March 27, 2006
Time flies Big I
Five years ago tonight, I was in the hospital, just meeting my daughter for the first time. I was in some serious agony, and finally, after 14.5 hours of pitocin induced labor, I delivered her at 1:29 a.m. on 3/28. She weighed 8 lbs. 0 oz. and was 21 inches long. I was induced because she was late and apparently did not understand that her lease was up. Today she is 45 inches tall and weighs 42 lbs. She still doesn’t understand the concept of being on time (her nickname is ‘Pokey-hontas’), although that may be genetic. One thing is for sure; time has gone entirely too fast.
Big I-not even a day old
I remember crying when Big I turned a month old because I thought it was going so fast. If only I had known that every month there after would fly even faster. By the time she turned one, she had been walking for two months, knew tons of words, and was also fluent in baby signs.
Big I-First birthday party
At age 1 we had a lot of fun. Big I showed us early that she was going to be strong-willed and hit her terrible two’s a bit early. They were mostly out of her system by the time she hit two. When Big I hit 2, she did many funny things, but a few in particular stand out.
- Coloring our lavender sofa with a navy blue crayon (Thank goodness for IKEA slip covers because she was quite thorough.)
- Ruined my favorite lipstick by smearing it all over her mouth area Ronald McDonald style
- Found a black magic marker and colored herself graffiti style
Big I-age 2
Age 2 marked our first trip to Disney World where Big I’s love for anything princess was revealed. This was the age of non-stop talking, and the beginning of whining. This was also the age when Big I and our one cat became great friends.
Big I- Age 3
At age 3, Big I decided to show us her sense of humor. She enjoyed cracking us up on a daily basis with funny questions and even funnier faces. This was also the year of true bravery, as in, the child rode the Tower of Terror at Disney World four, count them, four times. She also decided this was the year to become a little mermaid and started swimming up a storm one day. She also started taking karate and ballet. What a combination!
Big I-4th birthday
This was quite a year for Big I, as she became a Big Sister. Big I went to all my appointments with me and endured multiple non-stress tests a week along with me. She became my appointment buddy and never ceased to amaze and amuse me with her drawings to entertain me and her "American Idol" like performances to make me laugh. She truly became a big girl this year and has endured having a sister around 100 times better than I ever thought she would.
Big I-5th birthday party
Every year on her birthday eve, I have told her the story, hour by hour of how she came into this world. Every year she has been excited to hear that story, and has asked me to tell her again and again. This year, she just wasn’t having it. . . yet another sign that this time has gone entirely too fast.
She is already starting to show signs that Mommy and Daddy aren’t always "cool" anymore. I mean, she’s not yet ready to have us drop her off at the mall unattended or anything, because yeah, like that will ever happen. But tonight, when she was being grumpy at the dinner table, I thought I could cheer her up by delivering a comical rendition of Nelly’s new song, "Smile for me baby. . . I wanna see your grill. . . you wanna see my what?. . . your grill, ya, ya, your grill." (For those people who think Nelly is the name of your local dairy farm’s prized cow, "grill" means smile or teeth, at least I think it does.) Anyway, it actually elicited an eye roll. An eye roll. The child is just turning five; and I can sing Nelly. I thought I had a least a few more years before the eye rolling started!
In the fall she will start kindergarten; and I seriously may need to go visit my doctor beforehand for some anti-anxiety help for that day. I have always stayed home with her; we have been together almost every day of her life; and I can not imagine how bad it’s going to hurt when she goes to school.
Last week I was helping her ride her bike outside. I told her that she was growing up too fast. I told her to slow down. She said to me, "Don’t worry, you will always be my mommy." This weekend, at her birthday party, I told her to slow down again and she said, "Mommy, I can’t help it. It’s not me growing up; it’s my body." She is so right.
Happy Birthday Big I! No matter how big you get, you will ALWAYS be my baby. (I will probaby always sing you silly rap songs too.)
March 22, 2006
Sai what?
Getting ready for karate class was not fun this week. It went something like this:
Me: "It’s time to get in your gi, Big I. Get dressed."
Big I: "No."
Me: "Yes."
Big I: "NOOOOOOOO. I don’t want to go. I HATE karate."
Me: "No you don’t. Why do you say you hate karate?" (thinking to self about how this child begged to start taking karate.)
Big I: folding arms and pouting with chin tucked to chest, speaking in baby voice, "It’s too tough. I’m not going."
Me: "Yes you are."
Daddy: "Do you like McDonalds, Big I?"
Big I: "Yes."
Daddy: "If you don’t go to karate you’re never going to McDonald’s again. McDonald’s is a treat that happens when you go to karate."
Me: (mouth drops. Thinks to self: "Did he seriously just say that?" (starts to compute in head the cost and time that will be devoted to therapy in the future for such a statement.)
Big I: getting dressed "Fine. I’ll go. But I HATE it."
So, we get to karate class and I say to our 20 something year old instructor, "How old were you when you started taking karate classes? I bet you thought it was hard, huh?" wink, wink and nod head in direction of Big I.
Mr. M: totally catches my drift and says, "Oh, well I was about 10 years old and yeah, it was really hard at first. But then it sinks in and gets easier and then it gets really fun." He looks back at me. I nod approvingly for a job well done.
Mr. M then spends the entire class catering to Big I, helping her with things she needs to know and making it fun in the process. He totally rocks, let me tell you. For a 20-something guy, he is so darn with it when it comes to kids. We spent time this week learning weapons kata’s. We worked with sai, tonfa, and the bo. By worked with, I mean that Big I sort of held the weapons but mostly just banged the two sai and tonfa together and made sweet music while the rest of us did our thing around the dojo.
When we got home from karate, I asked Big I which weapon she thought was the best. She paused briefly and then answered, "those metal things (referring to sai). . . you know why Mommy? Because they make the best music."
Music now, fighting expertise later. All in good time. I can wait.
March 21, 2006
Action Plans
Some might call it a form of mental illness. Perhaps it is; but I call it being prepared. For as long as I can remember, (and more so since I’ve become a Mommy,) I’ve had in my head what my family and I lovingly refer to as "action plans." Action plans are simply this: pre-thought out "actions" that will occur in certain situations including, but not limited to things like:
- an unsolicited knock at the door by trench-coat-wearing-petitioners, sales persons, or religious zealots, in which case the scenario is pretty much the same as a fire as in, "Stop, Drop, and Roll" (to the nearest wall where one can not be seen or heard under any circumstances by someone standing at the front door and stay there for at least five minutes or until Mommy gives the "all clear."
Or
- a dog loose in the neighborhood while we play outside (Action Plan would be to elevate the children in any way possible, such as placing the kids on top of a car or preferably a mini-van (if the adrenalin is pumping enough) while Mommy fends off the dog with yet-to-be-learned karate vs. dog techniques until children can be brought safely inside or dog is somehow contained.)
They’ve been a constant source of entertainment for my husband and mom, as in "What would you do if ‘x’ happens?" It only takes me a second to get going because in some form or another, I’ve already thought them out and thoroughly, Jack Bauer style. Got a wrench to throw into my plan mid stream, as in unsolicited team of sales persons are now at both front and back doors? Bring it on; I’ve got the answers. My family is always shocked to hear me answer without hesitation in explicit detail about how I would deal with virtually any situation. While they laugh, I’m streamlining my action plan for possible implementation. I’m quite serious about them, and am rarely caught without an executable plan.
This is how they come about. I see something on the news or in a TV show that gets in my head. Maybe it will be something about how unsuspecting children were playing when a swarm of bees attacked, or maybe it will be something more sinister. Either way, I come up with a series of events that would take place if said terrible thing would happen to me. I know, it’s a little crazy; but it makes me feel better knowing I’m prepared for anything, and that’s all that really matters.
When I was pregnant for the second time, my action plans were in overdrive. So much so, that when a young pregnant woman was attacked in the Midwest by some crazy loon who wanted her baby, I went to karate that week and asked my instructor to please teach me immediately how to fend off a knife attack. My instructors are happy to feed the frenzy of my action plans. One instructor spent an hour teaching me all the different ways to get away from someone with a knife. His shoulder was recovering at the time from an injury; and in one overly energetic move, I fended off the rubber knife and simultaneously did something to his shoulder that sounded like a twig snapping. He walked it off; I felt terrible. But I found out it worked and the lesson continued. . .at a little bit slower pace.
At my local grocery store, a woman was forced into her own car with a gun at her back by two armed men and driven around the city for hours before finally being released unharmed. I immediately developed a plan of attack for such an occurrence should that ever happen to me. That week, a pregnant me learned the fine art of swinging my elbows in the style of "Eww, back off, I so do NOT want to dance with you" to move a gun trajectory out of the way of important parts like, oh say, my head, chest, etc. and I felt much better about going to the grocery store again.
The truth is, I am so hyper aware when I am out in public or even in my own yard that the likelihood of some stupid criminal deciding that I am a worthy target is probably slim to none. It just wouldn’t be worth their while to attack someone who is so vigilant and constantly paying attention to her surroundings. And if they did decide to attack, well, let’s just say that I already know that I don’t freeze up when someone attacks me. I’ve been there in the past and the recipient of my wrath was not a very happy camper (and that was pre-karate).
It doesn’t matter if you are 5’2", 90 lbs. and your attacker is 6’8" 280 lbs. I’ve learned that you may not be able to overpower your attacker in the traditional sense; but there are so many cool untraditional ways to make your attacker beg for mercy. I am 5’9"; my husband is 6’3". He’s also got me by about 60 lbs. (Oh, you totally thought I was going to give our weights, didn’t you! So not EVER going to happen, especially with mine, and now that you have the formula, Mr. B minus 60=me. . .I’ll never tell you Mr. B’s either so just get it out of your head). Anyway. . .
I often come home from karate all keyed up with what I’ve learned that evening and with school girl excitement tell my husband, "Come on, grab me in a bear hug," or "Grab my arm like this." Usually, he obliges so quickly that I have to stand there for a few seconds and collect my butt-kicking thoughts before I work my moves. Sometimes they work; sometimes they don’t. Sometimes he’s hurting a bit; sometimes I pull a muscle or break a nail. But a few weeks ago I learned something very cool that will work on anyone. . .
All you need is one finger. Add to that one very unnatural angle to bend it, and you’ve got a winner. All you need is one finger to have someone begging for mercy. It totally works, and that one finger is just one of the reasons why I LOVE going to karate class each week. It’s empowering and confidence building. What bad guy ever thinks you’re going to take his pinky, or any finger for that matter, and have him begging for his mama?
None, and that is precisely why it works . . . (at least against my husband).
March 19, 2006
I Just Can’t
My Lil C is 5.5 months old; and I can not bring myself to move her from the cradle beside my bed to her crib, where she desperately needs to be. She needs to be there because she is a loooonnnngggg baby. She is off the charts when it comes to length and she literally has about a quarter inch from the top of her head to the top of the cradle with her toes grazing the bottom of the cradle. I know she’d probably be more comfortable in her room, in her crib. She takes naps there and I can deal with that. But the whole night, in a different room? I’m seriously having some issues with this.
Big I slept in our bed for just about the first two years of her life. She was not a great sleeper and liked to wake up for feedings often. So for me, it was an issue of "do I want to get any sleep or not?" So, she slept with my husband and me and it was fine. She went to her own bed and room when she was just about two and has been doing so since. (She actually sleeps in a loft bed now which was a whole other issue for me to deal with!) With Big I, there were no issues regarding the whole co-sleeping thing; although there were certain well-meaning family members and other people who had issues with it and weren’t shy about letting us know. My husband and I did with it what we do with other well-meaning advice. . . considered it briefly and then decided to promptly dismiss it.
Before I had Lil C, my husband and I bought a new bed, bigger and softer. The bigger part is good for a new baby, but the softer part is not so good. So Lil C slept in our bed, but in a co-sleeping infant bed that fit inside our bed. That worked for a while but then the little munchkin got so long so fast that we had to move her to the cradle. That was tough for me too, but bearable because she was still in our room.
I think the hardest part about moving her out of our room is that there is really no going back once I move her out. We’ll need to establish a routine; and then I have to really disconnect the umbilical cord. It’s so hard to do. What’s making it harder is that I always wanted to have three kids. After the pregnancy with Lil C, the gestational diabetes, the non-stress tests, the endless finger sticks, the glyburide which gave me low blood sugars and made me feel like I had heart-burn constantly, the ridiculous diet that limited carbs and sugars (how dare they do such a thing to a pregnant woman, for God’s sake?), I don’t know if a third is in the cards for us.
For any other person, maybe it wouldn’t be an issue. I gave birth to two perfectly healthy, full term babies. What’s a little gestational diabetes, right? Wrong. In my family there is a strong history of diabetes. My mother is a type 1 who was diagnosed with gestational during her second pregnancy and then it never went away. Although mine appears to have been a true gestational diabetes, who’s to say that it wouldn’t come back and stay? Is that a risk worth taking to have another child? And then there’s that whole thing about it taking over a year to get Lil C on her way into this world. I’m not getting any younger; and I like that my girls are 4.5 years apart.
If the experience of giving birth to Lil C wasn’t so amazing, I think I would be able to accept not having another child. In fact, throughout the pregnancy, I swore this was it because I would not go through all these ridiculous tests and finger sticks and stress EVER again. However, I had a wonderful midwife deliver Lil C and it was a truly beautiful experience. I was actually able to reach under her arms and deliver her myself. There was no i.v., no drugs (besides a miso to get labor going), and no knees-to-your-ears-counting-bright lights-pushing either. We even went home the same day I gave birth. She came into this world in such a relaxed way, which is why we think she is such a mellow and easy to care for baby.
It’s just hard to say that I won’t be doing that again. It’s hard to get rid of the 0-3 month clothes (which is why I don’t). It’s hard to accept that the giving birth part of my life might be done; so for now. . . I won’t.
Lil C is sleeping in her cradle tonight.
March 16, 2006
You’re only as old as the kids think you are
I pre-tested for karate tonight. This means that our class sits along the back of the dojo and our instructors call us up one at a time and have us go through our material. For whatever reason, (maybe because I’m the oldest by about, oh 13 years in this class) my instructor made me wait until last to get up and do my thing. I can not tell you how much I HATE going last. By the time it’s my turn, my heart is pounding out of my chest; I’m sweating; And, I can’t remember for the life of me what the heck my next move is, even though 10 minutes ago I knew it perfectly. To make matters worse, this is the first time that I have to do a weapons kata as well as an open hand kata. Double stress.
You would think that since I was a high school English teacher for two years, standing up in front of a bunch of kids would not even make me blink. But for some stupid reason it does. It makes me feel like I’m a kid again and I hate feeling that way. Tonight, as I sat there waiting for my turn, a girl of about eight years old, leans over to me and whispers, "Were you in the tournament?" I’m like, "shaa, yeah right." Seriously, maybe I feel like a kid because the kids think I’m a kid.
The same thing happened to my husband. At 36 weeks pregnant with Lil C, I finally had to stop going to karate. My husband started up so that Big I would have a partner she knew. At their first class, the average age of the student was about six. When it was Mr. B’s turn to stand up and punch the heavy bag, he punched once and all you heard was a collective gasp of awe and wonder at his amazing ability to nail that bag. One little boy’s eyes almost popped out of his head as he blurted out a simple, "Wow." My husband and the instructor got hysterical; and I had to make a trip to the little girls’ room since laughing, second pregnancies, and 9 months along so do not make for a good combination.
Apparently, post delivery joints and kata don’t make for a good combo either. As I was doing my kata tonight, my hip cracked so loudly that a parent of one of the other students, who was sitting in the waiting area, actually commented that he heard it. Yeah, well I felt it buddy and trust me, that was so. much. worse. I swear I take karate classes at a place where there are adult students. I am NOT a Kramer; and I don’t make it a habit of making myself feel good by beating up on unsuspecting five year olds. It just seems that the other adults. . . are always attending classes other than the one that I go to.
When it was all said and done tonight, my instructor pointed out a few things to work on. So next week will be the week that I will officially test for 5th kyu green belt (or two brown stripes on a green belt for those non-karate literates). Tonight, after I did the first kata I have to do for testing, my instructor told me to start over, which is never a good sign. I shot a quick glance at my usual instructor (a college student who pointed out a few weeks ago that I was doing something so ridiculously wrong in the one kata that it could seriously be confused with hula dancing) and asked if they were going to point out another awkward dance move that I’d decided to incorporate into this kata too.
Luckily this time, I had just screwed up a minor step and corrected it without prompting on the second go round. The hula move from the previous kata was probably just a side effect of my body compensating for my ridiculously HUGE and LOW stomach at the time. Seriously, I mean check out that belly! Lil C was a LOW RIDER so I’m going to blame it on her. She apparently took the whole, "Get low, get low, get low," rap lyrics of the summer a bit too seriously.
Speaking of serious, I need to do some intense practicing for this testing next week. My husband has a fear that I will take it to the streets and start swinging around my bo outside and freaking out the neighbors and I’ll tell you what, if the weather is nice this weekend, you better believe I’ll be out there.
I think I can hear Mr. B upstairs now quietly praying for a freak blizzard just in time for the weekend. . .
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