Alex Update!

Well, they were right- having your second baby is a million times easier than having your first.  Andy was born after over three hours of pushing.  Alex (Alexander Christopher Berger, Esquire- figured I'd just add Esquire to his name now so that he doesn't have to bother with actually EARNING the title*) was born after three pushes.  And Alex, despite my best attempts to keep my weight down and NOT bear another monstrous eight pounder, weighed even more than Andy- a solid eight pounds, eight ounces.  If I'd have foregone my induction and made it to forty weeks, I would have had a nine pounder.  And that could have gotten ugly.

I have been on a roller coaster of emotions since last Thursday.  I don't even know where to start.  I will say that, yes, you fall in love with your second baby just as quickly and deeply as you did your first.  Even if you spend their first two days** in existence constantly calling them by your first born's name.  Ah well, it's all bells and whistles to them anyway.  And I will also say that taking care of a newborn the second time around is so much easier.  Ridiculously so, really.  It's like having a Baby Alive around that fusses for about ten minutes every three hours or so.  And then you change and feed it and you have another three hours in which to just stare at it, kiss it, and carry it around like an accessory.  Or at least you would if not for your eldest.  Because that's THE hardest part of all this- managing Andy, who is now without a schedule and is super bored.  And rather demanding.

The good news?  Andy has really accepted the baby.  Taken to him, I might say.  "Baby!" he exclaims upon seeing him.  He likes to hold him, help feed him, and give him kisses.  He does these things with the gentleness of an elephant, but he means well.  The real problem has been the swing.  Andy can't accept that the swing is for the baby now and has almost pulled Alex out of there a few times.  "The baby's using the swing," I've tried to explain, "It's a baby swing!"  To which Andy has one of three responses:

Yelling, "Andy turn!"

Attempting to pull the baby out.

Saying, "Mommy, baby," and then pointing to the bassinet, which means, "Ma, get that baby outta my swing and stick him in here, okay?"  At least he's trying to problem solve, which is more than I can say for myself.  Usually I just give in, take the baby out, and let Andy flop heavily down into the swing.  If he breaks that swing, money for a new one is totally coming out of Andy's bank account.  Or mine, since anything that happens between these two is pretty much my fault from here on out.

So, keeping Andy busy and happy is challenging.  Helping Andy adjust to the baby is fine.  Thankfully, Chris is home for now and has been taking Andy to the park, to Monkey Joe's, out shopping, etc, and that has helped.  And having Andy's best friend live next door has been a godsend as well.  They are going to be so sick of us by the end of the summer- or the end of today- or possibly yesterday....

More detail to come- there are a couple stories in the birth of Alex that I want to share.  But for now- the four of us are home and doing fine.  And if anyone would like to come over to play with my super handsome, overly energetic first-born for a few hours- well, for God's sake, start driving here now.





*Kidding!  Or am I?
** I should just go ahead and say "entire life."

Tomorrow!

Here it is- the day before the baby is set to arrive.

I was afraid I wasn't going to make it to tomorrow, and now I'm hoping I made the right decision by deciding to do this whole thing via elective induction.  What a modern luxury, getting to choose when your child will be born. Getting to make this decision based on a host of reasons other than medical necessity.  Getting to say, "I want my baby born on this day because it won't interrupt my schedule as much."  This is said with very little regard to the baby's schedule.  He may have had a whole day planned for tomorrow, a little hiccuping and kicking followed by an amniotic nap and an hour or so of brain development.  Perhaps tomorrow he was planning on developing that part of the brain that will allow him to understand algebra.  And now I'm screwing that up!

This kid was induced, and now he's failing Algebra.

Eh.  I still want to be induced, algebra be damned.  It's not like knowing math ever really got me anywhere, anyway.

So here we are, on June 20th.  Andy is enjoying his last day of day care.  I have to stop feeling sorry for my (almost) two year old and the fact that he'll be missing out on daily play time with his friends.  The amount of sorrow and grief I'm applying to the situation is bordering on the ridiculous.  With all of the hitting and biting that goes on in that place, I should be applauding myself for taking him out of an abusive system.  But- I still feel bad.  I just hope Andy doesn't get too restless at home with me and that I can somehow find enough to keep the poor kid busy.  Potential hobbies that I'm considering for him include staring at the baby, begging me to go outside, and watching endless loops of "Wheels on the Bus" You Tube videos.  This morning, while I got ready for the day, Andy must have watched fifteen different versions of "Wheels on the Bus," including a French version and an Arabic version and a version in which the bus driver loses his mind and drives the bus straight off the highway and directly into a tire fire.

I'm nervous for tomorrow.  You may or may not know this, but birthing a baby hurts.  A lot.  And the epidural does nothing during go time, since they pretty much turn it off so you can feel the contractions and know when to push.  It's like, thanks a lot, assholes.  Why don't you just punch me in the face a few times while you're at it?

My life changed forever on July 12, 2010, the day that I held my sweet Andrew for the first time ever.  It changed in all the ways I expected it to, and in many, mostly intangible, ways that I didn't.  And tomorrow it will change again.  But, with the second baby, are the changes just as huge and dramatic?  What am I supposed to expect?  I am actually less nervous going into tomorrow than I was the day before Andy was induced out.  I guess that's something.  But what I am nervous about is introducing my first born to my second born.  I am so hoping he reacts to the new baby as if it were a puppy.  A puppy to gently pet and give kisses to.  This is my best case scenario.  You don't want to hear my worst case scenario.  Imagine what you think might be my worst case scenario and then multiply it by five.  But don't ask my new baby to do that math, because we're taking him out before he understands how that works.

Anyway, here are a couple of things I'm going to do when I'm no longer pregnant, aside from hold my new baby and never sleep again.

• Retire my paltry pregnancy wardrobe, which at this point consists of three pairs of pants and three identical t-shirts, all with grease stains on the belly part due to my increasingly sloppy eating habits.  Hey, if you were pregnant, you'd probably balance your dinner directly on your tummy, too.  
• Drink a crap load of wine, eat pounds and pounds of nitrate-filled and listeria-tainted lunch meat, and devour as much sushi as I'm physically able to.
• Celebrate the immediate loss of acid reflux and about ten pounds.  Hopefully regain normal feeling in my legs during periods of laying on the couch or in bed. Very carefully, do a little dance.

That's about all I can think of at the moment.

So, wish me luck.  Hopefully everything goes smoothly as we welcome our new addition.  And hopefully this little bastard weighs less than Andy did.  I should be able to blog about the new baby when I have some free time available- maybe in five or six years.  Now excuse me while I enjoy my last day of freedom- no work, Andy at day care, and nothing but day time television and greasy snacks to rest atop my big old belly.

Bus!

Andy loves buses.  If he sees a bus of any sort- school bus, party bus, charter bus- he is quick to point at it and announce, happily, "Bus."  If he ever came across a double decker bus, he'd probably pass out from the sheer joy of such a sight.  And if he were to receive a bus pass for his birthday, he'd be the happiest two year old alive.  Chris and I are seriously contemplating such a purchase, and then dropping him off at the Pace stop with a bus schedule, a juice box, and strict instructions on how to transfer buses safely so that we can meet him at the mall sometime the following afternoon.  Can you say best birthday ever??

The day care has a bus for the big kids' field trips.  The bus is parked in the lot, and every morning and afternoon, Andy calls out "Bus!" in greeting when he first glimpses the bus and then "Bye bye Bus!" when we either enter the day care or drive out of the lot.  He waves at the bus, staring longingly at it, as longingly as a nine month pregnant woman might stare at a bottle of wine.  Sometimes, when I am feeling generous, I walk Andy over to the bus and pick him up to peer in the windows and touch the door.  This is always the best part of his day- I can tell by the tone of reverence his voice takes on when he whispers, "Bus."

We watched the Muppet movie a few nights ago, an hour and a half film that features exactly eighty-six seconds of bus footage as the main characters get from here to there.  This was Andy's favorite eighty-six seconds of the movie, and he spent the rest of the film (well, the rest of what he actually sat still for), looking at me with sad eyes and asking, "Bus?  More bus?"  We kept waiting for another bus to make a cameo, but it just didn't happen.  I implore, would it have killed the producers to add maybe three or ten more bus scenes in this feature film?  Those cinematic monsters could have made a young boy so very happy.

Anyway, a week or so ago, Andy was rummaging through the cabinets when he came across the following gem, a Mystery Machine shaped insulated lunch bag that looks a little something like this:

I think I received this bag as part of a gag gift and have come close to tossing it in the trash on several occasions.  Good thing I'm too lazy to carry this bag from the cabinet to the trash can, though- as soon as Andy spied the bag, his face lit up, he grabbed the bag, and called out, excitedly, "BUS!"  Ever since that fateful moment, Andy's life was forever changed.

I haven't the heart to tell Andy that the Mystery Machine is not a bus but a van.  Chris, who once mowed down the kitten of some sweet little girl while driving home late one night, doesn't have that same problem.  "It's not a bus, Andy," he keeps trying to tell our son.  "It's a van.  A van isn't a bus."  Luckily, Andy has the good sense to ignore his father and hold on the magic, child-like innocence of a young boy who truly believes in buses.

Andy hauled his new bus around the house all week, sticking cars and dolls into the back of it through the zip up flap.  He'd hold the bus by the top handle and race it around the coffee table.  We also caught him trying to gingerly sit down on top of his new bus bag and take it for a ride.  Of course, he only succeeded in crumpling it, which was a whole teary thing, but nothing that couldn't, thankfully, be fixed.

Then this Saturday happened, when Chris and I stumbled across a new use for Andy's bus- one that could make our lives just a tiny bit easier.  We could stick diapers, wipes, and snacks in Andy's bus- and then trick him into carrying around his own little diaper bag when we were out on the town!

We loaded the Mystery Machine with the aforementioned supplies, zipped it up, and handed it off to Andy.  "Want to take your bus to the library?" we asked, to which Andy exclaimed, "YES!"  He gripped his bus very tightly by the top handle, hugged it to his body the whole car ride to the library, and swung the bus closely by his side as we walked up the steps to the library.  Andy walking around clutching his little bus bag/purse is basically the most darling thing you may ever witness, if you are so lucky.  And when we entered the library and Andy ran up to the nearest librarian in order to hold out his bus proudly and proclaim, "Andy bus!", that also became a tie for most darling thing ever.

"What do you have in there?" the librarian asked sweetly, staring down at our son.  "Your lunch?"

"Diapers," I explained proudly.  The librarian didn't seem quite as impressed with the diaper bus as Chris and I were, though, but was nice enough to humor us with a slightly confused smile.

Andy carried his bus bag around the library and then through the store the next day.  He held onto Chris with his left hand and gripped the bus with his right hand.  Again, yet another tie for most darling thing ever.

So, now Andy's carrying the bus bag everywhere- around the house and out on the town.  I should say that this is one of two "buses" that Andy owns- he has a Little People school bus along with his insulated Mystery Machine. He plays with both eagerly, but enjoys the Mystery Machine so much more because of the handle aspect.  He transports various items in both buses.

Yesterday, before we left the house, Chris called up to me, "Where are Andy's socks?"  I yelled down, "In his bus!"  There was some unzippering as I realized Chris was checking the Mystery Machine "bus."  "In his YELLOW bus," I clarified.  To which Chris yelled back up, "Well, how am I supposed to know which of his buses he's keeping his things in today!?"

Oh, the problems of parents- having to search multiple buses in order to find their son's socks.

Excuses!

As we approach baby day, I'd like to tie up a few loose ends.  Here are two things I blogged about accomplishing with Andy before the baby came along:

Switching him to a big boy bed.

Potty training.

Fail on both items.  It's easy to talk big when you're a sprightly twenty-three weeks along and can still comfortably get around, bend down, see your feet, and wear shirts that couldn't accurately be described as "muu-muus."  Then, however, things take a turn, and not only does your body start to expand and become essentially useless as anything other than a baby vessel and incinerator for cookies, but you also start to quickly lose motivation.  Potty training?  Nope.  Switching to a big boy bed?  Nope.  Shaving your legs?  Not so much.

I realized quickly that the potty training just wasn't going to happen.  Andy's at day care five days a week where they do not work on potty training until the kids hit the two year old room.  I'm a little upset that I won't be able to utilize day care's help with Andy's potty training, since he's being pulled from day care next week.  I guess I'm going to have to potty train this kid on my own, like some kind of stay at home sucker.  Boy, was my timing off.

Shut up, clip art.

I so appreciate day care's commitment to potty training, though.  I always seem to show up at potty time.  I have to walk past the kiddie bathroom to get to Andy's classroom, and there's usually about six kids standing around in the bathroom, the door wide open as to afford a good view to any nearby perverts.  One kid sits on the toilet at a time while the teacher calls out encouraging words about pee-pee.  The other kids just watch, keep themselves busy by unspooling toilet paper, or look out at the passerbys in the hallway and offer a friendly wave.  I can't imagine being that day care teacher, the one that herds the kids into the bathroom several times a day only to spend half an hour rotating them on and off the potty.  At some point, I'm sure that teacher questions where her life went wrong.  Especially when one of the kids NOT on the toilet lets out a poop.  Which I'm sure must happen every day.

Anyway, aside from the excuse of "day care's not working on it yet so why should I," I also personally ran out of steam pretty quickly in my decision to potty train Andy before baby arrived.  It became clear, quickly, that I wasn't going to have the energy or effort to devote to something that Andy didn't seem that interested in anyway.  Sure, I half-heartedly call out, "Hey, you need to poop?" here and there to see if I can catch Andy "in the mood."  But, for the most part, I decided to table the whole thing.  With the baby's arrival, Andy would likely regress anyway, and, at this point, I have pushed out my goal of potty training this kid until the fall, when the baby has been around for a solid three months and Andy starts "big boy" preschool where, hopefully, they will encourage use of the potty.  In a bathroom crammed with no less than six other children.

Then, there's the big boy bed situation.  I just haven't had the heart to take him out of his crib yet.  Andy has never tried to climb out, and I love the fact that the crib keeps him jailed throughout the night.  Now, why would I unjail Andy when he's content being stuck in there?  I use the word "content" loosely, as his screams indicating he's awake and wants out in the early morning hours do not sound like they are being emitted from a little boy who's "content."  But he's STUCK there, which is what I'm focusing on.  He can't get out.  He can't escape, can't run into my room at three in the morning, can't climb out and take a dip in the toilet, turn on the television, or climb up onto the chair to use the computer and update my Facebook status with hilarious posts.  "Jackie Berger eats her own boogers!  Ha!"

That being said, I only have ONE crib, and the baby will have to use it at some point near the end of the summer.  So, I KNOW that the transition of Andy from crib jail to bed freedom will have to take place soon, around his second birthday, and will have to occur at least a couple weeks in advance of the baby taking over the crib.  Maybe for Andy's second birthday in July, we'll wrap up his dinosaur comforter set as a gift and make a big event out of him getting his own bed for his birthday.  Do you think that will work? Will he fall for his own bed being a birthday gift?  And is it okay to completely baby-proof his bedroom and then stick up a gate in the doorway so that he still can't get out of his room- essentially making the whole damn bedroom one giant crib?  A giant crib filled with electrical outlets- and a smaller crib that features a loud, crying baby?

Ah, sigh.

So, on those two "to do" items, I didn't do so great.  However, I would like to point out the following successes I've had:

Breaking Andy of the binky habit.

Taking his bottles away far in advance of the new baby's arrival.

Teaching Andy how to turn on the television himself.

Enrolling Andy in basic cooking classes so that he can prepare his own mac and cheese this summer.

Well, that last one I'm still working on.  But wouldn't that be something, if I could get Andy to cook.  And do the dishes afterward.  And maybe accomplish some grocery shopping here and there.  But since Andy can't drive, he'd probably have to order off of Peapod.  Which I'm sure he could do- I'll just tape my credit card information to one arm and a grocery list (with pictures, since he can't read) to another.  Yes ma'am, things are going to work out just fine!

Under Two Weeks Left!

We had to buy another dresser for "the boys."  The only problem is that the new dresser, a larger, taller model, does not fit into the boys' bedroom with the crib, the twin bed, the baby dresser, and the reading chair and has been placed in the hall outside the bedroom, in a nook across from the bedroom right by the bathroom.  My blood pressure spikes every time I see this dresser.  It's not only that dressers clearly do not belong in hallways unless you're living in a crowded halfway house with a slew of recovering drug addicts- it's that putting the dresser out in the hall boldly announces that we have run out of room and given up any pretenses of attempting to keep things even relatively nice.  It's over.  The baby hasn't even been born yet, and already the house is too small.  I just hope we have enough room for all the wine and salami I intend on buying post-baby.

I moved all of Andy's clothes out of the baby dresser and into the larger "hall dresser" this morning.  I felt like Mean Mom, kicking Andy's clothes out of their home and out into the inconvenience of the hall.  Doesn't my eldest son deserve better than this- to be able to pull out his favorite Spiderman shirt without traipsing half naked into the hall?  I tried to console myself as I did this:  Andy doesn't give a shit where his clothes are kept, I'm sure.  I could keep his stuff in cardboard boxes out in the garage near the motor oil, and he wouldn't think anything of it.  Actually, he might find it exciting, getting dressed in the garage near all of his favorite garage things (toy lawn mower, sidewalk chalk, the garbage bin that smells like a blend of poopy diapers and disappointment.)  But, to me, it's symbolic, as I make room for baby by rearranging the things that belong to Andy.

Two children.  Yikes.

Strangely, as the clock works its way closer and closer to Baby Time, I think Andy is starting to get it.  We set up the baby cradle in our bedroom a week ago, and Andy noticed it right away the next time he came into our room, pointing at it and stating, plainly, "Baby."  I gushed, "That's right, Andy, the baby is going to sleep there!"  To which Andy replied, "Baby."

Then, the other morning, I was folding my laundry and came across one of Andy's blankets, which I thoughtlessly tossed into the baby cradle.  We bought the new baby new blankets since Andy is territorial about his blankies (plural, thank God- he's satisfied as long as he has any of his seven blankets and has never fixated on just one.  He's so mormon that way.).  I should have known better than to toss one of Andy's blankets into the baby's cradle, but I'm glad I did, because this is what happened:

Andy came into my room, saw the blanket in the cradle, and said, "Baby," his new, daily acknowledgement of the cradle.  Then he exclaimed, "Mine!" and ran to retrieve his blanket.  THEN, he went off into the closet where the dirty clothes tend to pile up, grabbed a bath towel from the floor, and came out and tossed it into the cradle.  "Baby," he said, satisfied that he had retrieved HIS blanket- but also, sweetly, found a replacement item for the baby.  Even if that replacement blankie was a grungy old bath towel smelling vaguely of dirty feet.

This made me proud at Andy's thoughtfulness, and I was immediately flooded with visions of Andy getting "things" for the baby.  Sure these things might be, let's say, an unwashed, sour smelling bottle for feeding time, or a pointy fork as a replacement toy should the baby reach for one of Andy's toys- but it's something.  It's Andy's way of saying, "Here- let me get something for the baby."  It's saying, "What the baby has is MINE- but I'm totally willing to get him something ELSE."  And as a mother of a toddler who likes things that are HIS- this is actually pretty good.

I'll take it.

I've been asking Andy if he's excited for the baby.  He says yes.  I've been asking if Andy wants to help Mommy with the baby.  He says yes.  I've been asking if he's going to kiss the new baby and be a good big brother.  He says yes.  Then, just to make sure he's paying attention, I've also been asking him questions to which I know he should be answering no.

Do you want to eat three pounds of peas for dinner?

No.

Do you want to go to bed early tonight?

No.

Are you a registered member of the NRA?

No.

So, maybe he gets it.  Maybe he is excited about the baby.  Maybe, just maybe, this will all be okay.  Ish.

I am getting excited, too. The excitement is starting to edge out some of my nervousness, which is a relief.  I get to have another baby soon!  We get to be a family of four!  I get to hold and kiss and hug a new little boy and it will be even better than the last time, because now we will have my first little boy to share it with.  Oh, and I get to NOT be pregnant anymore.  And, have I mentioned that I don't have to go to work anymore?  I'll be living the life!  No job and two kids!  That IS the life, right?

Time will tell.  And that time is NEARLY UPON US.  Stay tuned!

Oh no!

"You know, the Humpty Dumpty rhyme never states that Humpty is an egg," Chris said on Saturday afternoon, thereby blowing my mind.

We were watching Sesame Street with Andy, and when we watch Sesame Street, we tend to make comments such as, "Big Bird really has a great sense of humor" and "You know, this show is REALLY clever."  This is one small nugget of being a parent; Sesame Street becomes fascinating television- nay, fascinating ART- that works on so many different levels. 

Other quick nuggets about being a parent:

If you hear a crash from the front room followed by an "Oh no!," you're slow to investigate since the "Oh no!" indicates your child is still conscious, so you probably have time to finish your sandwich.

At some point, you realize that it's easier to just take your kid to the goddamn park for thirty minutes rather than spend an hour and half explaining to a screaming child why you don't want to go to the park (couch is more comfortable than bench).

You let your child eat food off the floor because, hey, at least he's eating.

Parenting is basically cost-benefit analysis.  Your child is unspooling an entire roll of tape. The roll of tape costs a dollar.  Having the child occupied for ten minutes is totally worth a dollar.  You do not discipline your child for wasting all your tape and instead take the opportunity to sneak off to the bathroom for a rare alone-pee.

Sometimes you see your child doing something naughty out of the corner of your eye and realize that your best bet for resolution is to just pretend you're not seeing it and hope that he stops.

You become so much more sympathetic to lunatic mothers at the grocery store yelling at their unruly children.  Two years ago, I would have thought these women were out of their mind and had completely lost it.  Now, while that fundamental judgment hasn't changed, I totally GET IT.  I've lived it.  And I refuse to bring Andy to the grocery store again until he turns three... or fifteen.

Anyway, we were watching Sesame Street.  Humpty Dumpty strolls into town at some point, and he's the most hideous looking Humpty Dumpty I've ever seen.  Instantly, Andy takes a strong liking to this ugly dude, yelling out "'Umpty!"  He is excited to see Humpty sitting on the wall and then yells out, horrified, "OH NO!" when Humpty takes his predictable fall.  As Humpty is wheeled off to the Egg Hospital by all the king's horses and all the king's men, Andy cries out again, "Oh no!" and then "More 'Umpty!"  I rewind no less than a dozen times so that Andy can watch Humpty enter, sit on the wall, fall off the wall, and get wheeled out.  "Oh no!" Andy cries out every time.  Followed by, "More 'Umpty!"

Andy really likes Humpty Dumpty.  He seems to exhibit an excited anticipation of Humpty's inevitable fall.  I'm fascinated by Andy's reaction.  He knows that Humpty is going to fall, he seems to wait for it, but then he is so distraught by the shattering of Humpty that he becomes visibly upset.  It's this becoming upset that Andy seems to crave, though.  It's funny- when we read books at night that involve mild injuries or accidents (a frog accidentally kicked his frog doctor in one book; another book involved a daddy spilling food in the kitchen), Andy seems to take joy in commiserating with the characters, crying out "Oh no!" at the predicaments but also being unwilling to move past that part in the book.  He doesn't want to see things get better.  He wants to linger on the pages where the frog doctor gets kicked or the daddy makes a mess and spend no less than five full minutes Oh no-ing the situation and pointing out what's happened.

"See, the next page, the kitchen is clean," I might try to say to Andy, turning the page to where the daddy gets a mop.  But Andy will fight me, turn back the page to the original mess while muttering "More!" and then loudly cry out- "OH NO!"  That boy- I don't always understand him.  But I'm very interested in him.

Shouting out "Oh no!" is just kind of his thing.  Yesterday, we went to the park, and I brought a small shovel and bucket for him to play in the sand area with.  Andy ran over to the sand area, excited to start digging- but quickly grew upset when his sandals starting filling with sand.  "OH NO," he yelled, looking up at me with teary eyes and pointing out that he had sand in his sandals.  "Oh no."

"It's okay, Andy, it's just sand," I tried to reassure him.  I kicked off my own flip flop, stuck my foot in the sand, and said, "See?  Mommy has sand on her feet, too!"

To which Andy replied, "OH NO!"

He made me clean out his sandals and brush off his feet, and then he tried to play in the sand area by situating himself along the paved area surrounding the sand- his feet on the non-sandy side as he uncomfortably leaned over to attempt to dig.  For a little boy, he dislikes getting dirty.  I guess this is a good thing as far as I'm concerned.  But, jeez, Andy.  Sometimes your sandals will get a little sandy.  You can't let that stop you from enjoying life.  That's my mantra.  Don't let a little sand in your shoe stop you from having fun.  Or wait.  I think my mantra might be: Sometimes, in order to get out of awkward conversations, you have to pretend like you stepped in some glass earlier and now your shoe is filling up with blood so you need to be excused.  Thank you, Romy and Michelle.

If Andy heard someone say that their shoes were becoming blood filled, you can bet he'd say, "Oh no!"  Followed by:  "More!"