Happy Birthday, Sassy

I don't know if there are words to describe your relationship with your first-born.

It's a mix-up of such crazy intensity that it only pails in comparison to something otherwordly and neon.

While we jokingly call them the experimental model, they are so much more.

They are loved and cared for and watched over with such a deep passion that at the end of the day, they leave us spent.

It's why mothers worry about having enough love for a second child.

When you are so wrapped up in the relationship you have with a first-born, it doesn't seem possible.

My Ella is all of the above and more.  She was who I'd prayed for for years: The baby that would make me a mama.

And when she came splashing into my arms two years ago tomorrow, I was forever changed. 

I have never worried more.  Cried more.  Given up more.  Rejoiced more than I did over this child.

Even now, with my heart as equally in love with her little sister, she still is the primary source of my anxiety and tears and sacrifice and joy.

Glory has a relaxed mama.  A mama whose done it before.

Ella gets the intense version of me; the mama who has never done any of this before.  Ever.

And for that reason, I will forever worry I am never mom enough for the spitfire that broke me in on June 12, 2011, and continues to do so every day.

There are so many words to describe my first-born.

Fiery. Intelligent. Precocious. Talkative. Social. Motivated. Earnest. Kind. Charming. Strong-willed. Precious. Spirited. Independent.

Sassy.

She earned that nickname almost as soon as she opened her mouth.

She thinks the world is hers.  It is bright and beautiful and amazing and approachable, just like she is.

She has always done things as exactly as she saw fit.  There is no rushing her, and at the same time, there is no catching her, either.

Nursing. Sleeping. Eating. Walking. Potty-training.  All of it was done to her specifications when she saw worthy.

And with that stubborn streak, she makes me laugh uncontrollably.  She makes me angrier than anyone else ever has.  But she makes me love outside my potential over and over and over again.

Last night, before bed, she was doing her typical "If I just keep talking and moving, I won't fall asleep" routine.  I was next to her in bed, rubbing her back, singing.  But she wasn't having it.

She sat up and sidled over to me and her sister, who was perched on my chest.

She wrapped an arm around each of us and planted two kisses, one on my cheek and one on Gloribeth's, then grinned her sly little grin and proclaimed in the only tone she has - loud and distinct - "Sissy! I wuv you!" Mama! I wuv you! Sissy and Mama! Efferbody here!"

And that is my Ella.  Loving. Striving to maintain that social connection.  Opening her heart and loving so strongly everyone within arm's reach. And talking about it.  Effusively.  All while charmingly attempting to wiggle her way out of something she never intended to do.

And tomorrow, that Ella turns 2.

A big girl.  A kid.  Not a baby anymore.

I hoped to raise his spirited little lady, and though every day, it's a test and a challenge, I am so immensely proud of the fire plug she is.

She amazes me what she's capable of. What she says. What she does.

Her freedom and little dancing soul.  The tiny person who, after her birthday party last week, tromped about the house for several hours, butt naked save a pair of ladybug rain boots, dragging about a bouquet of leftover balloons, yell-singing, "Happy Birfday to lou! Happy Birfday to lou! Happy Birthday to Ella! Happy Birfday to lou!"

She isn't the sweet baby I cradled two years ago.  She's my full-grown child.  My toddler.  My newborn.

She's my 2 year old.

I love you, my sweet girl.  You'll never know how much until some day you have a child of your own, your first-born, who makes you pull out all the stops and gets the focus of all your new parent intensity.

You will pour your entire soul into him or her, like I did to you. 

And you will blink and find him/her walking and talking and dictating their own little life like they are more than 2 years removed from infant-hood.

It's the most heart-wrenching, amazing paradigm I think I'll ever encounter.  I think it's that way on purpose, so we welcome your growth instead of fear what happens when the baby in you is gone.

And, my girl, it is indeed gone these days.  You are skinned knees and dirty face and full sentences.  You aren't even close to being a baby anymore.

So, happy birthday to my big, grown girl, Sassy.  I love you so much it hurts.

Mom Fail

I desperately wanted at least one daughter when I knew I'd have kids.

And so far, I've got two.

Sugar and spice and everything nice. Blah blah blah.

I've got two girls, but I've yet to find a cutesy little rhyme that fits what's going on here.

You see, I love my girls.  But  I am so not a "girl mom."

They don't always match each other, let alone themselves.  They rarely if ever have hair-bows in.  And even on the days where I do start then out in some coordinating outfit, they almost always finish the day partially or fully naked, with smudges of hummus in their hair, caked-in dirt beneath their chins, and some rain boots on the wrong foot.

Mom fail.
***
Before Gloribeth was born, I had a freezer that could feed the neighborhood in a zombie apocalypse.

Then Ella approached age 2.  And Glory came.  And my husband deployed.  And I got so over the thought of cooking for me and the ever-vascillating tastes of a toddler that I just started turning to all the meals I'd stock-piled pre-baby.

It was so freeing - of my time and energy.

Until I went to get lentil soup out of their yesterday and - uh-oh - I scraped the bottom.  As in I could see the bottom of the freezer amid one lone jar of pasta veggie sauce and pan full of chili.

And that was it.

Mom fail.
***
Ella likes to read.  A lot.

As in, she'd do it all day every day.

We check out 40 books from the library a week.  And we read them all over and over and over again.

Along with her adult-sized bookshelf filled with books.

I cringe when I see "Llama Llama Red Pajama" coming at me again.  For the 14th time in a morning.

Attempts to distract her or out-and-out refusals to read to her are met with tantrums and crying and being chased around with manuals for the blender that she finds who-knows-where with shouts of "Wead! Wead! Wead, mama! Wead!"

So, survival instinct kicked in.  In my defense, I was worried my brain wouldn't make it through another round of, "If You Give a Mouse a Cookie."

And I taught her to read to her sister.

Frankly, it's Gloribeth's problem now.

Mom fail.
***
My kids make me laugh.  They are these really awesome little bundles I get to squeeze and love on all day long.

But sometimes, on the bad days - the days where you turn your back for two seconds and find your toddler scrubbing your carpet with a half-eaten piece of watermelon - well, on those days, I live for bed-time.

I love my kids, but I love when they sleep, too.  Especially when they sleep without me.

Because then I can take a moment to sit on the couch without nursing a baby or constantly fearing a potty-training toddler will pee on it.

And, in that moment, while they are sleeping soundly and not touching me, I sometimes find I love my kids a little more.

Oops.

Mom fail.
***
So, admit it.  What's your mom fail?

The Bathroom Escape Revealed

OK.  Admit it.

Sometimes, when you can, when you've had a rough day or just need a minute, you stand up, grab your cell phone, and head for the bathroom.

Sure, you have to pee, or, you know.  But that takes a few minutes.

And that's where the phone comes in.

You can answer nature's call for 90 seconds and then answer any other calls on your phone for the next 15 minutes before your children or husband get suspicious.

I do it, I'll admit.  So do you.  Everyone does.

But my husband?

He's the worst at it.

On some days, I swear he and his phone live in the commode.

And I have been the worst at calling him out on it, chastising him and reminding him that during the day or deployments, I can't pull that stunt, lest my children burn the house down while I catch up on Facebook via the iPhone.

And then, after yesterday, I realized I owed him a massive apology.

Ella awoke, and potty-training commenced.

She immediately asked to pee, and I escorted her to the potty, thinking it was too good to be true. 

But it wasn't.  She peed.

So we danced and celebrated and I lavished so much praise on the child, you'd have thought she'd cured cancer.

Then she did it again.

Cue more praise and dancing and excitement.

Then, she had to poop. 

She got the worried expression, and before I could even go, "Ella, do you need to poop on your potty?" had she already plunked herself down on it.

And pooped.

Glory glory Hallelujah.

Now, I've been down this road before. 

I know how often she poops (once, sometimes twice, a day; almost always in the morning), and I know the relative size of the moment, if you catch what I mean.

And I had a feeling she wasn't done yet, judging by the latter.

So I made her sit there for a good five minutes.

And she wasn't happy.

She wanted to go back to playing, and she desperately wanted to see the poop she'd put in the potty.

Her attitude wasn't fun, and after those five minutes were up, I let her get up.

We praised and flushed it down the toilet and sang another potty song I'd made up on the fly.

But no sooner had I finished the last lines to "You Are a Pooper" (sung to the tune of "You Are My Sunshine") when I look down to see her hauling butt back toward the potty.

With poop coming out willy nilly, some falling beneath her feet.

On the carpet.

That sonic boom everyone heard yesterday morning?

That was me screaming the mom-scream of "Noooooo!" at the top of my lungs.

Now back on the potty, she's disconcerted.  Wondering how that poop got there "on da carpet," she tells me.

I withheld the urge to tell her what I thought about the poop dropper in that moment.

And I make her sit there for 10 more minutes, when she has two more "waves" of pooping, before I'm happy that she's done.

Meanwhile, I began the age-old, time-honored tradition of scrubbing poop out of a rug.

Mother of God, she must have inherited this from her father.

And boy, do I owe him an apology.

For all the bathroom trips I'd interrupted.  At all the scoffing I'd done at this lengthy meetings atop the porcelain throne.  For the times I'd yelled at him to "Just stop already! Come help me! You cannot still be pooping!"

Well, after watching his daughter very closely, I think he was.

I think he was still pooping.

Too bad it's too-far-gone now.

I've already had children with him.

The lengthy poop gene has been spread.

Now, I just have to hope it ends with my first daughter.

My rugs can't handle anymore than that.

Surviving Marriage to Those Who Serve

It was 7:45 a.m. Monday. I was breezing down the road toward the meeting spot I hit every morning, my jogging stroller in the trunk and the girls in their car seats.

I was getting ready for my morning workout with a few other military wives - the same thing I do every weekday morning - when "I'm Proud to be an American" came blaring over the radio.

"Hmm, that's odd," I thought, wondering what station I was turned to.

I was also a little puzzled by the lack of traffic on the base road.

Then it hit me.

"It's Memorial Day, you idiot."

Oh, man.  When you're the sole caretaker of your children while your husband is deployed, you don't really notice it's Saturday, let alone a federal holiday.

And then I laughed.

Because later that day, when I saw other fathers out with families on their day off, I knew I would want to cry.

And that's the simple fact of my life.

There will always be a piece missing.

Even when he's home, he's preparing to leave again.

On Mother's Day a few weeks back, I remember hoping in vain we'd hear from him.

That national security would rest long enough so that they would let them send an e-mail to their beloved wives and mothers.

And then I watched 11:59 p.m. turn to midnight, I quietly chastised myself.

"That was stupid.  We went over this last Thanksgiving.  You know it doesn't matter what day it is."

And then I went to bed and slept as soundly as one does when alone, i.e., a sleep where it's never as deep as it is when he's beside you, when you know there's someone else there if the unthinkable happens.

My daughter walks around calling every man she sees "Dada."

She knows who her father is - he's the one screen-printed on her "daddy doll" she takes to bed and the guy who reads her books in the compute screen - but she becomes enamored with her friend's fathers.

At a birthday party recently, she wouldn't leave "Esther's dada" alone and ate dinner adoringly in the folding chair next to "Connor's dada," clear across the yard from me.

When she hears our garage door open, she gets excited, even when he's been gone for months.  And she proudly tells everyone she can that her dada goes "on a big old boat."

I miss trash day every week without him here to remind me.

I watch television so I can hear other adult voices in the house at night.

I write a list of "Things to Do When P- Gets Home," which consists mostly of restaurants I want to visit, as I tend not to go out with the girls when he's deployed, mostly because I want to keep what little sanity I have left intact.

So, that's my life.

It's not nearly as sad as it sounds, and sometimes, it makes me laugh, especially when I find a dirty sock crammed in the couch cushion or a moldy piece of Tupperware in the back corner of his car's trunk.

Those times, I curse him, muttering under my breath, "You better be darn glad you're not home to hear about this, you big jerk."

Much like when I vacuum.  Which, for the record, is at least five or six times a week.

Last year, he bought this "highly rated" vacuum, which, granted, cleans well.  But is the world's biggest pain in the butt to maneuver and use.  Literally, I hate thing.  Hate it with a living passion.

And so, every time I take the cumbersome thing out, I turn to Ella, or Gloribeth, or the dog, or no one, really, and mutter, "Your father is dead when he comes home, buying me this foolish piece of trash.  I could kill him."

And then, I smile.  The vacuum.  The sock.  The Tupperware.  I joke that they are his little gifts he leaves me to make sure that I don't miss him too, too much.

A new Navy wife asked me recently how to do it, you know, this life.

Over and over and over again.

How do you survive them coming and going, missing half of every year at least, never being home for anniversaries or birthdays or Christmas?

Truth be told, I told her.  I told her half the truth, though.

"You just do it.  You wake up every morning, and you just do it again.  Day after day.  Over and over and over again."

I didn't tell her the obvious, though.

That sometimes, it stinks.  Sometimes, it hurts.  Sometimes, seeing friends interacting with their husbands in a seemingly normal fashion causes a deep ache in my heart.

I will freely admit that no wife wants to live this life, but those of us that get up every day and just do it?  Again?  Day after day?  Over and over and over again?

Well, we seem to survive the world's slowest trial by fire, I feel.

And we get the amazing gift of an old-world romance - the occasional hand-written letter in the mail, the courtship through very random and unreliable correspondence, the excitement of awaiting an uncertain moment where you'll finally see him after months apart.

And though nothing is sadder than to watch Gloribeth roll over and know he won't get to see it, I also await the look he gets when he comes home and hears how much more Ella is saying or sees how big Glory really is these days.

Simply put, it's how we survive.

I love my husband and the father of my children.  He just happens to be a man who serves in a uniform.

It makes our marriage unique.  Sometimes, it makes it something special, too.

And then there are days, weeks, months where we just survive. 

Day after day.  Over and over and over again.

I'm a Big Kid Now

Potty-training has been pretty crappy this week.

Pun intended.

I think we hit our all-time low on Tuesday when I walked in after nap-time to find Ella crying with poop all over her, the bed rail, the blankets, and the floor.

I didn't even want to know how it happened.  Cleaning it up was revelation enough.

So, yesterday, when she only had one accident and managed to not only pee a few times but also poop in her little, green, IKEA potty?

Well, I felt like I'd won the Mom lottery.

And, so, I sent off one of those lovely group Facebook messages to some friends of mine here who are in La Leche League with me, with children a similar age to mine, who know that I am potty-training Ella and are rooting for me every chance they can.

I had to tell them the good news.

And then their responses started pouring in:

"Good job, Brittany.  You're all grown up!"

"Would you like a cookie now?"

"You get a sticker! Four more stickers, and you get a new toy!"

So I looked at the message I'd sent prior, and my pronouns didn't lie.

"I pooped in the potty!"

Oops.

Well, at least one of us has good control of her bowels.

Even if she still hasn't figured out auto-correct on her phone.

It's The Season

May in Georgia is confusing.

It's basically summer.  Which means it's hotter than the sun down here, yet a bit rainy.

It also means it's beach weather; things are growing, and there is fun to be had by all.

And while a little bit of me wants to hole away from the heat and watch movies and eat an entire watermelon all by myself, the mom in me knows that time outside in this season means cool, calm nap times during the afternoon rain storms.

So out we go.  Because after all, right now it is the season for...
***
....blueberry picking.

Our organic blueberry farm is open yet again, and this year, I've got a baby strapped to me and a toddler trailing behind me nipping berries out of my bucket.  We're in heaven.  Yes, it's sweaty, but it's incredibly fun to teach Ella where food comes from.  It's also incredibly charming to watch her and her toddler friends scatter in and out of the pushes and shove berries in their mouths while she yells, "Yum! Boo-berries!"
***
...exercise.

Gosh, I hate the heat.  But I have two children and no sitter.  So up we go, early, and into the double stroller.  And now, though it's a pain, and I'm always missing sleep for it, it's part of my routine again, and we need it more than anything.  The weekends almost go awry because we don't go out walking/running in the mornings.  I'm not at my pre-baby body-shape yet.  I've got a few months to go.  But at least it's a step toward getting there.
***
...water.

There is nothing that says "lazy parent" more than filling up the kiddie pool and water table, handing your toddler some cups and bowls, and telling her to have at it while you sit nearby and nurse the baby while reading and sunning your legs.

And boy, do I love it.
***
...big babies.

A few days shy of 3 months old, and Gloribeth is weighing in at 15 pounds.

I'll be totally honest and tell you that I forgot how much I adore this early baby stage.  Where they laugh and coo and wiggle and pack on the rolls and round cheeks, but yet aren't mobile or too demanding yet.

As we expected, G is within an ounce of her sister's weight at this age, too.  My babies get big early and then slow down when they start moving.  They are cuddly little Gerber babies, and I find it positively scrumptious.   It is this age when I adore co-sleeping because I can roll over and sniff their heads and stick my nose in their sweet-smelling little necks.

I was just telling a friend that I sometimes fear I will keep having baby after baby simply because I can't imagine ever being ready to say, "OK.  I'm done.  I don't ever need another soft, roly-poly baby to snuggle."

Because man, I love Glory to pieces, and Ella, too.  But they are growing so fast that I already know they can't be my last babies.  I need more milk breath to smell and neck rolls to nuzzle and yummy cheeks to kiss. 

Watch out, Mrs. Duggar.
***
...potty-training.

We have dabbled in the Pee Pool and played with some Toilet Time.

But this week, we're hitting it hard.  Potty-Training Boot Camp, here we come.

She is definitely ready.  Has been, in fact.  But I wasn't, to be honest.  New baby and a deployed husband and a really demanding schedule all got in my way.

But somewhere between changing another foul toddler diaper and watching Ella tell me she's peeing as she's doing it, I realized we had to go for it.  I had to say to myself, "Today, Brittany, you will be cleaning feces off your carpet."

And so far, we are doing OK.  There have been accidents, but there have been successes, too.

We are doing it gradually, keeping diapers for bed time and out-on-the-town still.  We just use undies - or nudity - at home.  Then soon, we've got some trainers to try out for trips to the store, etc.

I already have significantly less cloth diaper laundry, and I find myself staring in wonder at the child - not baby - before me.

They tell you it flies, but until you find yourself doing a celebratory pee-pee dance and singing your own song entitled "We're Going Potty" to the tune of "You Are My Sunshine," you don't really believe them.
***
That's it here.  What's the season bringing at your house?

Raises Hand

Who here has ever yelled at their toddler, loudly?

(raises hand)

Who here has ever started to potty-train their first born only to quit a day later?

(raises hand)

Who here was heard their baby poop in her sleep, and then left her there, refusing to wake her up, just to change that diaper?

(raises hand)

Who thinks motherhood is not for the faint of heart?

(raises both hands, a foot, and the sagging skin on my left hip caused by having two babies in under two years)

Motherhood is also not for the sane, at least not in my house, lately.

Yesterday afternoon, I fell asleep nursing the baby in the rocker, only to be awoken by a MegaBlock to the head five minutes later and a shout of "Mommy! No nap!" 

And, in a not-so-pretty moment, I may have shouted back, "Stop it, Ella! Give me five more minutes!"

This gig I've got going is kicking my butt.

And it's gotten loads better, if you can believe it.

But it is still a dirty mess a lot of the time, and there are days where I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy.

I'm so tired.  And hungry.  And starved for me time.

But then Gloribeth coos up at me or Ella walks by and pats my shoulder and tells me I'm "pitty," and I realize I can't switch fates.

Until both kids cry, then I want to crawl out of my skin and run away.

Or when I tell Ella I'm using the restroom, and two seconds later, hear the panicked bellow of "Mama!" yet again, I cringe and want to drown in that toilet.

And when I put the baby down for a nap, only to watch her head pop up, winning against sleeping alone once again, I have to hold back the urge to bellow, "For once, can't things go my way!"

A friend of mine, who just had her second baby like me, looked at me a few weeks back and whispered, "It's harder than I ever thought it would be."

And it is.  It really is.

The irony is, I thought it was going to be pretty hard from the beginning.

Yet, I'm still shocked.

Grocery trips physically exhaust me.  Going anywhere physically exhausts me.  I have days where I literally can't handle another rain drop falling and nights where I'm lucky if I sleep two consecutive hours.

I often feel dowdy, under-appreciated, over-worked, and largely ignored.

I'm hungry, dirty, and tired.  And no one cares.

And that is the hard part about motherhood.

Your children are your responsibility.  You are not theirs.  And so, when it's just you and them, you often feel a little trod upon.  It's kind of an emotionally frail place.

You're the caretaker.  They receive and suck up all that love and attention you're doling out, though it's never enough because they always want more.

And on the bad days, where they're yelling or hitting or making completely irrational demands for "Easter eggs!" two months after you've put them away, it can even feel abusive.

No one really prepared me for that.

I was ready for my heart to grow. And it did.  I was ready to be torn between the two loves of my life.  And I was.  I was ready to bask in the glow of having two little girls who loved me and each other.  And I have.

But on the days when we're scraping the bottom of the sandbox and still running out of sand, well, those days are a thousand times uglier than I thought they'd be.

Not that I'd trade them in.  I don't resent them.

But I do resent the fact that, after carrying my toddler on my back and my infant on my front all at the same time for more than hour yesterday, no one else is worried about the crick in my shoulder blades.

Up until this point, I've always felt young.  I remember being shocked I was allowed to "keep" Ella.  That I was allowed to get married.  That I was allowed to buy a car and a house and a purse that was ridiculously overpriced.

But now, while it's not like I feel old, I also finally feel like an adult.

This sturdy, stable person who has to hold it together for all the fly-by-nights around her.

And, yet, the selfish, immature child inside me doesn't always want to die.

Sometimes I want to nap in the afternoon sans Megablocks.  Sometimes I want to go pee in peace.  Sometimes I want to eat dinner without wandering fingers grabbing handfuls right off my spoon.

And so, sometimes I snap.

Because who here has ever gotten mad over their children playing with their toys and making a perfectly normal mess in their rooms?

(raises hand)

Who here has given up on a Friday night and allowed their child to eat yet another peanut butter sandwich because that's what she demands and nothing else will do?

(raises hand)

And who else loves this motherhood gig - the good, the bad, and the ugly - even when the ugly consists of you, tired and hiding in the coat closet to eat a piece of chocolate in peace?

(raises hand over and over and over again)

No, motherhood isn't for the faint of heart.

Neither is adulthood.

Too bad we all have to grow up sometime.