"I'm in love, I'm in love..."

"...and I don't care who knows it!"

Truman likes to be swaddled now, just like "baby guy."

World's cutest elf.

He begs to have his picture taken these days. I think he looks so grown-up here. (And boy, he needs a haircut!)

One of Caleb's first "real" smiles. My heart may burst.

Conundrums...or Conundra

Even a king-sized bed is big enough for only two people if one of them is a two-year-old.

I have enough "alone time" in my day to either exercise OR take a shower, not both.

Christmas can't get here fast enough, but I don't want it to be over!

I spent several minutes trying to find out the correct plural of "conundrum" and encountered only heated arguments between scholars on the subject. Is it ironic to anyone else that the pluralization of a word meaning "a difficult problem" turns out to be...a difficult problem? Or is that just my grammar geek showing?

On my mind

I think about blogging all the time, I just never make it down to the basement for anything except laundry. But I've been wondering...

...why is it that my baby wakes up 15 minutes after I go to bed every night, whether he's been asleep three minutes or three hours?

...am I a bad mom if I don't really feel bad for my two-year-old when he hurts himself doing something he's been told ten thousand times NOT to do?

...will I ever have time to clean my bathrooms? Or, perhaps better stated, will I ever WANT to clean my bathrooms enough to use my precious free time to do it?

...am I totally lame because most of my posts don't include pictures?

These are the questions.

I've also been thinking...

...about Christmas and what mine was like four years ago when Matt surprised me by driving to Denver on Christmas day to propose. And then the thrill I got for the next few months every time I looked at my ring and remembered I was going to spend forever with my favorite person in the world. And that maybe I should have considered then how difficult it would be to clean spit-up out of that ring now. I might have stuck with a simple band.

...that setting some goals would be a good idea. I'm setting a goal to set some goals.

...how lucky my family has been to not get sick at all recently. Then I woke up with a sore throat this morning.

...about a friend I had growing up who was born with only one arm. Since I'm almost always holding a baby in one arm, I'm realizing how tough it is to do just about everything with only one arm. Tying shoes? Wrapping presents? Making a PB & J? Tough.

...that I am afraid that you, Dear Reader, won't know how grateful I am for my life right now, because it sounds like I'm complaining a lot. The truth is that I am blessed beyond belief and spend a good deal of time looking around in wonder that my life is turning out better than I ever could have hoped -- and certainly better than I deserve.

Thanatopsis

That's the name of a poem by William Cullen Bryant.

I read it. Once. A decade ago, in high school. But my brain has been replaying the word "thanatopsis" over and over again at all hours of the day and night since about last Friday.

I think it's the product of sleep deprivation.

As a side note, this poem is about death.

I do not think you can die from sleep deprivation. But it feels like you can.

P.S. I have a really, really good baby. He just likes to eat a lot.

Comparison

Caleb vs his cousin Chad (who is six weeks older):

Someday these two will be good friends. Maybe not teeter-totter buddies or wrestling competitors, but good friends.

Announcing...

Caleb Rais
November 2, 2009
2:35 am
7 lbs. 15 oz.
19 1/2 inches long

I thought it was appropriate that he came on a Monday. :)

I have only one hand for typing, but suffice it to say that after roughly four hours of active labor and five pushes, we welcomed sweet Caleb to the family. We think he looks a little more like my side than Truman did. Truman thinks he looks like a fun thing to squeeze, poke, and lay on top of. I am feeling really good (tired, of course) and thrilled to have two little boys. More pics soon, as the baby changes hourly.

It's Monday again

No baby yet, just if you were wondering.

I DO, however, have piles of laundry to do, no food in the house to speak of, and dirty bathrooms. I thought that would bring the baby for sure.

I'll keep you posted.

The Waiting Game

When I bought milk last week, I bought one gallon that expired the 24th and one that was good until the 26th. I thought, "Will these milks go bad before I have my baby?"

It's all I can think about these days. I make plans with the caveat "...if I don't have my baby, of course." I am constantly working up strategies for what I would do if my water broke at any given moment (in the temple last week, the grocery store today, during a visiting teaching appointment tomorrow) - who I would call to watch Truman, whether I'd have to call Matt home from work, etc. etc. I'm supposed to teach Relief Society on Sunday, and the RS president joked with me yesterday that my water would break while I was up there teaching. Now THAT would be something to blog about.

So we wait and wonder, knowing that, no matter what, we're at most 14 days away from having a baby (as I have an induction scheduled for November 3rd). It will be the longest two weeks of my life! And yet I'm torn too, because I realize that these are my last one-on-one days with my first 'baby' - who isn't such a baby anymore and whose life is about to be turned positively upside-down by a little brother.

Good thing I believe that babies come when they're supposed to, and I think this one's holding out for Matt's best friend's birthday this Saturday, the 24th. And then picking a name will be easy: prepare to welcome Bum Johnson.

How was YOUR Thursday?

Most of our family has probably already heard this story, but we had quite a day yesterday.

In a nutshell, we went to the hospital worried that we were going to have our baby four weeks early (and, in my case, panicked that he still has no name...). Thankfully, I am still pregnant.

Why would a woman who has already been through labor make the mistake of driving 20 minutes to the hospital only to be sent home an hour later? I seriously considered not going in, but I was having painful but irregular contractions all night on Wednesday night, and by Thursday mid-morning they were three to five minutes apart and making me moan. I've had the flu since the wee hours of Wednesday morning, and apparently my body's reaction to the fever, chills and body aches was to cause contractions - contractions that were worsened by my already-always-sore pelvis bones turning mega-sore from the achiness of the flu. I told Matt on the way to the hospital that I didn't want the baby to be four weeks early (especially because my doctor told me that if I was exhibiting flu symptoms when I delivered, I would be quarantined from my baby), but if it would make the pain stop, I would have him that day and any way they wanted. I don't know that I have ever been sicker in my life.

I calmed down a lot and the contractions slowed once we got to the hospital, probably because I felt like we were doing something and at least I didn't have to wonder anymore if the flu was inducing labor. They took my temperature (not quite 101) and monitored my heartrate and the baby's - both high from the fever. Then we waited...and waited...and waited...for the nurse to come in and say that the on-call doctor wanted me to go home and take some Tylenol. Well that was a fruitful trip to the hospital! I started crying at that point, because even though I didn't actually want to have the baby, I didn't know how many more hours of aches and chills and contractions I could take now that I knew the contractions weren't even getting me anywhere! And Tylenol had only been denting the fever and pain up to that point.

I consider it nothing short of miraculous that about half an hour after we got home, the Tylenol kicked in and was working better than it had at any point in the last 30ish hours that I'd been fluish. I was able to get some rest and find a way to sit that caused the fewest contractions, and they've been getting fewer and farther between in the 24 hours since then. I know my mom and mother-in-law were praying for me and had enlisted the help of many others to do the same. And thank heavens (literally!) it worked. I'm still tired and sluggish, but I can tell this bug is on its way out - and I've rarely felt more grateful.

Thanks to all for your prayers, help watching Truman, and reading this epic post.

Pests

I really need to get a "No Soliciting" sign, because I have zero willpower to say no to smiling, sweating college students when they show up on my doorstep sweetly selling unnecessary items and services. Case in point: I bought a year's worth of pest control visits on Saturday, and within minutes of Starving Student's departure I was having buyer's remorse. But I'd just signed a contract, so I smiled at the bug man (pest control technician) when he showed up this morning, then spent the afternoon feeling guilty not only for spending the money but also for killing the bugs! Someone tell me I did the right thing!

Second time around

When I was pregnant with Truman, new babies made me nervouser than anything. I listened to them cry during Sacrament Meeting and looked forward to that new phase of life about as much as I would an oncoming freight train - which is exactly what I felt was bearing down on me, by the way. I felt totally unprepared and inadequate.

Well, turns out I was a bit of a train wreck after the boy arrived, and I won't bore you with details of the dreading and fretting I did for the first year (and beyond) of his life.

Thankfully, looking forward to baby number two has a completely different feel: I cradled a three-day-old baby last week and positively craved holding my own. I've been lovingly sorting, washing and folding teeny sleepers and socks for a week now. I scoured Target to find Baby Noname a Halloween outfit (here's hoping he'll arrive before then to wear it!). I just can't wait to meet him.

Of course, I'm still worried about how I'm going to divide my time between two children, how Truman will handle the intrusion of a little brother, and how I'm going to survive on even less sleep than I do now, but the gripping fear is gone. I figure I've been at this mothering thing for a couple of years now, and so far, so good. Bring it on, baby boy.

Are all two-year-olds psychotic?

Mine is. And his mommy is getting to be that way.

So we're officially moved in after three weeks, and I can say that because we now have Internet. Ironically though, I feel like I have nothing to say, even after a six-week hiatus from blogging.

The month of July was better and worse than I anticipated; I have a million projects I want to do on the house (and I'm grateful because it's so nice to have something to do); I feel like Truman gets a little bit harder to handle every day, but I have been praying my heart out to have patience with him and this week I have had some tangible Help; my little sister comes out tomorrow for two weeks before she starts school at BYU and I am THRILLED (both about the live-in help and the choice to attend my alma mater); and I would post pictures of the house, but I'm not in love with all the decor yet, plus I'm just plain too lazy.

How's that for nothing to say? It's good to be back.

Anticipating

Truman likes to spend a lot of time on the computer playing letter-learning games and watching Thomas the Tank Engine/Bob the Builder/this crazy penguin named Pingu. This means I spend a lot of time with a second browser window open checking blogs and looking for decorating ideas, and even I'm getting sick of looking at my last post.

I'm restless lately. I feel like I should be getting ready to move, but I have nowhere to put packed boxes unless I want to squeeze around them for the next five weeks. I'm feeling anxious about the month of July, for a few reasons: one, it sounds hard trying to pack and move and be fixing up a house amid four reunions; two, because Truman has been waking up anywhere between 4:20 and 5:40 am (never later, mind you), ready for the day. It's one thing to plop him in front of a movie with some Cheerios at my own house, but when you're traveling and staying with someone else, you have fewer options. I may be spending a lot of early mornings outside...

My mom says I'm an "anticipator," as in I'm always expecting the worst. I like to think it's being prepared, but maybe I'm just being a sourpuss.

Best birthday ever...and ultrasound results

I really ought to go into more detail about the amazing day I had yesterday, but this little summary will have to suffice:

Matt got up with Truman at 5:30 am and announced that he wasn't going to work; instead he had arranged for a sitter (thanks, Amy!) so we could go to the Salt Lake Temple. My first time. What a glorious way to spend a birthday morning. Then I had a gyro for lunch. How could the day get any better, right? Like this:

During dessert that night, we got a call from our realtor. The counteroffer on the house we love (and put an offer on last Friday) was just what we'd hoped for, so for my birthday we...BOUGHT A HOUSE. Matt says he never has to get me another birthday gift since this one was so expensive.

Today, in what I consider an extension of birthday festivities, we had our 20-week ultrasound. The baby was very active the whole time, and the tech told us again and again how beautiful and well-formed the brain, heart, spine, legs...wait, what's that? That's definitely a BOY. I was shocked, and still am, but thrilled that Truman will be getting a little brother. We got a great shot of him sucking his fingers, and I'm already in love.

But I guess that purple nursery in the new house will have to go.

Mind Lost, Mind Regained

In a little twist on Milton's Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained, I found my temple recommend on Saturday. I knew that if I could just get into my mom's car and snoop around, I'd find it. Even though she had scoured the vehicle herself, I found the blessed little card in about ten seconds between two of the back seats. Turns out my mind isn't completely gone after all.

Another treasure regained this weekend: some measure of happiness in being a mother. Being the mommy has just felt like a grind for the last little while, especially with the weepiness and mood swings of pregnancy. But my sweet husband saw that I needed a break and asked my mother-in-law to watch Truman for us overnight as part of my Mother's Day gift. So on Saturday I slept in past six am, spent time with my favorite girlfriend in the world, and emerged feeling like I just might make it through Truman's toddlerhood. It's tough, this mother business, but I think that smelly little whiny creature is worth it.

And thanks, Matt, for seeing me through the insanity. And for those delicious crepes this morning...

Losing my mind for the second time around

For the three non-family members who read this blog (and therefore didn't already know), Matt and I are expecting again in October. And boy (or girl?) do I have some "pregnancy brain" moments to prove it:

Two weeks ago, I managed to leave my temple recommend in Denver...I think. I have no recollection of what happened to it after I went into the temple with my parents. It could still be inside for all I know, or in a shoe or a drawer or with the laundry. No memory whatsoever.

I was completely stressed about getting my library books back on time this week, but of course I forgot them the first time I went out to run errands. So I made a special trip and found that I was still minus one book when I got to the library. I thought about going back home again to get it (turns out it was under the couch, by the way), but then decided just to renew it using the library computers. I then proceeded to smack myself in the forehead repeatedly as I walked out the door for not just renewing them all - from home!

Yesterday on the way home from the grocery store, I missed my exit. I didn't even see it go by. I just happened to start looking around and thought, "Where am I?"

There are more where these came from, but my foggy brain can't recall them right now. I worry, though, that I am a danger to myself and others and maybe should be locked away for the next five to six months. And, depending on how this baby sleeps, the next five or six after that.

On Sippies and Spring

As expected, it's taken about a week - but that boy loves his Elmo sippies just as much as he ever did his bottle. In fact, we tended a little girl last night who came over with a bottle of chocolate milk, and I thought we were done for: Truman's eyes got big and he pointed insistently for a moment. After I got him a cup of chocolate milk himself though, he was content. Even while the little girl screamed and screamed for her parents...

By the way, many thanks to Adrienne for letting us have a straw sippy that was the only thing Truman would even take a second look at during those first few days.

In other news, is anyone else revelling in the glory of spring the way that I am today? The grass is suddenly green, mean March snow has turned to April showers, daffodils are standing proud and sunny in front yards all around the neighborhood, and the tree outside my front window is just beginning to flower. I can't get enough. Can't think of anything particular to blog about either, but I am grateful to feel, in general, good about life. Maybe it's because Greek Easter is this Sunday, and there's nothing like roasting a lamb on a spit in the yard with a bunch of drunk Greeks to make a girl feel like grinning. Happy Spring!

Bye bye ba-ba

I took Truman to the zoo with a friend and her little boy on Monday. As I do for every outing, I brought along Truman's Tigger bottle (the one and only receptacle out of which he will drink ANYTHING, by the way).

Somewhere between the monkeys and the giraffes, we lost the bottle nipple. This was quite a miracle considering that the bottle was in the side pocket of my bag, untouched, and the screw cap was still intact. Seems like the only place the thing could have gone was into the bottle itself, but alas - gone. (Maybe a sneaky monkey plucked it out?)

Anyway, Matt and I decided that fate was lending us a hand in doing what we've been meaning/needing/wanting to do for a while now: take away the ba-ba. Monday was, indeed, Truman's 20-month birthday, so it's about. stinking. time. Right?

That night he went down without a fight and slept a glorious eleven hours straight. This is going to be easy! He was so ready to give it up! we thought.

Yesterday and today have been...rougher. When presented with the selection of six or so sippy cups we own (I am trying to give the boy choices, after all), he picks up one at a time and throws it against the wall in frustration while wailing for "doose." Doesn't matter that I do put juice in the cups. Doesn't matter that two of them have Elmo on them. (P.S. Despite what they claim, sippy cups are not spillproof. You can imagine the state of my sofas and floor as I try to combat two days' worth of sippy tantrums...)

I know that eventually he will crack and start drinking (bad as THAT sounds!). My main concern at this point is that the bedtime routine has gone out the window; I used to rock him with a bottle until he was sleepy, but now he won't drink from anything AND he won't go near the rocking chair. Ah, and he woke up four times last night wanting a bottle. We are going to get through this, right?

Blessings of Being a Fat Kid

I've decided that growing up fat really had its advantages. I sure didn't think so at the time, but consider the post-chub blessings:

With the exception of my pregnancy with Truman, my weight has gone only one (general) direction since I was 15: down.

Even when I was nine months pregnant, I still weighed about 25 pounds less than my heaviest in high school. True story. By middle school standards, I was svelt!

I didn't get acne until after I lost the weight (and you're thinking, "Huh?"). I'm pretty sure Heavenly Father decided it would be just too much for one girl to be overweight and have braces, glasses, unruly curly hair (with bangs!) AND acne all at the same time. I still can't quite shake the acne though...

No post-baby hysteria about the way my body looked, at least not really; stretch marks? Had those already. Saggy skin? Check. Flabby abs? My best friends. It was like I'd already had a baby before I had one. A big, slowly-delivered, 60-pound baby.

My parents didn't have to worry about my breaking curfew or question my morality until I was almost out of the house, because I wasn't getting asked out on dates until then! I'm not being tongue-in-cheek at all here; it really was a blessing for all of us...in the long run.

On the serious side, I think having a problem that was so visible and easily-mocked all my life made me a more compassionate person. Plus I tried harder to develop my social skills and my brain to compensate for what I felt like I lacked physically.

Most importantly, those years taught me an appreciation for my body no matter its size. I really had to learn to accept and acknowledge qualities that made me beautiful on the inside until eventually I felt beautiful on the outside. I had to be willing to accept where I was - and the frightening thought that I might always be that way - before I could move on and change it.

Bold Flavors

Yes, that is a bar of soap with a huge bite taken out of it. Extricated from the bathtub just a moment too late tonight, I'm afraid. I can't seem to keep Truman out of personal hygiene products - he's happily eaten hair gel, deodorant (I had to call Poison Control for that one), lotion, and mousse. On the food side, he's particularly fond of lime wedges and A1 sauce. Bold flavors, anyone?

He also has a taste for technology:

Uses markers to disguise himself as a dictator:

Loves to 'load' the dishwasher:

And can't help but rearrange the kitchen cupboards (he got all of this out by himself):

What a guy.

Resistant

Matt says I resist some things just to be resistant. Most recently, not rinsing the dishes before we put them in the dishwasher. He suggested we just stick them in there and then run the rinse portion of the cycle before running the regular cycle. He said it would save water. I went along with the idea for about ten seconds, but I just couldn't do it. It just doesn't seem like it will work to me. I wouldn't even try it once.

Does this betray a lack of humility?

I resist whipping my kid's sleeping habits into shape. I complain about how tired I am all the time, but I go in every night with a bottle when he fusses. Somewhere in my brain I know my life would be lots easier after a week or so of tough love, but I just haven't been able to bring myself to do it. I highly recommend tough love to others, however.

I resist blogging, almost to a fault. I don't think that I have anything interesting to say, and for some reason I don't want to post endlessly about my child and his antics, of which there are many. Maybe it's because he already permeates every aspect of my waking and sleeping hours, and a girl's got to have something all her own. But I also hate the idea that all I ever do is talk about myself on here. You'd be surprised how many posts I have started and abandoned.

On the flip side, I resist making my blog private or combining forces with Matt on his blog, even though I really think I should. We both post infrequently enough that there's really no need for two separate blogs. Plus I'm starting to think that our friends and family doubt the existence of our child, as we rarely blog about him.

I resist preparing my Primary lesson, even though it takes all of half an hour - or an hour at the most. Seems silly.

I resist printing photographs. I am completely overwhelmed by the number of digital pictures I have on my computer, not to mention the hundreds of hard copies I already have spilling out of boxes and photo albums. I have no idea what I'd do with more if I printed them, and I am incapacitated by the thought of sifting through the photos from the last three years of my life to print only the best ones. I don't really even take pictures anymore. It's too much. I don't have an inordinate amount of photos of myself growing up, and my mom didn't make me a scrapbook, and I turned out fine...ish.

I resist admitting that Matt is right, when this time I think he really is right about my resistance. I'm pretty sure I'm just being stubborn and set-in-my-ways about a lot of things. Except the dishwasher. That whole not-rinsing thing is never going to work.

Self-discovery

I found out something about myself tonight: I'm the kind of person who would rather watch Jeopardy than American Idol. And I'm okay with that.

I love...

...my pediatrician.

Truman went in for his 18-month well baby appointment today, and for some reason I was a mess - have been for two days. Bawled my eyes out last night feeling like I'm not a good mother. I'm overly bothered by the fact that Truman still has a bottle, like it reflects poorly on me and is going to cause some kind of permanent damage. (How? I have no idea, but these are the worries.) Also, he rarely sleeps through the night, which not only makes me feel like I'm doing something wrong but also means I see his behavior through a sleep-deprived fog that tends to induce crying.

Enter pediatrician: I start to lay out my laundry list of apparent blunders - my kid still has a bottle, he wakes up in the night, he HATES having his teeth brushed so I hate to (and sometimes just plain don't) do it...and the doctor smiles at me. "It's not critical to take the bottle away all at once or right away," he says. "Lots of kids wake up once in the night for a quick feeding until they're even two years old," he says. "Let him brush his own teeth, and run a washcloth around his mouth while he's in the tub. He doesn't need any more than that, and there's no need to make both of you crazy and hate teeth-brushing."

Turns out my doctor has four kids. I could kiss him.

And the kicker: "He's a neurologically normal child with a good growth rate; he's healthy and happy and you're doing fine. You're both right on track." This is all I ever really want to hear, right? That, or maybe "Your kid is really advanced. You must be the best mother in the world." But I'm still realistic, and I just like to know I'm not way off the mark.

Sometimes I want to write myself a letter from forty years from now. I'd tell myself that my many children turned out wonderfully, well-adjusted and with the need for only minimal therapy. I'd remind myself not to worry so much, that worrying about what might be coming means you're not enjoying what is. I'd tell myself that everything in my life - from my husband's career to the spacing of my children to being able to buy a house - has worked out even better than I could have hoped for. I'd say that I can look back and see God's guiding hand in every day of my life. And I'd know that Truman is finally sleeping through the night!

Missing

Sometimes I sit alone
Waiting for me to call on the telephone
Just so I can hear my soothing voice.

And then I gaze in the mirror
Whisper sweet nothings in my ear
And kiss my picture on the shelf.

I'm not in love with you...no.
I'm in love with myself.

I've got this song stuck in my head right now. I think it was written by one of my older sister's college friends and got passed down through the younger siblings until it became, among us anyway, a family classic. I can hear it perfectly in my head just the way my brother would sing it.

This silly tune has me missing my family like crazy. Missing them just like I do every time I hear about Broncos football, quote the movie Goonies, or eat Greek food. I see pictures of their grown-up-looking kids (or in some cases, their actual grown-up kids - I've got nieces in college!) and hope they still remember their silly aunt Brittany. I should go visit them more. I should write letters. I should text them. I usually don't - but Family, I love you guys. And I miss you like hard rolls and warm Coke.

Bah Humbug

I read yesterday that most pediatricians recommend that children under two watch no TV.

Aw man....really??

New Year

The most profound moment so far of 2009 came on Sunday in my Primary class (I now team-teach the CTR 7s); we were talking about names - why we need them, what we want other people to feel when they hear ours, etc. I had gone to church hoping for some direction in setting my goals for the year, and as I listened to the other teacher direct the discussion I had this moment: when other people hear my name, I don't give a hoot if they think "She was such a good cook" or "She had a beautiful voice." I'd rather they say "She never said an unkind word about anyone" or "Her service came at a time when I really needed it." I'm so glad I get to spend time in the Primary as an adult, because there are some lessons I didn't learn the first time around.

This time of year has also brought to mind a quote from former Relief Society General President Barbara B. Smith: "Goals are stars to steer by, not sticks to beat yourself with." I hope to set my own course this year by that Eternal Star, our Savior Jesus Christ, and work toward becoming even as He is.