great, I said to myself, I can sleep a few extra minutes! I dozed off, I think, or at least lapsed into semi-sleep.

At 6:33, I sat up in bed again, straining to see if I heard him. Instead, I heard silence.

Hmm, I wondered. Is he OK?

Then I thought back to a little earlier that morning, around 3:30 a.m., when Dean woke up crying for Puppy. I lumbered into the boys' room, found Puppy, and Dean fell back on his pillow, sighed, and was probably asleep before I left the room. I remember thinking at the time that it was strange that Cary wasn't awake, as he didn't get the nickname Prince Lightsleeper for nothing. I peeked in Cary's crib, but decided at the last second not to touch him, for fear of waking a sleeping bear. (A Cary-bear, but a bear nonetheless.)

So this morning, at 6:33, my mind raced back to 3:30 a.m. When I peeked in on Cary, was he breathing?? Could I even really see him in the dark?? Why didn't he wake up when Dean did? Why didn't I reach in his crib to pull his little blanket up, and feel his body move?

I lay there, as the morning light was starting to pour in through the slats of the blinds in our bedroom, and watched the clock.

6:34. 6:35. 6:36.

What is going on in there?? Why isn't that baby awake?????

My mind began to play tricks on me. I thought awful things that I will not repeat here, because they're just too awful to even think about, much less put out into the blogosphere.

I stared at Lester's peacefully sleeping back. Should I wake him up? Something must be wrong! I gave a quick, silent prayer. I breathed in and out, slowly. I tried to think of other things, like what I was going to wear to work, and if my dentist appointment was at 4 or 4:30 this afternoon.
I shifted in the bed and hugged my baby bump.

Finally, at 6:43, I heard him -- my baby!! -- making a crying noise that is normally hysterical to me, because it is his "fake" crying noise, the one he does when he sees a baby in a book: "Waah, waah," he was saying, without much heart, I might add. "Waah, waah."

I bounded out of bed, ran to his room and scooped him up and kissed him! Little sleepy stinker!

Never have I been so glad to hear his cry, fake or otherwise.

I think it is so funny that I can't sleep when my child is constantly waking up ... and I can't sleep when he doesn't wake up!

Oh, the ironies, the agonies, the pure, unmatched joys of being a Mom.

Tuesday fun facts

Fun things about Cary:

His 4-year-old cousin Russy came over two weekends ago. Cary and Dean pushed him around on the push-toy they call a "lawnmower" (of course) and Russy chased them around the house. They loved every minute of it. Since then, Cary must ask for Russy 25 times a day.
"Ruh-ee?" he asks, looking quizzical. "Ruh-ee?!"
Sometimes he says, "Ruh-ee. Mah-mow-uh." Which I know is his way of saying, "Hey. It was really cool when Russy came over and we pushed him around on that push-toy we call a lawnmower. Can we do that again soon?"
Today my other sister's eldest son turned 11. We called him this morning to say Happy Birthday. Cary for some reason thought we were talking to Russy.
When we told him it who it really was, Cary got mad, threw his book with a soulful "UNH!" and then yelled, "RUH-EEEEEEE!" He pouted for a full minute after that.
Cracked us up.

Also, when Dean asked for Michelle (Meee-Meee?!) the other night, Cary said to him "Ohm," meaning Michelle's at home. Isn't that great? My kids can talk to each other and answer each other's questions. That is so awesome as this means I will one day not need to repeat myself 100,000 times a day, answering questions they already know the answers to. Yay!

Fun things about Dean:

This kid has decided he wants every frikkin' thing he sees, especially if it's in the kitchen because he assumes that it must be something good to eat.
He stands at the gate, making the "gimme" gesture with his hands and saying something that sounds like, "Goom-BEE!" or some longer multi-syllable variation of Goom-BEE. Over and over and over. In a whiny voice. That escalates. And eventually gets accompanied with tears and screeching.
So when he did this about an onion I was cutting up -- despite me telling him repeatedly that he didn't actually want an onion, Lester said, "Let him try it and see that he doesn't want it." I sorta thought that was cruel, but then again , it would stop the goom-BEEing and screeching.
So I gave him a little piece of onion. And waited for the face.
Do you know Dean Davis ATE that onion?
Is he the Grinch? Good grief. My child really, really, really likes to eat!
(Note: He did not, however, ask for seconds. Thus stopping the goom-BEEing. Hooray!)

Fun thing about Curve Ball:

Curve Ball is 24 weeks as of today. Well, technically I guess she's only 22 weeks. But I am 24 weeks along carrying her.
To mark the occasion, she has given me a lovely case of some kind of gastro-grossness, which had me doubled over in pain, popping Tums like they were going out of style. Also, I spent 25 minutes on the floor of my office conference room yesterday because I was feeling just that crappy (pun not really intended, but since it works...why not).
The nurses at my doctor's office were flummoxed as to what to do to help me as the traditional BRAT diet is bad, bad, bad for a diabetic, and so is avoiding eating for a day or so and just drinking liquids.
Eventually, they told me to just take Maalox and Zantac. It took a while last night, but the combination seemed to work somewhat. I feel better this morning, but I have NO idea what to eat for lunch.
Oh, also, the nurse said recent bloodwork shows I am low on iron.
So I have to take iron now, too.

That means I take 4 Glyburide pills a day, plus one iron pill, plus one (or two) Zantac, plus a multi-vitamin (not to mention Maalox, as needed):


Add my sugar, tummy and iron troubles to the fact that my two boys have hit the terrible 18-months (night-wakings, defiance, general craziness beyond belief) and is it any wonder I took a picture of this picture in my doctor's office and immediately sent it to my husband:


:-)

Using my blog to force myself to be accountable

Blogging has many perks.
I get to vent. I formulate my thoughts.
I'm recording events/photos/memories for posterity's sake.
I get advice, support and encouragement from friends, new and old.
And now, I'm adding "accountability" to the list of good things about blogging.

Lester and I share Google docs about all kinds of things: our budget, invites to activities, letters we're co-editing, possible names for Curve Ball, etc.
We've had a doc listing the things we need to do to get ready for our daughter's arrival for weeks now, and neither of us has made one attempt to do anything about any item on the list. We're pathetic.
I keep reminding Lester that soon -- and very soon -- I will be too pregnant to be of any help to him whatsoever in this department (save ordering things online, which I can do VERY well), so if he wants my help, we need to get on it. Then I figured maybe if I get on it, he'll follow suit.
Problem is, I never get on it.

So...I decided to post our entire doc here, so that is now in the public domain. My hope is that by putting it out there for all the world to see, I will feel more compelled to act.

Yes, I'm using you blogosphere. No shame in my game.

So here's the list. My goal is to have this all done by early January, since Curve Ball is due Feb. 28! (Yikes!!)


Things to Do Before the New Baby Comes

1. Organize and streamline basement storage area to prepare for guest room stuff coming to live there

2. Move guest room furniture and racks of shoes to basement storage area

3. Paint guest room

4. Move boys’ cribs and furniture into guest room
Little table and chairs possibilities:

http://www.amazon.com/s?ie=UTF8&rh=n%3A165793011%2Ck%3Atoddler%20table%20chair%20sets&page=1

5. Paint boys’ room (now the new baby’s room)

6. Buy furniture/decor for new baby’s room

Possibilities:
http://www.amazon.com/RoomMates-RMK1439SLM-Scroll-Stick-MegaPack/dp/B003NGTNFG/ref=sr_1_1?s=baby-products&ie=UTF8&qid=1318860787&sr=1-1

http://www.babysupermall.com/main/products/kli/kli5024bed4.html

http://www.nurserydepot.com/cribbedding/productdetails.asp?id=1-10001834-10001836-148224-4-2&id2=602-0-0-0-0&


7. Move furniture into new baby’s room

Baby Stuff We Will Need

1. Single stroller
2. Triple stroller
3. Crib
4. Booster seat
5. Playmat
6. Clothes
7. Diapers
8. Crib mattress pad and sheets, comforter etc. (bedding)

Also will need ONE additional convertible carseat (for one of the boys) -- hopefully donated!


So there it is...the list of things to do before Curve Ball arrives.

And we can add to that list: SETTLE ON A NAME FOR CURVE BALL!!! Gracious, we're pathetic.

Ask Moxie! Ask LauraC!

Thanks, LauraC! I had completely forgotten about the wonderfulness that is "Ask Moxie."

She has a SPOT-ON post about 18-month sleep regression and general craziness, that is enlightening and reassuring at every turn. But here's the gist of it, in two sentences that literally brought tears to my (stinging, burning, sleep-deprived) eyes:

Your kid may have a serious, mind-blowingly awful sleep regression at around 18 months. It's not your fault, and it will pass.

And suddenly ... I feel better. It's NOT my fault. And it WILL pass! :-)

Thanks, Moxie. Thanks, LauraC!

Worst night with the babies ever!

I used this blog title once before and predicted I would use it again many times throughout my children's babyhood. So far, although I have had many, many "worst nights ever" I have resisted titling a blog post as such, because I always felt slightly better about the night by the time I got around to sitting in front of a computer to complain about it.

Not so when it comes to last night.

I will not go into all the details, as I would be here all day repeating these key words and phrases:

Screaming, whining, defiance, temper tantrums, resisting, meltdowns, brother-swatting, dinnertime indecisiveness, irrationality, uncontrollable crying, food on the floor, banging sippy cups, confiscated sippy cups, more screaming, whining, bucking, flailing, unhappy bathtime, complete and total craziness, demands to be rocked in the rocking chair before bed, waking at night for missing Lovey, then 2 hours later, waking at night for NO REASON WHATSOEVER, screaming, crying, refusing to go back to sleep, melodramatic moaning for "Ma-Ma!!!!", "Da-Da!!!", throwing Lovey out of the bed and saying "Uh-oh! Uh-oh! UH-OH!" until someone comes in to retrieve Lovey, more screaming (at higher decibels), wife snapping at husband, husband snapping at wife, retreat to basement to get away from screaming toddler(s), eating waffles AND a bowl of cereal (I know. I know!), mindless television, finally, finally hearing the sweet sounds of silence at 4 a.m. Delirious at 6:45 a.m. What am I doing wrong??

Seriously, people. I feel like I am about to lose my mind. If it's just craziness in the evenings, but then we get to rest peacefully at night, I could probably deal. Or if the boys were pleasant and enjoyable in the evenings but were having toddler-troubles with sleeping, I could probably deal. But this all-you-can-eat smorgasbord of craziness they've started lately? I can. not. deal.

"There is nobody in the world more lovable, more unmovable, more implacable, more challenging, more difficult to live with than your 'typical' 15- to 21-month-old child," so says Louise Bates Ames, in "Your One-Year-Old: Fun-Loving and Fussy."

Truer words have never been written.

I just wish I knew what to do to help them through this "phase" (at least I hope it's a phase).

But since I have no clue (really, I have been using ALL of my tricks and none of them are working) I suppose I will just become more and more familiar with the basement -- and maybe not just in the middle of the night. Maybe I'll start taking my meals down there! Maybe I'll start coming in the basement door after work, so they don't even know I'm there!!!

Sigh.

Maybe this will just get better??

Mini-post before bed (or mini-rant, if you like that better)

I am desperately scouring "Your One-Year-Old: Fun-Loving and Fussy" trying to figure out why my son has turned into one big ferocious and frustrating ball of screaming, crying, wanting, needing, nooooooo! not that! noooooo! ma-ma! waaaaaaaah! da-da!! scream, scream, scream, cry, cry, cry, resist, rebuke, wail, flail, angry outbursts, extended temper tantrums, screaming, crying, whining BRAT!!!!!!!

I know it is bad to call your children names, so I won't publicly name which child I have had it up to here with. He knows who he is!

Ugh! When did this start, I don't even know! More importantly, when does it END?

He has been asleep now since 7:30 and I am STILL mad at him. This is unprecedented. Normally, after a particularly bad whine/scream-fest, once they're both fast asleep, I rapidly decompress and without even trying, forgive them of their toddler transgressions.

But I am tense and frustrated and bitter about this behavior. All the books said if I was an attentive, loving, nurturing mother, my boys would be pleasant and well-adjusted. Not BRATS!!!!!!

Ugh!

Now, back to my book. Must get answers.

(Too bad I can't have a glass of wine. Or even a frikkin' brownie. Ugh!! UGH!!)

A thin line between lovey and hate

Cary and Dean both have the most adorable loveys.

My friend Sumathi sent them these comfort-toys when they were born and I melted when I saw them. They were soooo cute. A puppy for Dean; a monkey for Cary. I imagined my boys snuggling with their loveys at night, loving them sweetly, and learning about affection all the while.

For a long time, they both ignored their loveys, or found them tolerable but not necessary.
And then, they grew to enjoy their loveys very much.

Lester and I found that it is a wonderful thing to have something soft and cute and harmless to give them when an irrational meltdown has ensued after bathtime.

But lately -- I'd say in the past month or so -- Dean has really become attached to Lovey the Puppy. It has become like a street drug to him. He needs it! He must have it!! GIVE PUPPY TO ME!!! OR ELSE!!

It wasn't always this way. Puppy used to live in his crib, where Dean would happily snuggle him at night. In the mornings, when lifting him out of the crib, we'd tell him "Put Puppy on the pillow. Puppy has to stay in the bed. Night-night, Puppy." And he'd comply, no problemo.

Then, it got to the point where both boys insisted on carrying their loveys around in the morning, while Lester and I got ready for work, or piddled around upstairs on the weekends, before heading down to the kitchen for the boys' morning oatmeal. But even then, when it was time to go downstairs, we would tell both boys, "OK, put Puppy and Monkey back in the bed. It's time for them to go night-night." And they'd comply, no problemo.

Sometime in the last month or so, Dean started resisting putting Puppy back in the bed before heading downstairs in the mornings. He'd cry and protest and throw tantrums. Oh, just give it to him, one of us would say to the other. Who cares? What's the harm?

So Puppy would find his way downstairs, and Dean would carry him off and on, sometimes tossing him aside for something more interesting, but usually finding him again throughout the day.

We managed to get Puppy back in the crib for naps -- where he'd stay until bedtime. That lasted a week or so.

But then, more meltdowns. Bigger, longer-lasting tantrums. Puppy needed to be with him at all times, in the mornings, after naps, while having a diaper change. Dean must. have. Puppy.

Before we knew it, prying Puppy from him at mealtimes became a major fight. Eventually, it became a fight we lost. Puppy stayed in the highchair, and got smeared with spaghetti sauce and cracker crumbs and sticky, fruit-covered handprints.

No amount of distraction or even SNACKS (his favorite thing) worked to keep his mind off his need for Puppy. His eyes darted around, wild and wide. I swear one night the boy got the must-have-Puppy-shakes!

Dean, my abusive-boyfriend-crackhead son. Sigh. Where have we gone wrong?

This weekend, Lester and I hit the Puppy wall.

After dinner, Lester takes the boys for their baths, while I clean up the wreckage in the kitchen and dining room and pick up the toys.

Usually, the soundtrack from upstairs is of laughing, splashing babies. On this night, the house was filled with Dean's piercing, desperate, gut-wrenching wailing.

He wanted Puppy in the tub with him, and no amount of explaining could deter him.
(Yes, we tried to explain to the 17-month-old that Puppy can't get wet. Yes, we know this is ridiculous. But my child is an addict!! I was out of ideas!!)

Lester steeled himself and went on with the washing, trying to sing, play and cajole Dean out of screaming with silly faces and requests (Hey, Dean! Wash Daddy's face!) Still, he cried. He cried continuously throughout the entire bathtime. He cried when Lester took him out of the bath. He cried all the way until Lester put him in his crib, where he found his fix, lying innocently on the pillow. Then, he sniffled and snuggled until lights out.

This, my friends, was the Puppy wall.

We don't know how Dean's Puppy love turned so wrong. But we have decided on an intervention.

No matter how much our little addict cries, Puppy must live in the crib. He can come out in the mornings, for as long as it takes for us to move the party to the first floor. But Puppy is not allowed downstairs, no matter what.

No more highchairs. No more bathtimes-turned-screamfests. Puppy, for the most part, is confined to the crib.



So far, there have been tears-o-plenty. And wailing. My Dean is a VERY determined baby. And when that jones comes down, it is not pretty. But we have stood firm.

And I hope and pray this will get easier.

Night-night, Puppy. Night-night.