Monday, July 20, 2015

Princess P!

I've had a daughter for almost eight weeks now.  As a mother of mostly sons (fully 67% of my spawn), there's been a slight learning curve to the mothering of a (very) young girl. For instance, if you put her in a ducky onesie and cover her up with a truck blankie, people are going to automatically assume you are some poor soul with three sons and treat you thusly.  "Oh, three boys!" they might remark with a better-you-than-me type smirk on their face.  That's when you have to dig around in the car seat looking for that pink bow that you just know is in there somewhere.  One must never forget the gender-defining headband bow.  "Oh no!" you'll have to reassure that nosy stranger.  "Two boys and a girl!"  And then they will go on with a suddenly genuine smile to say how spoiled that little girl is going to be, and before you know it, it's all princess this and princess that.

Of course, I have called her "princess" myself.  It's either that or Buddy like I used to call the boys, which feels weird and wrong.  "Hey Buddy, you got poop in your vagina" sounds incorrect.  Of course, substituting "princess" into that sentence isn't any better.  I guess it's just time to admit that there's no right way to say that sentence and I should simply stop trying.  I call her Princess P., which is my casual reference to Super Mario's Princess Peach and also my way of saying my baby smells like urine.  Princess PEE. Get it?

There are so many tropes about little girls.  She is the reason I had a third a child, she is super sweet, she is going to be a spoiled princess, she is going to be my best friend at some point and my worst enemy at others, she will be a daddy's girl, she will love to shop.  Of course, there are just as many about little boys, but for some reason, I am not nearly as bothered by them.  There must be some psychological explanation for this, but I am in great defense of the fact that my boys are boys and not girls and a bit annoyed by the belief that Emily has fulfilled every great wish and parental desire by being a girl.  This DESPITE that fact that I myself have stated that THANK GOD she's a girl and not a third boy.  I cannot explain why I feel this way, but I do, and perhaps it's just my maternal way of protecting Andy and Alex in my heart.  Only I am allowed to remark on the Thank God-ness of Emily's gender.  It's hypocritical and makes it incredibly difficult to have a conversation, but there it is.

And so, getting that all out of the way, I can't help but believe, and perhaps hope, that Emily's existence as a little girl will be one of the best gifts my boys could have received.  Will Emily make them more sensitive men, better boyfriends, finer gentlemen?  Will she temper all the testosterone with Barbie dolls and the scent of pink bubble gum?  In return, what will the boys do for her?  I haven't quite considered the reverse of the equation yet, even though as a young girl I used to daydream about my non-existent older brother showing up one day.  He would be cool and hang out with me, show me the various ropes, introduce me to cute older boys.  He would kick ass when I needed him to kick ass.  He would perhaps drive me places and later, down the road, co-sign on my various loans.

Alas. At some point, I will be a better mother of a daughter, an equally good mother of both boys and girl.  I'm working on it.  One thing I can say for certain:  I love all these goofy kids, and I do not condone co-signing on loans.  It's really not a sound financial decision.

Sunday, July 12, 2015

Andy is Five! A Throwback!

It's Andy's fifth birthday!  He swears he's grown overnight and that he knows he's taller.  Maybe he is.  I tell him he's getting bigger everyday and that one day he'll be taller than me, to which he emits a nervous laugh, as if the prospect of being bigger than mommy is rather unlikely and also quite terrifying.

Today, in honor of Andy turning five, I am copying and pasting the first blog entry that I wrote after Andy was born.  It's from the blog I had before this one, which I keep buried in the unsearchable realms of the World Wide Whatnot.  I apologize in advance for my blatant usage of the phrase "lady junk."

Jul 21, 2010

My baby Andy is nine days old today. I've been meaning to write a blog entry about the labor, delivery, and our first few days, but time has been getting away from me. At this rate, I'm going to be back at work before I know it. How is time going by so quickly when all we do is nap, eat, poop, and cuddle? How have I had to do four loads of Andy's laundry already when we haven't even left the house, save for his doctor's visit and a trip to Walgreens and the liquor store* in which we didn't even take Andy out of the car?

His first doctor's visit went great. We packed his diaper bag for the half hour jaunt out of the house with a week's supply of diapers, an emergency supply of formula, three different kinds of burp cloths, 80 wipes, a couple pacifiers, two changes of clothes, and a teddy bear. The diaper bag weighs more than my baby- and that's saying a lot, considering Andrew Jacob came into this world last Monday, July 12 weighing a whopping eight pounds, five ounces. Now, I know this isn't HUGE for a baby, but it's pretty monstrous for me, considering that in my non-pregnancy days, I generally weigh in just over a slim hundred.

They induced me, but I think Andy would have been born that day anyway- when we got to the hospital, I was already (unwittingly!) having contractions, and when the doctor snapped on her latex glove to break my water (who knows what that would have entailed, yikes), I exclaimed that I had just peed myself. Oh, how embarrassing! Oh, of all times to pee! Of course, it wasn't pee, it was the bag of waters, and I thought to myself, "Man, this labor is practically going to take care of itself! This is going to be a BREEZE!" Boy, was I wrong. At about 4:30 PM, the doctor turned down my epidural and casually suggested that I start pushing. Stupidly, I assumed I would lightly push a few times and out would come my baby, perhaps by 4:45 PM, just before I dressed and cleaned up for dinner. Not quite. I pushed for three solid hours with what felt like no epidural. I threw up and screamed and cried, and when it became apparent that my baby wasn't coming out without a little help, I reluctantly agreed to let the doctor use the vacuum. I don't know why they call it a vacuum; it's basically a huge suction cup that the doctor shoves up your what-not, somehow attaches to the baby's head, and then YANKS WITH ALL HER MIGHT WITH NO REGARD TO HOW BADLY SHE IS WRECKING YOUR LADY JUNK. But my baby did eventually come out. And, yes, my lady junk did get pretty wrecked. I was not prepared for exactly how wrecked things were going to be down there- how I would feel the needle going in and out when she stitched me up afterwards, how I would need a whole variety basket full of lady junk ointments, pads, wipes, sprays, ice packs, etc, just to barely make that area feel just painfully uncomfortable as opposed to ABSOLUTELY, KILL ME AWFUL. And I almost laughed out loud when the doctor told me, before they discharged me, that I couldn't put anything in my vagina for six weeks. I don't think anything's going up there ever again. I hope this doesn't negatively affect my marriage.

But, anyway. Enough about me and my lady junk. Let's talk about my perfect little angel, Andy. God, do I love this kid. I can say without a doubt that I've never loved anything like I love my baby Andy. He makes me think of that Six Feet Under episode when Nate and some guy were talking about how having a child was like seeing your heart beating outside your chest. That's how I feel. Andy is beautiful and amazing, and I'm still in shock that he came out of plain, ordinary me. He's got a head of thick, dark, luxurious hair, and Chris and I love to brush it and give him a side part, transforming baby Andy into Andy, the insurance salesman. He's got huge eyes that shine in shades of both brown and dark blue, depending. He's got a perfectly round little head and long baby fingers. His cries are adorable. The way he gazes is adorable. He's warm and smells nice and he melts my heart when he falls asleep with his cheek against my chest. He's a good baby- he doesn't fuss or cry unless he's being "messed with" or needs something ASAP, like a diaper change or a meal. And I believe all my friends and family when they tell me that he's the cutest baby ever. I know they'd probably say that anyway, even if he wasn't, but I think their statements ring with truth. He is pretty fricking cute. Pretty fricking awesome.

Which just goes to show you: the secret ingredient to creating a perfect, beautiful baby is ANXIETY. Also, egg salad, I ate a lot of egg salad when I was pregnant.

I like to sing to Andy. I like to sing songs and replace certain words with Andy. We do "Take A Load Off, Andy," and the other night I did a rendition of The Cranberries' "Zombie," replacing each instance of Zombie with Andy. He seemed to enjoy it. I like to kiss Andy and snuggle with Andy and hold Andy's little hand. One thing I don't like to do is change Andy's diaper. I'm not good at it. Like, at all. Chris is better at poop duty, and I'm much too negligent when it comes to making sure that Andy doesn't shoot pee back onto his own face. Whoops.

Here's something I want to remember forever. The night Andy was born, the nurse took his temperature and said it was a little low. So, she undressed Andy, put him on my naked chest/ belly, and covered us up with blankets so that I could keep my Andy warm. And we lay like that for a couple hours, skin to skin, Andy breathing softly against me, my arms wrapped so tightly around my little boy so that he hopefully knew, on some level, that I was never going to let him go. Mommy loves Andy. Forever.

*The trip to the liquor store was strictly for business purposes, as Chris works for that company. Also, we needed beer.