Musical Beds

One night in bed:

• 6:00 pm - Mommy puts Gilli down to sleep in bassinet. Room is otherwise empty.
• 6:30 pm - Teething baby wakes, cries for Mommy. 
• 6:45 pm - Baby falls asleep nursing in Mommy's bed. Mommy slips out to join family.
• 8:00 pm - Big girls go to bed in their room. 
• 10:45 pm - Dad and Mom decide to go to bed. Baby is sound asleep. Mom crawls in next to her, Dad crawls in next to no one. On couch.
• Midnight - 6:30 am - Details hazy. Go something like this: Baby wakes after midnight to nurse, gets put back in bassinet. Daddy is invited to join Mommy in his own bed. Bela crawls in, putting Dad in the middle between her and Mom. Mom wakes to nurse baby. In bed = Bela, Dad, Mom, Baby. Baby goes back to bassinet. Mae crawls in. In bed = Bela, Dad, Mae, Mom. Cat crawls in. Mae leaves. Mom wakes to nurse baby. Baby gets in bed. Dad goes to couch. Baby goes to bassinet. In bed = Bela. Mom. Cat. Baby wakes at 6:30. Comes to bed with Mom and Bela. Bela gets up to get dressed for school.  Cat follows Bela.

In bed? 

Baby and Mom.

This moment

A beautiful day for a picnic. Have a happy one!

This Moment

Have a great weekend everyone!

The Four Year War

Bela hates running errands with me. I've written this before; she is a home-body. But for some reason, nothing irritates her more than having to drive the recycling in.

If you are one of the many millions of people who live in the city of Chicago, you probably have a big blue recycling bin right next to your big black garbage bin lining the alley behind your house. Unless you happen to live on my street. 

A popular (and populous)  neighborhood, Ukrainian Village for some reason missed out on the big recycling program initiated several years ago around here. The city went from blue bags to blue bins, and while the rest of the city marched ahead into a new era, we pseudo-ukrainians got stuck collecting stinky bags of plastic, paper, and glass in our kitchen pantries.

Once a week - ok, once a month - I would lug the sticky wine bottles, the yeasty beer ones, and the old ketchup containers to the Center For Green Technology, which graciously provided a city-wide drop off site. Located approximately 1 mile from our front door, requiring less than 1 minute to transfer bags to dumpster, this ritual had Bela writhing in her seat, moaning and complaining from the back of our Mazda. 

You've never seen a child complain so vehemently about a chore which required nothing of her but her physical, passive presence and a few minutes of her time. She neither sorted, rinsed, collected, hauled, nor dumped any recyclable ever. It's funny how something so harmless (and, in this case, painless and environmentally responsible) could cause so much grief in our family.

But yesterday, this all changed. Bela had come home from school after throwing up all over her desk, and was wedged between our chaise lounge and the windowsill, listening to audiobooks. Mae was building a lego house for her horses, and I was straightening up the living room. There was a commotion outside, a lot of yelling, cars honking, and the unmistakable sounds of large, heavy objects being unloaded off of trucks. I peered out our second story window, out through the rain... and what did I behold?

They had arrived. Even though they came about 4 years late, we all ran out into the street to admire our new recycling bins in the rain, to chat with neighbors about the unlikely event, to bond over this new exciting change in our lives.

 And that (we hope) closes the chapter on our family's 4 Year (recycling) War.

Gillian Fern

I read once that in Bali, parents (with the help of extended family) don't let their newborn's feet touch the ground for the first three months of life. In other words, except when sleeping, a child is constantly held.

I was struck by this story in many ways.

First, the article claimed that babies held this way in the early months almost never seem to exhibit any of the symptoms of what we call colic. Second, it seemed so loving, so natural, and--assuming you have a lot of grannies, aunties, uncles, and cousins on hand-- so practical. In my emotional postpartum state, I was almost moved to tears, to be honest, and tied Gil on and carried her that way during much of her early weeks.

But, you know, babies get heavier. Some babies, like my baby, get quite chunky quite quickly. So my back asked me to please start putting her down more often.

Gil and her bald spot. Another advantage to carrying them around longer? Less time on their backs :)

But, like her sisters before her, Gillian did not enjoy being laid down flat on her back, nor on her stomach. She would only sleep in one of those cheap baby bouncy seats.

Night after night, week after week, until she was then almost 3 months old, little Gillian Fern went to sleep in her bouncy chair. In case you do not know me well, I am stubborn and mostly unbudging about what I want for (and from) my kids. And I did not want to end up with a 2  year old who still slept in a vibrating seat, at a 30 degree angle, on the floor next to my bed. I began planning.

Then one night, the big night, I nursed her and began to walk back and forth across my room, slowly, with her in my arms. She drifted off to sleep. I slowed my pace, I swayed back and forth, I gently laid her down in her bed and covered her with her blanket. I lingered only a moment, tiptoed across the rug, slipped out the door, and patted myself on the back for my achievement.

And then she cried.

And me? Stubborn and determined? I completely gave in. She slept in that bouncy seat for another week until I could formulate a new plan.

I'm happy to report that in the end, not only have I beaten the bouncy chair, I have ended up with (knock on wood)  the baby you can just lie down awake but drowsy and walk away from. She fusses for a moment, gets two good chubby fingers into her mouth, and off she goes. Ni- ni.

The secret? After putting her to bed at 6 pm in her bouncy chair, she would fuss around midnight to nurse.  I lay her in bed with me while she nursed herself back to sleepy land, and then I would plop her down in her bassinet, all tricky like. She had no idea. And finally? She just got used to it.

Moral of the story? When logic, good planning, and reason don't work out for you? Just trick them into doing what you like.

This moment

Have a fabulous weekend!

Dear Tooth Fairy:

Where do you keep all of those teeth? Do you live in Fairy Land? If you do, please tell some fairies that I would love to see them and I will not trap them.

Love, 
Bela

pp

It's starting to stink in here...

Pumpkin pee

Mama Mia funk

Poop in a box

Beautiful...

but stinky

Nighttime accidents = stinky bedsheets piled on back porch waiting for lazy mom to carry to basement to wash. To remake the bed. To repeat the whole process next week.

Pee. You.

This Moment

I remembered!!!!! Have a nice early spring weekend!

Because I keep forgetting...

Is it too late to share a Friday moment? Even if it's Monday? 

Oh my goodness she is such a chunk.

The letter

Bela feeds Pumpkin kale, out of her mouth.

Although this changes a lot from year to year, I think we can say that Bela looks more like me and Mae looks more like Chris. I have always enjoyed this fact, because personality wise, it's kind of a different story. Bela resembles her Dad in a lot of ways - cheerful, a little scattered, perhaps, a little ditzy (sorry honey). And, as you could guess, Mae is a lot more like me - impatient, loud, dramatic in her happiness and her anger.

But as these girls grow, the lines keep getting blurred, the genetic hand-me-downs keep getting mixed up all over the place.

It turns out that Mae is a budding little artist. Her attention to detail and her ability to draw what she sees really impresses us. That's Chris, all the way.

And Bela, well, she has plenty of drama in her that comes from me. And as it turns out, she has a flair for melodramatic writing. Heh heh. Hmmm. 

When I was a girl, I wrote scores of little notes to my parents. Oh usually they were a means to convey some sense of wrong-doing (on their part, of course). I laid out the details of my miserable existence in them, listed the ways in which they had wronged me, and told them that my feelings would be repaired if only they would just....

In particular, I remember a series of letters I would write to my Mom and leave on my bed, where she would inevitably find them late at night when she checked on me and found me to be absent. They went something like this;

Dear Mom,


I am so alone in my room. It is not fair that you make me sleep here by myself, I really want to be with Jared. I am sleeping on the floor next to his bed, please do not move me back to my awful, lonely, room. Etc etc etc.

So you can imagine how tickled I was the other day to receive this letter from Bela. I have filed it away permanently in the folder titled: Our First Born Is More Like Me Than She Is Like You.

 (Mom, I feel like I do not have any toys to play with. All of the toys aren't my size. It feels like I do not have any toys only Mae. But please do not tell me that I have to use up all my money. So, could we go to the toy store?)

I can't stop smiling when I read this letter. 

Oh, what will Gil be like?????