On Saturday morning, February 18th, I awoke to a sunny stream slipping across the peaks of Heavenly Valley mountain and through the wall-length window of our vacation rental bedroom. Ahead of me was full day of launching myself on skis down the back bowls of Kirkwood in the gorgeous 40+ degree Lake Tahoe weather, but my mood was ever so slightly melancholy. A year ago on that very day I gave birth to my littlest angel baby and now he’s 1. For the last twelve months I have tirelessly nursed and pumped, hugged and carried, changed diapers and bathed, clothed and tickled, fed and taught, awakened and rocked. And though I have continued to pump twice a day while on a well-deserved vacation because I am still not quite ready to stop nursing, Bobby is at home with his Nana Sue and his Grandma Gale drinking cow milk, going down slides at the park, walking all over the place, and sleeping through the night (something he has not done since he was about 6 months old). His infancy is now just a recent memory and I can’t help but mourn this milestone just as all mothers have before me.
I do not feel bad about being away from Bobby on his first birthday as I will be home to celebrate in no time, and his co-grandma babysitters have taken such phenomenal care of him while we’ve been away. However, as I did when Jack turned 1 as well, I spent the day both proud of the spirited child Bobby has become and disappointed that his absolute dependence on me has shifted. I love you, little man!
First birthday cake, compliments of the co-grandma babysitting team
A week ago at bed time Jack and I got to talking about the origin of the knitted blue afghan that covers the foot of his bed (and often him) during his evening slumber. I explained it was his special baby blanket, handmade by a best friend of his Nana. I then opened his baby book to show him pictures of himself as a tiny baby, fingers curled through the purposeful holes of the very same blanket. He was surprisingly delighted to linger with me amidst the pages of his carefully documented infancy; discovering that he too (not just his little brother) was once helplessly the size of my forearm. We looked at pictures of his Mommy’s enormously pregnant belly, his first plane ride and first bath, then peeked into the envelope holding the locks from his first hair cut.
And now my precious man has, on this very evening, turned 3 years old. I wish I had more words than the parental cliche “it goes so fast”. But I can still feel his tiny 8lb 3oz wrinkles in the curve of my elbow.
The oldest of my little men has recently passed the 2 1/2 year milestone (which according to any actuary you might ask, would be considered 3). His adorable wit and enthusiastic giggle continue to infect my heart, not to mention those expressive eyelashes and affectionate hugs. The vocabulary and imagination on this kid are astounding and I find myself speechless in awe of how voraciously he’s developing into a gifted little man. My favorite time of day is often just before Jack tumbles off into slumber, when I lie on his bed for a “couple whiles” to “just talk”. He loves when we ask him questions about his day and he recants the minutiae of his experiences (“I didn’t go on the slide because it was too hot, so I played with Eddie on the rocket ship on the playground…”). And given the number of those experiences that have built up unblogged, Jack’s 2 1/2 year old post is brewing into something quite lengthy. So let me summarize, to the best of my verbose ability, why I am 100% convinced that 2s are not terrible.
Quirks
I think we are blessed to have a child with an exceptional ability to communicate from a young age. This has, I am certain, limited the number of tantrums and time outs we’ve had to witness and administer. On the occasion that we do send him to stare at the wall in his time out chair to consider his disobedience, my creative little pumpkin has found a way to self-entertain, either by monologue, or with imaginary friend.
Jack still, after 6 months, will often refuse to leave the house if he is not sporting his bicycle helmet.
He’s obsessed with “lips” (aka chapstick) and will mash mounds of it onto his drool-covered puckers
My little conservative doesn’t like when I wear a tank top and much prefers my outerwear to have sleeves. He saw a teenager in a sundress the other day and told me she was “naked”.
In this age of growing independence, Jack prefers to do everything himself (pouring his own milk; brushing his own teeth; climbing into his own car seat; buckling his own seatbelt; and closing his own car door), including pressing the garage door button, which he is about 1/8th of an inch too short to reach. Hence, why he is constantly getting his rubber boots out of the closet on a bright, sunny day, so that he can be elevated just enough to reach the garage door remote.
Along the same lines, Jack absolutely loathes eating “a piece” of anything. He must have the whole thing. The whole banana (peel on so he can peel it by himself, of course), the whole slice of toast, the whole peach, the whole granola bar, the whole popsicle (heaven forbid you split a two-stick frozen treat in half). He’s happy to share, but only after he’s in control of doling out the bites. The other day he shared a snack-sized banana loaf with me because he had already had one and I told him he was only allowed one. When I took my first bite, he inquired “can I have a piece?” Wily, I tell you.
Jack has taken to sing-song lately and I catch him bursting into melody about whatever is on his mind. “Pancakes…Pancakes…” He also loves his bedtime songs (listen here: Bedtime Songs).
Jack gets out of bed an average of twice before finally settling in to slumber. He’ll stand at the top of the stairs and say something like “I’m happy!” or “I want my motorcycle” (which is typically already in bed with him) or “Want to hold me?” His cunning attempts at escaping sleep are wholly entertaining.
Intellect
Jack’s memory never ceases to dumbfound me. While reading a book a few months ago, Jack spewed the names of the Presidents whose statues appear on the Washington skyline as clear as day (listen here: Presidents). He can point to specific states on a map of the US; he knows that Saturday and Sunday are “swimming pool days” (aka weekend) and that Monday is the first school day of the week; he can spell his name; he can navigate his way from his home to his school by telling you exactly which direction to turn and when; he can pass by a street and say things like ”Mommy and Jack went driving on this road to look at the big houses and Daddy didn’t go” multiple weeks after the event occurred. After meandering through the aisles of Walgreens after preschool one day, I realized once we were in the car that Jack had left his milk behind. He was able to tell me the specific location in the store where he had placed his glass (beside the Snoopy toy) so that I could go in and retrieve it. This past weekend we visited an ad hoc Ducati promotional tent set up at a local park and when we drove by on Monday after the exhibit had been taken down, Jack looked at the park inquisitively and said “the motorcycle tents are gone.” His capacity for organizing objects and processing their logical sequence, relation to each other, and position in time is seriously mindblowing. He understands yesterday, today and tomorrow (although he currently uses the term yesterday to refer to any moment in the past, whether truly yesterday or three weeks ago); and he can count to thirty (although he faithfully skips the number 15 for some odd reason – and if he is required to wait for thirty seconds he’ll count “1, 2, 3, 4, 5…30 because that speeds up his wait time); he can spell any word you put in front of him, whether upper or lower case (overheard in the car yesterday: “t-r-u-c-k, b-o-o-k”) and he informed me recently that the #1 in his numeric flashcard set was actually an l (they DO look exactly the same after all).
He also knows Mommy’s the boss. What can I say, he’s a smart guy!
Feats of athleticism
Jack is extraordinarily coordinated, fearless and agile. When his class had a makeshift olympics one week this summer his name topped the leaderboard in all the ‘sports’ (first in bowling; second in standing long jump). He’s been racing his tricycle around the park from the moment he turned 2, scaling monkey bars, leaping from benches. He can whip a frisbee clear across the side yard, hit a badminton birdie with a racket, throw a nerf ball in the air to himself and smack it with a baseball bat, kick a soccer ball so hard across the basement that it hits the middle of the wall. And now he lifts his entire weight with just his upper body to hoist himself over couch arms and…tractors?
Quotes
“I don’t want a bath, I want to go to bed. It’s my choice.”
“Ketchup on toast is not gross. Poo poo and pee pee are gross.”
“I don’t want this…I want Lady Gaga.”
“You wanna sleep with me for a couple whiles?”
“Because…” or “Actually…” or “You wanna…”
“Hey…” in front of the majority of his sentences.
“The sun is up, it’s time to wake up!” or “The moon is up…it’s time to sleep” (the former he says quite enthusiastically, the latter he whispers)
“Hey Grandpa, now can we go on the really faster boat?”
After being told to get out of the middle of the street: “There are NO CARS, Mommy!”
“Pee pee is faster than cars.” “I runned faster than pee pee.”
“Mommy, you have to work so you can make money to buy me a dirt bike.”
Driving by Metro construction in Tysons Corner: “The rocket ships are building a subway where Bobby will live.”
About birthdays: “My birthday is in January. I will have a big cake. Bobby will have a little cupcake.”
“Upside down” and “upside up”
About tiptoeing, “I’m walking on my balls.”
About sickness, “I’m not feeling better.”
Food
Though we may have unofficially ruled out dairy and eggs as the catalyst for his eczema breakouts following negative skin tests at an allergist, he still prefers soy milk and cheeseless meals. But I am blessed to have a young man who is oddly willing to try just about anything. Perhaps because we guided him into many blended taste adventures as an infant, or perhaps because he sits with us at dinner and eats whatever Daddy has cooked, Jack’s palette is abnormally broad for a 2 year old. He eats salmon, every fruit, nut and vegetable that crosses his plate (in fact, he even requested “more spinach” the other night), lamb chops, mild curries and steak like it’s the last cow he’ll ever get to eat.
I still have to remind Snack Attack that cookies are not for breakfast (even though we keep our sweets on ‘unreachable’ shelves, Jack has been found stacking cartons for a step stool and helping himself to a sample of the forbidden when momentarily unattended in the mornings), but otherwise his diet is relatively well-rounded. When you have a kid who begs for mangos, broccoli and grapes, you definitely cannot complain.
Current Obsessions
Diego. Lord help me, he loves this show. He can now identify just about every species of rain forest animal known to man (including what those animals consume, what they’re afraid of and where they live); he puts a pen to his eye and tells me it’s his “spotting scope”; and he sings “rescue pack” while skipping around the house (as do I, because that *!#&*(&#@! song is so damn catchy). He also knows how to work the remote to get the next episode to play. As a bonus, however, his Diego briefs are helping us with potty training, because Jack feels very bad about peeing on his favorite cartoon character.
Motorcycles. If you’re willing, he’ll take you to view his favorite 1956 Harley Davidson on the print of 26 classic Harleys that hangs just to the right of his bed. He points out every. single. motorcyle. that he sees or hears by yelling and enthusiastic “Motuh-cy-tul!!” and asks me “can we chase it, Mommy?” if we happen to get passed by one while we’re driving. He sat motionless on his Grandpa’s lap at the Ducati exhibit, absorbing every detail of the most boring film about torque and metal alloy components of the motorcycle framework. Jack doesn’t mess around when it comes to his motorcycles.
Playdough. The colorful putty has become an almost daily pre-dinner ritual, but the creative effort required is minimal. He’s happy simply molding the putty into a sausage and pretending it’s a rocket ship. He’s also fond of the fluorescent putty that he made at the Maryland Science Center using Elmer’s glue and borax.
Gatorade. I don’t let Jack drink much other than milk, water, or limited quantities of juice, but Gatorade is a special treat for our exercise time. Jack is enthralled by the rainbow hued drink colors and when I need to fit a run in while I’m watching the kids, promising a few sips of Gatorade mid-way through our jog is a sure fire way to coerce Jack into crawling happily into the stroller (that and an assurance that our route will go past both the swimming pool and the houses under construction). In fact, on weekends, Jack eyes the Gatorade and requests “I want to go jogging now.” If a few ounces of electrolyte-infused sugar water are all it takes to convince Jack that a 3-mile jaunt around the neighborhood is fun, why not?
“Squirt” or “spray” hose. He likes to water the tomatoes, the grass and Daddy.
Games
We recently taught Jack to play “I spy”. Jack’s version, however, is to choose an object, which may or may not be in immediate view, and then tell you the answer before you guess. For example, “I spy with my little eye, something that is red – my helmet!” And there doesn’t have to be anyone else in the room for him to play. In the back of the car on our way to the Baltimore Inner Harbor today, we overheard Jack playing by himself. “I spy with my little eye something that is brown – the telephone poles! And the trees are brown too!”
Motorcycle dance. We have a dance for just about everything. The motorcycle dance consists of singing “dance, dance, dance…motorcycle dance” and doing some spins and kicks. We also have a pee pee dance where we do side-to-side chest pops while sitting atop the potty. The words to that one are “pee pee dance…pee pee dance.” Genius, really. Must be something Mommy made up.
Without reading the “for ages 6+” on the label, I bought Jack a pocket version of Guess Who (or as Jack calls it, “my people game”), thinking it might be fun. Playing by the rules didn’t quite work, but when we improvised slightly by using one board instead of two with Mommy holding the answer card in her hand and helping to prevent Jack from flipping all the faces up or down at one time, he actually did quite well.
Making up names. His little plastic pilot inherited the name “Pilot Wingsy”, his blue bear is “Blueberry” and he often refers affectionately to his brother as “Bob”.
Photos
And last but not least, a myriad of 2 1/2 year photos. All imagination, all the time.
Strawberry picking with his best bud
Hitching rides with older ladies
Homemade hair cut and Dr. Horrible
Silly eating
Old school triking
Helping Dad (and Christy) build the garden
Eating one of Christy’s 36-hour, best ever, chocolate chip cookies
He HAD to go out in a monsoon
After his cornhole victory at beerfest
July 4th fireworks
Marshmallow roasting lessons
Smores
Picking blueberries
“yoda”
Why hello, Handsome
Pinching Nana’s buns
Learning to crack an egg
Teamwork: Jack cracks the egg, Nana removes the shell
Whisking
Scooping by himself
He got most of it in
Meeting George
Jackson Pollock
Too cool (his legs were also crossed)
Serious driver
Turqouise Jeep
First roller coaster, went right to the front
Thirsty
Nana!
Admiring the guitarist
Watching a local concert
My handsome man
Police car
Back of a police car. Let’s not make this a habit.
Notice all the kids filing through orderly. Notice Jack.
Jeep!
Who needs quarters when you can make your own sound effects.
Mommy’s shirts – the new pyjamas
“I’m a really fast guy”
Still hates to leave home without his helmet
Can I ride it?
Jack and all the adults hit the Ducati test drive center
Door stoppers
Harleys and Puppies
Pancake Saturday
Safety first
Fish face
Excited to try the watermelon from Daddy’s garden
Potty with friends
Best friends, watching boats on the Baltimore harbor
In the midst of a humorous battle of “which sibling is more loved” between my sister and me in the comment section of my Mom’s facebook page a few days ago, I came across this poem. After several wet tissues, I composed and reflected, with merely 4 months of experience under my belt, I have already been through much of the emotional torment (and subsequent blessing) of loving both of my offspring; craving that one-on-one time with each of them that is sometimes hard to come by.
Jack had to steal Bobby's seat, but then asked if Bobby could sit with him.
I remember some of the moments that Jack and I shared before Bobby was born as clearly and sweetly as if they were yesterday. Walking home together in the dark the day after his second birthday, gazing at the airplane lights in the sky; cuddling together in the rocking chair with Jack nestled around my swollen belly falling asleep on my shoulder while I sang him silly goodnight songs; playing tackle football in our freshly carpeted basement (that caused me two nights of restless sleep at 39 weeks gestation after throwing my back out from the impact of some of our tackles – not my smartest of ideas). I was thrilled for Bobby’s arrival, but lamented that my Jack time would be forever altered.
What’s surprised me is that, with the help of a doting and involved husband, I haven’t had to forego those precious alone-time moments altogether. Just last weekend, Jack and I went for a jog sans brother (brother was sleeping) and ended up at a home construction site on one of the 50 acre conservancy lots that surrounds our neighborhood. We took a break from our run and meandered up the gravel driveway, through mounds of freshly heaped soil identifying bulldozer tracks, over the foundation that will be the garage and into the framing for the kitchen. We chased dragonflies, banged on the dumpsters, picked clover and counted horses in the nearby pasture. When we were done we walked back down the winding driveway holding hands and then I pushed an empty jog stroller while my future track star ran up the street beside me giggling and exclaiming with far too much excitement than the object deserved, “There are bales of hay!” At home, Jack galloped into backyard to play with the garden hose and I curled up with a freshly awakened Bobby to nurse him and love on him; just us.
And Jack is discovering, with slow and cautious interest, that Bobby is actually kind of fun to have around. Baby steps, for all of us.
This weekend, during a neighborhood, female luncheon of sorts, Jack came down from his nap to mingle. At one point, while consuming a slice of mango from his bowl of mixed fruit, he looked at me and said, “Mommy, you look pretty.” Consider my heart forever melted.
I cannot begin to explain how gut-wrenching it is to love a child so deeply. On evenings like tonight, seated on the corner of Jack’s twin big-boy-bed, 4-month old balanced across my lap and in the curve of my left arm, nursing, [almost] 2 1/2 year old leaning on my right shoulder listening intently to the Curious George story I flipped through slowly with my only available hand, I felt first like Super Mom and second like the luckiest mother in the universe. My heart actually started to ache under the depth with which my love for these boys flows, much like their own unconditional need for me. I would not trade a second of my time with either of them for anything else. I loved them even as they were a twinkle in my eye, and I will love them through infinity.
My experience this go-’round with Bobby, and subsequently Kent’s, has been so vastly different. I breastfed Jack for 13 months, the first 9 of which were exclusive. But in those 13 months, I only nursed (or at least attempted to) for the first three weeks. Jack has a high palate that caused him to reject a natural latch and that evil invention called the nipple shield added unnecessary hassle and frustration to an already difficult endeavor. My pediatrician required us to supplement when Jack wasn’t back to his birth weight after two weeks, so I dolefully rented a pump from a nearby women’s center. My original intent was to fill his little belly with expressed milk and then continue on the pursuit of this elusive nursing process. However, as Jack suckled on a bottle like it was the greatest thing that his tongue had ever touched and his meals went from 45 minutes of screaming and tears to 10 minutes of contentment and relaxation in which both Mommy and Daddy could participate; with the help of my husband to assure me I wasn’t going to ruin our child by succumbing to the emotional relief that was pumping, I gave up my futile attempts at a latch. For the next 12+ months, it was me, my Ameda pump and a very happy, very healthy little man. Although I was humbly disappointed by the fact that nothing about Jack’s birth and infancy presented the way I’d imagined – the “normal” way I’d been taught in prenatal classes (he was born by unplanned c-section when his vitals came across as irregular and I was later diagnosed with an aversion to labor, never once having had an actual contraction) – I never felt an absense of a mother-son bond just because I didn’t nurse. If anything, because Kent was able to participate in Jack’s milk consumption, he got to build an early and instant rapport.
Enter Bobby. He too was born by c-section. Although my physician was willing to go the route of VBAC for me if my body had opted to birth naturally (the choice I absolutely would have taken if I’d ever had a contraction), alas, it was not meant to be. Both my boys were stubbornly content to remain floating in my insides. This time I bore a boy whose features are about as opposite to Jack’s as they can get and who attached hungrily and instantly to my breast before I was even wheeled into recovery. What glorious relief. I still pumped, of course, on the off chance an in-law was around to let my husband and I sneak off for a date and to ensure Bobby wouldn’t reject bottles by the time he entered daycare. And while nursing means it’s always me who levitates from the bed when the baby cries at 4am, it also means I’m guaranteed some precious alone time with my baby where he cuddles into my skin, clings to my shirt and relaxes entirely.
Just because I passed out after this meal doesn't mean I'll release my grip on your finger.
My aim is to provide Bobby with breast milk for at least as long as I did for Jack, whether by nursing or, god forbid he starts biting me when his teeth come in, by bottle. With a freezer stocked full of milk that I will probably never get to before it expires and a little man who falls comatose against my chest with a full belly at the end of the evening, we are well on our way.
My precocious, flirtatious, witty little man has surged into his third year of life with more gusto and charm than a mother can handle sometimes. I sang him happy birthday from the edge of his crib the morning he turned two, after which he proceeded to command that I sing happy birthday to his giraffe as well (which continues to be the favorite of his stuffed toys).
I swear, despite the frequency with which the word “no” comes out of his mouth, he’s even funnier and cuter than ever. With four days of experience behind me, I would argue there is absolutely nothing terrible about two (although I hear the riotous “just you wait” chants from other mothers brewing). His pediatrician appointment today confirmed what I’ve already known for quite some time that a) my kid is a sinewy giant and b) he’s exceptionally bright. At 37 1/2 inches and 30 pounds he’s over 99th percentile in height and 73rd for weight. He also whipped out a string of thoughts for the pediatrician (like his comment on the wall mural in her office: “there’s a white police helicopter flying up in the blue sky”) which then caused her to suggest that we must read a lot of books together, given his conversational command. His knowledge and recognition of numbers, letters, colors and words were just the icing.
Book Nook
With over a month of action-packed blog backlog, I have plenty of two-year-old fodder to share. Jack has recently decided that first person was sooo last month. Instead, Jack prefers to discuss his conquests in third person. When I ask him what he’s doing, he’ll respond, “he’s hiding in the tent with Lightning McQueen” or “he popped a HUGE bubble in the bathtub.” If I ask him during our drive home what he did at school today, Jack will respond “he played with his friends” or “he rode the buggy with Nicholas.”
Jack also, like most two-year-olds I presume, likes to be in charge of his own decision making. He might preface a response to my question with a simple ‘no’ in front of the statement (Q: “Jack, would you like some oatmeal?” A: ”No oatmeal.”). Or, better still, he has also grown fond of presenting us with choices (Q: “Jack, are you ready to go in Daddy’s car?” A: “How ’bout…Mommy’s car?” Or “Jack, what book would you like to read?” A: “How ’bout…watch Super Why on the TV?”)
Speaking of conversation, Jack no longer just repeats every single phrase that comes out of our mouths verbatim (which has me on extra-sensitive alert when he regurgitates things like “Daddy’s dumb” that I’m hardly conscious I’ve uttered in jest); he actually holds full question/response conversations with us for extended periods of time. I can ask him about what he’s seen or done in the past and he’ll reply with a clear description of a vivid memory. He informed his teacher today that “Daddy’s name is Kent and Mommy’s name is Jessica” (something I taught him once two days ago). It’s been three weeks since we dropped my parents off at the airport following an extended holiday visit and he continues to remind me every time he sees an airplane that “Nana and Dampa are going on the red airplane up in the sky.” Why he determined their airplane was red, I’m not certain, but that’s his story and he’s sticking to it.
You may notice an ‘up in the sky’ theme commencing here, which merely reflects Jack’s penchant for all things mechanically airborne. If I have to read his “Fighter Jets” library loaner one more time, I might just… Actually, after reading the book five times the first day we brought it home, he basically just reads it to me now, so my tolerance has been pacified. But the pages of the book now have tiny tears on the inner creases simply from the number of times they’ve been turned by Jack alone. He’s also fond of helicopters, rocket launches and jet aircraft. And if machinery can’t fly, then it had better be able to dig, transport or race. Motorcycles and garbage trucks are cool, but bulldozers, diggers and tractors top the list. In particular, he is extremely drawn to the John Deere brand of farming equipment and if we allowed it, he’d spend hours in front of the streaming John Deere propaganda video that he selected himself from the library.
Another thing that is certain to pique Jack’s interest is the stockpiling of change. In fact, after placing a few coins in his loon-shaped piggy bank today, Jack stated boldly, “he has SO much money!” And if he’s not satisfied with the few quarters that Mommy empties from her wallet to invest in her son’s early capital ventures, he then saunters into Daddy’s office and fishes in his pockets for “more monies for Jack.” However, as much as he enjoys saving for his future, he also derives relatively equal pleasure from store purchases. After handing the checkout clerk at Target a $10 bill for his box of Hot Wheels cars, he spent more time discussing the “pay the man for the cars” transaction than the cars themselves.
Business education begins at two
For an incredibly lively little guy who, although intensely focused on whatever activity in which he’s participating at the time, Jack outright refuses to sit still. Strollers and high chairs are no longer options. He is in perpetual motion while he eats meals at his table (I use the word ‘at’ very loosely) and he bounces, jogs and saunters his way through malls, theme parks and museums with more energy than any adult. It’s exhausting to keep up, but thoroughly fulfilling when he lifts his warm fingers to grip mine and gallop beside me hand-in-hand.
The last time we bothered bringing out the stroller
As our solo mother-son time draws to a close, I cherish and breathe in each moment of our alone time like a savory glass of vintage wine. On Saturday evening this past weekend we walked home from a neighborhood child’s birthday party together holding hands and discussing the lights on the airplanes flying overhead, nightime animals and the shape of the moon. The imprint of his soft fingerprints during those five minutes of adoring conversation are forever engraved on my knuckles. The last two years have been the most fulfilling and joyous of my life and the best is yet to come.
Jack cuddles with Mommy and the baby going "bump bump"
Happy Birthday to the sweetest boy I’ve been blessed to know.
This pregnancy has, at least physically, mimicked the last with resounding similarity (which, though we’ve chosen again to remain oblivious of gender until birth, leads me to believe I should be seeking another boy name). I carry a few too many unrestricted ice cream pounds, but save the standard heartburn and fatigue, I’m as comfortable as a walking water balloon can be. No aches, no swelling, no nausea, no belly stretch marks and plenty of energy. The biggest difference this go around is simply the lack of personal time to dwell on being pregnant. If it weren’t for Sweet Sibling pounding vigorously on my inner walls, I might even forget I’m with child. Jack, with his unfathomable amount of energy in his waking hours, is all-encompassing. And our mother-son alone time has become just that much more precious and important knowing the limits that will be placed on our solitude come February.
Big brotherhood lessons aren't so bad with blueberries
Despite our attempts at educating Jack for what’s in store (books on the subject, baby dolls, and Jack reminding me daily that ”baby is hiding in Mommy’s belly”), I know the transition will be challenging. He’s very much a Mama’s boy at the moment and when Mommy is in the room, he’s not too interested in sharing. On the flip side, I am certain that he will execute the role of big brother flawlessly, imparting his infinite wisdom and loving hugs. While I’ve played an integral role in Jack’s early intellectual development (shapes fully mastered before he could speak; colors fully mastered by 18 months; alphabet, counting to ten and left/right fully mastered by 20 months; mastery of iPhone navigation and gaming applications by 21 months; counting to diez in Spanish by 22 months…), I have a strong suspicion Sweet Sibling may learn all these things and then some from his or her sharp-as-a-tack brother instead of me.
Jack may also impart upon Sweet Sibling some of his less-than-traditional insight:
Winter jackets are indicative of brisk, open air adventures; and, even hours after arriving home from such an excursion, fight the removal of said winter jacket at all costs. You never know when the door might re-open for more outdoor play and there is no better place to be than where the weather swirls freely.
Outside is the best side.
Jack against Mommy in the jacket-removal-war. Victory.
Stickers are ah-mazing. You can adhere them to paper, tables, chairs, floor tiling, cupboards, drawers, books, banisters, walls, dishes, clothes, skin. In fact, Mommy recently wandered naively into the office with a cartoon walrus on her rear end, which made for a good snicker.
You can do the same thing with crayons, but beware that you might lose your unsupervised crayoning privileges after a few upholstery and wall art episodes.
Don’t let anyone tell you puddles are to be avoided. They are the reason sneakers and jeans are made as sturdily as they are. Along the same lines, don’t worry too much about Mommy’s “water stays IN the bathtub” requests. That’s what towels are for.
Trust me, these boots are pointless
Don’t bother unraveling a roll of toilet paper from the holder when you can do damage to an entire roll instantly by placing one of the spares directly into the toilet.
If you want to reach water in the sink, just flip the garbage can upside down and stand on it.
High chairs and bibs are for suckers. Complain about it enough and Mommy will soon host bib-free meals at your art table instead.
Mommy loves to cuddle, so you can gain an extra 15 minutes prior the inevitable bedtime by asking with a pouty lip and crocodile tears to ”sit down” in the rocking chair after storytime is over. All you have to do is nuzzle into her shoulder and tolerate her pitchy sing-song and she’ll give you the sweetest of head rubs, all the while thinking she’s the lucky one.
Leaving the room or hiding in a closet to poop in private somehow doesn’t deter Mommy from figuring out your diaper requires changing. I still loathe the process as much as ever…but I’ve learned to ask for a book to pass the time (Five Little Ladybugs is a good one for such an occasion)
Once you take your first steps (do this as early as possible), there’s no point in walking when you can run. The faster you run, the more you can pretend you can’t hear Mommy’s commands.
I recognize that there is only so much ill-conceived planning one can do to prepare for the onslaught of bliss and exhaustion that is two children. But as the 808 beats against my rib cage remind me, I’m ready for the tackling.
