Look who's back

My lovelies. My beautiful bloggy lovelies. I miss you so much.

You out there? Roll call, please!!!! Check in!

I've strayed from my blogging roots, forced into neglect of my first love when my Etsy shop became suddenly and inexplicably HUGELY POPULAR.

And frankly, Etsy customers pay me actual cash money, and you guys...well, you don't.

That's ok. I love you anyway! (But if you're moved to send me cash, I won't turn it down. Email me.)

But my shop has become too much for little ol' me so I'm taking a hiatus. This is what you'll see if you try to shop there (and if you're like everybody else on the planet, I'm pretty sure you're attempting to shop there RIGHT NOW, aren't you??).

There are a few things I'd like to accomplish in my down time. They include things like upgrading from Etsy to a legit all-on-my-own website, rebranding some aspects of my business, rethinking my inventory and production systems to increase efficiency, sleeping from time to time, reading a book for pleasure, reintroducing myself to my friends, getting a mani/pedi, and guess what? BLOGGING.

Yeah, baby.

Oh, and potty training the Monster. Remember him? Remember my little squishy faced baby boy?

Yeah he's almost 3. Kid needs to learn how to use the potty. It's time.

Aw yeah. Lighting McQueen underwear. Spoiler alert: This was a terrible idea. Back to Pull-Ups for awhile, yo.

Louisa May Alcott actually died of tuberculosis. For the record.

So. My son had croup.

Remember my son? We call him the Monster in these parts.

He'll be 2 next month. TWO YEARS OLD. My BABY. He just turned 1 last week.

Anyway. Croup.

Or as I like to call it, The Croup.

Text message conversation between me and Ashley last week:

Her: "A. [that's her daughter] has croup."
Me: "What? Croup? Who is she, Louisa May Alcott??"
Her: "Croup is a modern day disease! You're thinking of cholera. Or the dropsy."
Me: "No way, dude. Kids in Little Women and Anne of Green Gables were always getting The Croup."
Me (after some fancy google work): "Croup was once a deadly disease caused by diphtheria bacteria. However, modern day antibiotics and immunizations have helped prevent or treat it. Today, most cases of croup are mild. See? Kids in old books were always dying of The Croup."
Her: "Well. There you go."

Naturally, after all of this, my son woke up the next morning burning with fever and barking like a baby seal.

Baby seal photo added for visual interest. Isn't he cute?? I'm sure he doesn't have croup, don't worry.

Of course our entire family was concerned and sympathetic. I stayed home from work for 3 days to cradle him and love him and let him give me slobbery croup-germy kisses.

When he wasn't coughing, he was breathing like Darth Vader. It was pitiful. And it led his loving big sister to initiate conversations like this:

"MONSTER!" [She didn't really call him that, you guys. She called him by his actual name.] "STOP IT!"

Me: "Honey, he's not doing it on purpose. He's SICK. Leave him alone."

Her: "No, mom. He keeps BREATHING and it's really LOUD and ANNOYING."

Me: "I know. He's sick, he can't help it. Please stop yelling at him."

Her: "He looked RIGHT at me and then he started breathing LOUDER. Make him STOP."


In conclusion. Don't call your friends' kids Louisa May Alcott when they get weird old-timey diseases, and also don't have a mouthy 6-year-old daughter. You're welcome.

How to Wean a Toddler (who does not want to be weaned)

The Princess, age 2. Probably thinking about my boobs.

People? I nursed the Princess for 25 months. That's two years and one month, for you English majors (I'm an English major, I can say that).

Yeah. Imagine a two year old. Now imagine breastfeeding that two year old. Yay!

I know I'm not the only one out there who nursed my toddler, but sometimes people can make you feel like you are, right? I mean, breastfeed in public (gasp) past about 6 months and you start getting the stink eye. So moms, know that you're not alone and it's totally cool to breastfeed your two-year-old. It is. In fact it's beautiful and wonderful and admirable and awesome.

That's not what this post is about.

This post is about that moment when you look down at the gargantuan child in your lap, latched on and watching Blue's Clues out of her peripheral vision, and think, "I have had enough."

Here's the thing about my daughter. She didn't sleep. Ever. At all. From the moment we brought her home, she fought sleep. I quickly discovered the only thing that would lull her into actual slumber: nursing. Yes, I know what the books say about nursing babies to sleep. But it worked, and I was a sleep-deprived, post-partum-depressed, first-time mother. I went with it.

To the point that, though I'd never planned to cosleep, she moved right into bed with me so she could nurse all. night. long.

To the point that as she got bigger and started talking, she actually referred to the act of nursing as "nigh-night."

To the point that I spent hours every evening lying on my bed in the dark with my toddler nursing and nursing and nursing, trying to trick her into falling asleep. My friends never saw me; if we had people over, I disappeared at 7 p.m. and often didn't return. Because when I finally did succeed in getting this little Princess to sleep, I had to sneak silently and stealthily from the bed and the room, praying that she'd stay asleep. Because if I disturbed her, and she woke? We started all over.

It was insane.

When she turned 2, I had had enough. It had to stop. But how? She was so dependent upon it. Nursing was her security blanket, her binky, her everything. How could I tear it away from her? This thing that had been a source of comfort and solace her entire life, how could I just...take it?

Nursing had always been a positive experience, and I couldn't bring myself to end it on a negative note.

I tried. I tried to tell her that it was time to be a big girl, to sleep with a cup of water and a teddy bear and a special blanket and special goodnight music. I read books, I scoured the internet, I called my mother. I tried everything. I tried cradling her with the cup of water, then a cup of warm milk. I tried rocking her. I tried letting her cry.

But this was a 2-year-old child I was dealing with. They're not known for being, you know, compliant and easy to change. And she was set in her ways. Nothing worked.

So this is what I did.

One day, we went to Target and I had her pick out a special sippy cup. Now, to be clear, she'd been drinking from cups forever at this point. She drank cow's milk during the day and with meals. The nursing was only when she needed to sleep. So we picked out a special, one-of-a-kind "big girl" cup. A nigh-night cup. I told her she couldn't use it now, because she was still a baby. But someday, she'd need it.

I put it up on a shelf where she could see it but not reach it. We talked about it. For about a week, we talked about how when big girls go to bed, they use a big girl cup instead of mommy's, ahem, "nigh-nights."

I told her that nigh-nights are for babies. And it only tastes good for babies. I told her that when she's a big girl, nigh-nights won't taste good anymore.

We did this for about a week. Every night we had this conversation.

"Are you ready for nigh-night?"

"NIGH-NIGHT," she'd say, tugging at my shirt.

"OK. I wonder if you're a big girl yet?"

She'd look at me suspiciously.

"Do you think this will still taste good?"

"YES."

"Hmm. Well, we'll see."

Then she'd nurse to sleep.

Until one night, something was different.

Because friends? I put vinegar on my nipples.

I snuck into the kitchen before bedtime and poisoned the water hole, if you will. I actually tucked vinegar-soaked cotton right into my bra, just to be sure it stayed fresh. Then I went and picked her up and cuddled her just like I always had. Kissed her and played with her and read her a story.

"Are you ready for nigh-night?"

"NIGH-NIGHT!"

"I wonder if you're a big girl yet? Do you think it will taste good?"

"YES."

"Hmm. Well, let's see."

She latched on. She pulled off. She looked at me, wide-eyed and shocked. "Mommy! Nigh-nights YUCKY!" Then she dissolved into hysterical giggles. "YUCKY nigh-nights!"

I acted as surprised as she was. "What? Really?? Do you want to try again?? Are you SURE?"

"YUCKY NIGH-NIGHTS! Want my big girl cup. I a big girl! Big girl cup!"

We had to do it once more the following night. Just to be sure. But then? It was over. And I had a big girl.

That S-word.

The Princess (my 5-year-old daughter) has been exhibiting some curiosity about some things. You might remember this post, where I employed classic distraction techniques to smoothly avoid the "how are babies made" question.

Folks? It's getting worse. I blame TV. And school. And billboards. And music.

Awhile back she heard and retained the word "sex" from somewhere. She asked what it was. I reached into my vast mental catalog of parenting wisdom and tried to be "honest but age-appropriate" and "literal" and "tell her the truth but no more than she's explicitly asking for." Ummm. So I told her that when a man and a woman love each other and get married (yeah, that's right), sex is a special way for them to show their love, kind of like hugging and kissing but different, and more private, and it's only for grownups.

Her reply: "Is that when grownups take off their clothes and kiss NAKED?"

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

"What? Where did you hear that?"

"Mom. I saw it on TV one time."

Look, we are not watching HBO with her or anything, and we're actually very careful about what she watches. But yeah, I guess, really, scenes like that, or scenes which are clearly leading up to that, appear almost everywhere these days, right? The word sex and images relating to it are rampant in our society. And my little girl? She's smart. She's very, very observant, and very, very verbal. She gets what words mean and uses context clues to fill in the holes. She associates words with images and actions and she puts it all together.

So, yes. I told her the truth. "Yes. It involves two grownups who are in love and married taking their clothes off."

"Gross."

And that was the end of that.

Until yesterday.

"Mom? Remember that s-word, the one that's private and not for kids to say?"

"....you mean sex?"

"Yeah."

"What about it?"

"What IS that? I mean what do grownups DO when they do sex?"

"......"

"Mom?"

"Why do you want to know this?"

"I don't know. I just want to know."

"Was somebody talking about it to you?"

"No. Well, Freddy in my class has been singing a song with that word in it."

"What song?"

"I'm not supposed to say that word! It's not for kids!"

"It's ok to say it to me. You can say it and I won't be mad. How does the song go?"

She eyed me suspiciously for a moment and then rolled her eyes and said, "I'm sexy and I know it. You MADE me say it!"

"Oh. Ok. I know that song. But why did that make you ask me these questions?"

"I just remembered that word and I remembered you told me it was private and something grownups do but I don't understand what they DO."

"Maybe you don't need to understand what they do just yet."

"Mom. Just tell me, ok?"

Sigh. Honestly? I felt we'd reached the point of no return. I don't want to give her the idea that sex is dirty or shameful. I also don't want to wait until the porn-saturated society she lives in fills her head with ideas about sex. I want her first impressions of sex to come from me, so she can remember it as a normal, natural, beautiful thing that is waiting for her to enjoy when she grows up. 

I think back to history and realize that 100, 200 years ago? Kids knew all about sex. They saw animals do it. They shared bedrooms with their parents. It was part of life. 

Today our kids are insulated from these "normal" aspects of sex, but overly exposed to commercialization and exploitative images of sex; raunchiness becomes their framework for what is normal. Sex isn't what I don't want her to be exposed to; it's the corruption and cheapening of it that happens in our culture. 

So I believe it's my job to normalize it and set a foundation that might help to combat the information she's going to come up against as she grows up.

So.

I told her.

I told her exactly what happens, in the simplest and most basic terms. When she asked "why" anybody would EVER do something like that, I told her that it's how God designed us, and how we make babies (which then led to a brief explanation of "eggs" and "seeds"), and yes, I told her we do it because it feels nice.

She asked if I'd ever done that with her father. I said yes. "When?" she asked. I hesitated. "For sure before you and Monster were born, of course." 

"No, I mean when? At night when I'm asleep?"

"Oh. Well, yes." 

"In your BED?"

"Yes..." Now, I admit, I'm starting to feel weird about this line of questioning.

"Oh."

And then she was satisfied, and the conversation was over. 

And I felt a little sad that my baby has reached this moment in her life. And a little apprehensive that maybe she really is too young to know these things. But mostly I felt relieved, and a little proud. I felt like I'd handled it the way I always wanted to handle it. Calmly, rationally, with no shame or guilt or embarrassment. I stressed that it's for grownups, and it's private, and she doesn't need to talk to anybody else about it and if somebody tries to talk to HER about it, she should tell me.  But that she can always come to Mommy and ask questions, and I will always answer them.

What do you think? How old were your kids when you told them the facts of life? And did I do ok??

Linking up today with Yeah Write #41 (formerly LoveLinks)

Confessions

Today I'm over at The Smartness earning some cred as a guest gangsta. Yeah, that's right.

Click over to read some of the dark confessions that I just couldn't bring myself to share with you here. And while you're there, give some love to Moxie, the original gangsta who's welcomed me to her crib (do gangstas still say crib? Did they ever say crib?).

I'm still not sure why Moxie thinks I'm cool.

A Princess Tidbit

When the Princess was about 3 years old, she was really into pretending SHE was the Mommy and I was the child.  So one day we're in the car, and this happens:

"Mommy. Pretend I was the mommy, and you were the kid?"

"OK."

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!! KID! WHY ARE YOU DRIVING? AND WHY AM I STUCK IN THIS CARSEAT? STOP THIS CAR AND LET ME OUT RIGHT NOW!"

Sometimes I just love my life.

UPDATED: Sick Day

The Princess is sick.  Maybe.  I'm really not sure at this point.

See, my kids, they both have a problem with...er...regularity.  If you know what I mean.  It's been a lifelong battle for both of them.  Mostly we handle it quite nicely through their diet, but every once in awhile, things come to a screeching halt.

That's what happened this weekend.  We tried water, we tried fiber and fruit and more water.  Finally I got fed up and resorted to something I haven't done since she was a baby: the glycerin suppository.

Never.  Again.

First of all, if you can get past the image of my administering what basically amounts to a miniature enema to my five-year-old...and please, do your best to get past that ASAP...then you have to live through 4 hours of miserable, noisy, guilt-inducing agony.  Because apparently, when those things go to work, it hurts.

Have I mentioned my daughter is somewhat...dramatic?  When she was 4, she caught sight of some kind of awful marshmallow chocolate sugar cereal at the grocery store (actually, it looked AMAZING and DELICIOUS but that's not the point).  I told her no, she needed to choose Raisin Bran or Frosted Mini Wheats (meanest mom ever).  Her response was to throw her head back and declare for the entire store to hear, in the most theatrical fashion possible: "All my dreams have been shattered!"  An old lady also shopping for cereal got such a kick out of it that she's probably still laughing somewhere.

So you can imagine, if being denied marshmallow cereal shatters all her dreams, what actual nonfictional physical pain does to her.

I spent half my Saturday on the bathroom floor with my writhing child listening to her audition for some new reality show about suicidal kindergartners ("Toddlers & Torment"? "Small Fries & Self-Murder"? "Ankle Biters & Anguish"?).  She was literally wishing for death.  Where does she get these ideas?  I honestly do not know.  I almost never sit in front of my children and wish I was dead.  But the Princess was moaning and screaming like a professional wailer, "I wish I could just die right now!  I don't want to live anymore!  Why can't I just DIE?"

And you guys?  The suppository?  It didn't work.  Hours of pain and pleas for death....no poo.

Eventually the day ended and she went to bed.  That night she wet the bed, which she hasn't done in years.  Again, no poo.  Just a wet bed.  So I moved her to the floor.  She woke up several times with a sore tummy and spent a good portion of the night on the toilet, to no avail.

So the next day I went to the store and bought Pedialax Chewables.  I mean, something had to be done, right??  The bottle said for ages 2-5, give 1-3 tablets.  OK, she's 5.  And the suppository already failed so I can only assume we're dealing with some kind of serious, industrial-strength constipation here.  So I gave her 2.  Two Pedialax Chewable tablets.  Not 3!  The bottle said I could do 3.  I only gave her 2, ok?

Nothing.  We happened to be at a friend's house Sunday afternoon and she played all day.  I interrupted her every half hour or so.  "Do you need to go?"  "No, Mom."  "Are you feeling ok?"  "I'm fine, Mom."  (Fidgeting, making side-eyes towards the friend's playroom, wondering if anybody can hear this conversation.)

Honestly.  I'm so embarrassing.

At 5 p.m. we went to church.  Of course, she's fine all day playing, but as soon as it's time to sit still and be quiet the writhing begins.  The moaning.  The squinched up drama queen face.  Oooooh, the pain.  The agony!

So we move to the back row, pay several visits to the ladies' room.  At this point I imagine the Pedialax is making its presence known and it's only a matter of time.  But nothing.  Nothing yet.  And it's time to go home.

We have about a 30-minute drive.  Hmmmm.

Five minutes into the drive she's literally screaming in the backseat.  I'm starting to panic.  Grandma's house! My mom's house is on our way home.  We'll stop there.  We screech into the driveway and run inside.  I let her in, tell her "Bathroom! Now!" and return to the car for the baby, who at this point is very confused and annoyed at all this excitement that has nothing to do with him.

Eventually, friends, she did her business.  At Grandma's house.  I know, you're very relieved.  We all were.  We piled back into the car and headed for home.  She fell asleep in the car, exhausted like she's just given birth.  Which she kind of has.  In a way.  And then?  She wakes up.  Because she's puking.  All over my car.

So.  Get home, put her in the shower, send her straight to bed where she passes out instantly.  Clean the car.  Eat dinner.  Put the baby to bed.  Monday morning, call in sick, call the school, call the Monster's babysitter.  We're staying home.  


Did I poison her?  Did Pedialax make her throw up?  No idea.  I'm fairly certain the vomiting was more a result of the pain and the strain and all the general upheaval her little body was going through.  That makes sense, right?  And it only happened once.

Guess what?  Monday she's basically fine.  Hungry, maybe a little tired and sore, but mostly ok.  Great!  We'll all go back about our lives on Tuesday.

Except Monday night, she feels kind of warm to me.  And this morning, she's even warmer.  So I take her temperature.  100.7.  Not exactly ER material, but too high for school.  And now she's actually acting sick.  Like, sitting still for extended periods of time.

So what on earth is going on??  What started out as pretty routine constipation problems end in vomiting and fever?

Should I be calling the doctor instead of blogging?

UPDATE:

When her fever went up even higher this morning (Wednesday), we called the doctor.  She has a throat infection and possibly an ear infection.  My healthy, robust baby girl has NEVER had an ear infection!  But we've got our antibiotics and she's cleared to go back to school.