If You Give A Two-Year-Old A Snack.

If you give a two-year-old a snack, he will tell you the snack you've procured is not to the liking of his refined little palate, run to the cupboard, and pull out your secret stash of M&Ms.

You will open the fridge and try a kung-fu mind trick to lure him away from your chocolate and over to the perishables.

His bright little eyes will rest on the giant, unsliced watermelon inside.

"Dat!" he will scream with the confidence of a global leader.

"Ok!" you will say while rummaging around for an appropriate watermelon slicing knife, knowing this feat of impending manual labor is small price to pay to secure the well-being of your M&Ms.

Once the watermelon is cut into six-thousand bite-size pieces, the two-year-old will taste one and say, "I don't want this. Make me peanut butter and fluff."

You will think about waging a war over watermelon until you realize that six-thousand pieces of the fruit within arm's reach of a two-year-old on the brink of a tantrum will quickly become six-thousand tiny weapons of mass destruction. He will know this and meet your eyes for a dangerous, yet brief, game of chicken.

"Say please," you will say as you put the watermelon into a Tupperware container smugly smiling because YOU really won the battle: you're now armed with a veritable fruit arsenal for the next snack stand-off.

Once the watermelon is put away and the fluffernutter is half made, your two-year-old will profess his love of watermelon. You will ignore this.

While enjoying his marshmallow delicacy disguised as a healthy sandwich, your two-year-old will ask for milk. No, make that chocolate milk.

For a few minutes you will try to convince him that plain milk is tastier than chocolate milk. Alas, his cries of, "No it's not!" will escalate in direct proportion to your exhaustion and, dammit, Hershey will find his way to the milk.

The chocolate milk will remind him of that one time many weeks ago when he drank chocolate milk outside. He will ask to go outside. Fresh air will sound nice to you so you'll go.

Outside, he'll notice the sandbox and ditch the chocolate milk.

Once 85% of the sand is outside the sandbox, he will notice his hands are dirty.

"Can you please turn on the hose so I can wash my hands, Mommy?" he will ask in his sweetest voice.

Proud of his impeccable hygiene, you will comply and in the blink of an eye your two-year-old will stage a solo coup, usurp the nozzle, and soak you both.

As you towel him off and decide the hose episode definitely counts as your shower, you will notice that you are a tad hungry yourself and abscond to the kitchen for a granola bar.

Despite your ninja moves, your two-year-old will sense you are eating and he is not and catch you red-handed.

"What's dat?" he will ask, the cool excitement of a CIA agent holding an incriminating folder of evidence lacing his high-pitched voice.

You will contemplate eating the evidence before turning to face him but his show of power back at the hose has made you feel brazen and you know he will smell oats and chocolate on your breath should you lie so you turn and simply say, "It's a granola bar."

"Ohhhhhhh," he will say back slowly as he assesses the deliciousness of the food you are not sharing. Once he's decided it's high on his delicious scale he will ask abruptly, "can I have a bite?"

"No," you'll say.

"Why?" he'll ask.

"It's mine," you'll say and add, lest he think Mommy is not a good sharer, "and I need the energy in these calories to take care of you."

The tantrum held at bay by little more than hope and marshmallow fluff will be held no more.

As he flails and wails begging for your granola bar you will rack your brain for one, JUST ONE, diversionary tactic. It will arrive on the wings of a dove.

"The ducks!!!" you'll scream triumphantly recalling the success of last week's duck-feeding session, "let's go feed them!"

He will stop mid-cry to assess your seriousness. Should you add "tomorrow" or "later" to your previous statement he is prepared to start right back where he left off.

You will not say either because you mean it and to show just how serious you are you will add, "I'll get some bread."

You will run to your room for a dry shirt and upon your return, find your two-year-old eating the bread.

"That's for the ducks, you silly goose!" you will say with 10 times more levity than you feel.

"But I want it," he'll shoot back and only after a five-minute conversation during which you try to explain the following equation:

Bread For Ducks + Two-Year-Old Eating This Bread = No Bread For Ducks & No Trip To Duck Pond

does he put the bread down.

"I have an idea!" you'll shout hoping to re-inflate his excitement, "run and put the bread in mommy's [impossibly large with contents capable of keeping us alive for two weeks should we get lost in the woods] diaper bag and then we'll go!"

Now, this trip to the other room will take far too long and while you will undoubtedly enjoy those 45 seconds of staring silently at the wall, you will begin to wonder what's happening and embark on a search and recover mission.

You will find him in the living room surrounded by many of your bag's contents and rifling through those remaining within.

"What are you doing?" you'll ask.

And he will say, "I'm looking for a snack. I want a snack."

And we all know what happens if you give a two-year-old a snack.

Dear Two Month Ages & Stages Questionnaire.

Dear Two Month Ages & Stages Questionnaire (ASQ),

A few days ago I had the pleasure of encountering you for the first time with my second child and I have uncovered a potential scoring issue that he will face on every future ASQ regardless of age.

You, and your perfect little circles, are going to judge him erroneously. This is not unique to him, but rather, an unfair burden that every second child has to shoulder.

I took you from the nurse and headed to the waiting room, ready for your ridiculous questions, but you surprised me. You see, your questions weren't ridiculous. They were REALLY hard! Maybe I was handed the questionnaire intended for children with parents who are rocket scientists, which I'm flattered over, mind you, but I don't think said rocket scientists could fill in these blanks:

Is your baby's hand usually tightly closed when he's awake?
Yikes! When my baby is awake, I'm not looking at his hand. I'm looking at my 2-year-old making sure he is not throwing toy cars at the baby's wide-open eyes. I'm looking at the piles of laundry all around me wondering who will do them. I'm looking at the empty pantry and then quickly averting my gaze to take-out menus. His hand? No, not in the mix, but I chose "Yes" lest you think I am not paying attention.

Does your baby hold his hand open when he is awake?
Uh-oh. Are you messing with me ASQ? Is it supposed to be closed or open!? After the last question I don't know which one is right! Oh God. Now I'm sweating. I closed my eyes and chose "Yes" figuring one of the two open-hand questions would be right.

When you put a toy in your baby's hand, does he grasp it in his hand briefly.
Welllll, I've never tried. You see, my two-year-old intercepts all toys headed toward the baby and hides them in his toy box like a damn squirrel prepping for winter. Since they're brothers, and my eldest had no problem with this skill, I assume the baby can do it, too. I chose "Sometimes."

Does your baby chuckle softly?
Hmmmmm. I think he does, but he caught a cough from his brother after his future best friend bent down in front of his face and coughed directly on him. I'm sure if he wasn't wheezing and hacking like a three-pack-a-day smoker, he would. The answer is "Yes."

Now, the rest of the questions, I cannot hope to recall. I think you asked if he is eating steak with a fork and knife and if he's borrowed the car yet for a quick trip to Target. Since you ask, I assume he should be and answered "Yes" but honestly cannot recall if either of these have taken place.

So, ASQ, we have a serious issue on our hands. Millions of second children are being judged on responses from parents who have used the "fill in 'C' on the Scan-tron when you don't know the answer" strategy from their high school years. Your results are in no way accurate.

Don't despair. I have a solution.

Let's simplify. After the first child, parents are lucky to find time to brush their hair. Staring down at the second child, in awe of his or her amazing accomplishments, slips down on the list of priorities and calling this out on a 27 point questionnaire makes everyone feel a bit sheepish.

So, let's dumb it down to one very important, and very easy, question:

Is your child alive?

That's about all we can tell you, anyway. Don't make us pretend we know more.

Thanks so much for listening. Should you like my suggestion enough to implement it and want to cite me in the credits, you know where to fine me.

Sincerely,
annie

Tale From The Breastfeeding Crypt.

I have itchy nipples.

When I decided to breastfeed, which was less of a decision and more of a "hey, he's doing it and this burns calories like I'm an Olympic athlete and it's more efficient than pumping and not as weird as I imagined, so let's go with it," I didn't know itchy nipples were even a thing to worry about.

For those of you who may be in the dark as I was, consider this a public service announcement.

Why do my nipples itch? Well, my littlest guy contracted thrush, something that AIDS patients and newborns get. In laymen's terms, thrush is a yeast infection in your mouth. 

Think that's as gross as it gets? Nope. I have yeast on my nipples. I have so much yeast on my nipples I expect to see a loaf of bread baking on my chest any day. And, who knew, yeast on your nipples is just about the most painful thing one can experience. I would take childbirth over yeasty nips anyday. For several days, I thought he was sucking knives, not milk, through my nipples. Sharp, rusty knives with very serrated edges.

Let me tell you a little more about yeasty nips.

When the pediatrician said he had thrush and then asked if feeding him had been painful I thought there would be a quick fix to the intense pain I'd been experiencing which I'd chalked it up to poor breastfeeding skills. I would have quit, but after reading that if you make it four months breastfeeding, it will be the ONLY TIME IN YOUR LIFE you burn fat from your upper thighs I cringed through the pain and charged on. I was happy to learn the yeast was to blame.

The little boy and I were put on medication and I pumped for a few days which is not a good time at two o'clock in the morning. Or six o'clock. Or nine o'clock.

I thought I was in the clear and returned to feeding him, but within 48 hours I knew the yeast had taken up residence again.

My doctor called in a special cream to a special compounding pharmacy. This is a place where the pharmacists actually MAKE the medicine. Like with a mortar and pestle.

Upon arrival to the pharmacy the hippy pharmacist told me prescriptions take 48 hours to fill. I almost said, "Well, no wonder this is a dying business," I thought about saying, "I will have sex with you right now if you give me the damn cream," but I'm only 5 weeks post-partem so YIKES, and ended up saying, "I need this now." 

The best he could do was the next day so I texted my friend who is an OB and asked if I could schmear Monistat on my nips. Done and done. I bathed my boobs in vag cream and hoped for the best.

Now, with my compounding cream in hand, I apply it about 12 times a day and then wash my hands vigorously less the yeast make there way onto other body parts.

I tried to the anti-yeast diet, but you can basically eat broccoli and since I'm burning 500+ calories/day through painful breastfeeding, I think I deserve some sugar and carbs so I stopped the anti-yeast diet. Ok, I never started it. I just read about it. I did, however, start taking a garlic pill because garlic is supposed to kill yeast which is all the evidence I need to confirm yeast are vampires masquerading as single-celled organisms. 

After almost a week of special cream, my situation has been downgraded from incredibly painful to moderately itchy. Have you ever tried to scratch your nipple? It's weird and hard to do and you end up hurting yourself but the itch doesn't go away.

If my special cream doesn't work, we take things a step further with something called Gentian Violet. I don't know what it is, exactly, but it involves pouring violet liquid on the "affected area." No need to dye Easter eggs this year; I am the Easter egg. 

And Then There Were Two.

The story of the birth of my first baby made sense in a world inhabited by a uterus with something to prove. The story of the birth of my second makes sense in a world inhabited by a uterus who wants no one else inhabiting her.

Maybe I didn't appreciate her enough the first time. Maybe I attributed her skill set more to nature than nurture. Or maybe, she was in the Olympic spirit with her eyes set on nothing but gold. I can only speculate what drove her and offer a meager attempt to honor what she pulled off last week by telling this tale.

After a night of comfortably uncomfortable contractions and four weeks of false hope that labor was right around the corner, I spent my due date waiting. Nothing of note happened other than the UPS cashier markedly improving his speed-of-service when he guessed I was five months pregnant and I responded, "No. I'm due today."

The day after my due date, I loafed around. My little boy and I made up drive-thru errands to run and my husband stayed close. "It's not happening," I told him, "today doesn't feel like the day."

To my ute, those words were the secret password. Her eyes filled with dervish glee and she said, "Today doesn't feel like the day?? I believe I choose the day, not your feelings."

Luckily, my husband didn't believe my disbelief about the day and arrived home early from work. My little boy and I were baking brownies and staring at a sea of spilled Cheerios. The latter doesn't sound like a mommy-and-me activity, but it is because without the dog, he and I engage in at least six daily 'who is going to pick that food up off the floor' staredowns.

As a family of three, we watched Sesame Street and then whipped up a nutrient packed box of Kraft (Yes, Kraft; not Annie's) mac 'n cheese for dinner so my husband and I could say it was for our little boy but eat most of it ourselves.

My uterus watched and judged, of that I'm certain.

In the middle of this uneventful Wednesday night I used the loo and noticed I was either being eaten from the inside by slugs or had lost part of the mucus plug.

"How long until labor after the mp goes?" I asked Google and was disappointed the results page didn't say, "in the next five minutes."

"You want it in the next five minutes," my ute said with a tad too much insouciance for my taste, "I can do better than that."

"OWWWWW!" I screamed and hunched over.

"This is it!" my husband yelled through a mouthful of mac 'n cheese.

"Wait," I said, when the pain had passed not believing I was in labor although if I wasn't, I was surely dying of a tropical, and still undiscovered, gastro-intestinal disease, "these will be at least 15 minutes apart. We've got time."

"Don't think so," I heard my ute say in a matter-of-fact tone that mocked my own like I was being played back. I knew I was in big, BIG trouble.

TWO MINUTES later another one struck with double the intensity.

"Oh my God," I said, "call my cousin NOW to come get [son's name here]."

The old girl had skipped the warm-up round. She and I were in hard labor in the blink of an eye.

The next 30 minutes were straight from a scene out of a cliched movie which my little boy watched with a bemused expression as he ate his mac 'n cheese. I  tried not to yell while my husband tried to stay calm. We both failed miserably. My ute, however, was hugely successful in blasting me with a soul-crushing, earth-shattering, whimpering-inducing contraction every three minutes.

When my cousin arrived, we shoved our son out the door with his overnight bag and Tupperware case of brownies. Had the pain been a bit less searing, I may have teared up when I hugged him, thinking about all our twosome adventures and boring afternoons of the past 27 months, but all I could think about was an epidural.

The next hour and a half I recall in bits and pieces. That labor blackout trick that keeps the world populated has started taking hold and so I only recall a dark shroud of pain punctuated by a dozen memories.

I remember contractions in the car. I remember closing my eyes, gripping the seat and whimpering like a barnyard animal.

I remember my husband asking to place a final $100 bet on the baby's gender and me responding in a scary calm voice that would make one believe I had an ice-pick in pocket, "Please don't talk."

I remember riding up the elevator, saying, "Never, EVER again. Never."

I remember listening to a despairingly long list of "to-dos" that needed checking off before anyone would stick a giant needle filled with magical elixir and unicorn hair in my back.

I remember recalling the hospital tour guide's suggestion from a few months back to bring lavender or jasmine to ease the contractions and lucidly understanding that she was on acid when she shared this "helpful" tidbit.

I remember recalling the odd inflatable pool that was also mentioned on the aforementioned tour and quickly devising a plan to request it and drown myself if the epidural was not taken care of in the next 10 minutes.

I think I cried.

And then, the epidural woman came in; an elfin blonde with an Eastern European accent toting a shiny metal box filled with Cold War era torture devices. I told her I loved her. I meant it.

Post-epidural, just over two hours into labor, I was 8 centimeters dilated.

My uterus laughed out loud at the shocked look on my face and reminded me I'd be at 10 if she hadn't stopped at Starbucks for a Caramel Flan Latte. There had been one five minute space between contractions and it seems it occurred only because she was waiting on a barista.

I experienced 30 minutes of epidural bliss, which my husband and I used to align on a final name for a boy, and then felt pressure. I called the nurse, who called the doctor. It was go time.

As it had 27 months ago in a different hospital, in a different state, the room transformed into the Death Star and my ute was once again gasped at the probing lights that whipped down from the ceiling and stirrups that whipped up from the bed. I however, told her to get on with it. I appreciate her esteem for dignity, but she's got a job to do.

I pushed once.

The doctor said, "I can't hear the baby's heartbeat very well so I need you to push hard right now. We're not waiting for a contraction."

I did as told.

The doctor said, "Ok. I'm still having trouble hearing it, probably because the baby is under your pelvic bones. I'm going to cut you."

My ute gasped more loudly than when the stirrups appeared.

I on the other hand, wasn't sure what to think. Those are not the words one wants to hear when stirruped. In fact, I believe "I'm going to cut you" is a trendy phrase that is not usually followed by an actual cut in my circles. However, talk of heartbeats made me nervous and all I could muster was, "Uhh. Ok?"

The doctor asked the nurse for a vacuum and then asked me to push.

My ute, knowing it was too late to escape the knife but not the vacuum, used that third push to sweep my second baby out into the world.

"It's a boy!" my husband shouted, which I'd known all along without ever confirming.

I looked down for a second time at a bawling boy on my chest. "Brothers," I thought getting a little teary-eyed and immediately started forgetting the hell of the last 3.5 hours.

"Whoa!" I said after looking at the little guy a little closer, "he's BIG," and the doctor said, "yeah, he is big." The scale confirmed that I'd given birth to an 8-pound, 11-ounce baby.

In the distance I heard my uterus inhale loudly, preparing for a rant. I stopped her. "You're right. I had very little to do with this. It was ALL you." (Ok, so I had a little to do with it, but I need to hedge my bets. The chances are slim that I'll ever do this again, but nonetheless, I need her in my good graces.)

Last time, she chose a 12 hour, easygoing labor. Perhaps sensing I was a bit indifferent about her abilities, this time she brought a pain-riddled 3.5 hour labor. It bordered on a coup d'etat, so I will never doubt her again, and likely, never do this again.

Ute, this was another job well done. You grew (and grew and grew) another perfect baby boy and ejected him when you knew it was time. Now cash in your 401k and head for the islands. I will be here managing dirt and superheroes and blocks and huge appetites and little boy hugs. Thank you for the perfect workload.
                                                     

Some Guilt While I Wait.

Since I am 39+ weeks pregnant with no daily happenings worth writing about, except for the fact that I am $$^%^$#@ 39+ weeks pregnant, I thought I'd distract myself by getting out some guilt.

The dog is dead.

Ok, no. I'm not writing about "The Telltale Heart" kind of guilt, folks. While I did threaten to kill him many times, I didn't know how to cleanly dispose of a 110 pound hairy carcass so I couldn't do it.

He died of a heart fluke. My husband talked to the vet about fixing the problem, but he told him the prognosis was grim and it would certainly be back if he were to recover. We made the decision in a 12-second phone call.

This was in November and the past three months are best described as joy-filled and hair-free.

I don't miss him.

I don't miss vacuuming once a day.

I don't miss refereeing the snack fights that happened 5 times a day when my son walked by him with handfuls of Bunny Grahams and Cheerios.

I don't miss the destruction that took place when it thundered.

I don't miss the stares I got when he wanted to go for a walk and the loud "Harumph" directed my way when he realized it was not happening.

I don't miss the sticks, leaves, and mud.

I don't miss the pawprints everywhere.

I don't miss lifting heavy bags of dog food into the cart.

I don't miss feeling like Cinderella, pre-glass slipper, when I picked up dog poop.

I don't miss people saying, "What a good dog you have there!" and then laughing when I asked if they wanted him.

I don't miss noseprints on every window.

I don't miss living with a beast who would be in my weight class were we boxers.

I don't miss any of it and I feel guilty but elated. He's probably better off too, because, let's face it, post-partem I would have figured out how to get rid of a 110 pound hairy carcass.

Dear Cervix.

Dear Cervix,

Hey there! It's been awhile since we've had a fireside chat, but it's time to open up and put it all out there again.

I know your job is relatively thankless. That damn uterus sees all the action and the praise, but without your support, she'd be nothing. Just so you know, everyone knows that, but I know when you hear, "My cervix is doing nothing," you shake your fist and yell back, "except sealing your offspring safely inside!" And the frequent comment of Debbie-Downers everywhere, "Dilating has little to do with actually having a baby," makes you huff and mumble, "I dare you to try and get it out undilated, sweetie."

I'd want to punch everyone in the face, too!

So listen, last time around, I may have called you some not nice names when you started dilating. That was about me, not you! I didn't know what was around the corner and I wanted you to stay put for the next 10 years if possible.

This time, you're starting early and I love it! Doc told me you are already dilating and effacing at just over 36 weeks.  Let's keep going. You are the girl at prom showing too much skin precisly because she's promiscuous, NOT the prom queen in a pink taffeta dress that's stapled shut. Got it? No false hope.

No, no, this has nothing to do with my sheer discomfort and desire to no longer be pregnant, this is about your prestige. It only takes a few centimeters to show the "honorable" ute that while she may do some heavy organizational lifting, when you say it's go time, she has no choice but to listen.

Think it through, keep doing your thing, and we'll talk soon.

Sincerely,
Annie

I Hate Pregnancy.

I hate pregnancy.

Whoa, whoa, whoa SETTLE DOWN.

When you finally own your beach house, do you rejoice in the flood insurance? Or when you get to that job with the big bonus do you exclaim, "I am so excited to pay even more in taxes!!"

No, you don't. You take the good with the bad and while the good is being pregnant the very, very bad is pregnancy. And while most 8+ months pregnant women get to this point and have the same list of trite complaints, please indulge mine.

Last time around, not realizing I would never again have time to eat more than string cheese, I stressed about weight gain and made it to the gym 4-5 times a week. This time, I hate all shoes with laces so much that I rarely work out more than twice a week. Those little blue bastards in my new running shoes look at me from the corner of my closet and raspily cry out like the big-eyed blobs growing from Ursula's lair, "Ohhhhhhh, can you not bend and force your foot in us? How will you tie us? How will you even get back up once you're down at our level?"

While we're on shoes, I also hate all my heels. They have forsaken me. Last time around I rocked them until Week 39. This time around, we're not on speaking terms. They make my ankles look like loaves of salami and I cannot have a relationship that makes any part of my body look like cured meat.

I hate renegade puzzle pieces, magnetic animals, and pumpkin and goat when they go missing because these items are invariably UNDER something. Last time around I had no reason to get down on all fours and crawl under couches at any point in life, let alone at 8 months pregnant. This time, I have a two-year-old whose cries of, "Get it Mommy! Get it! It's right dair!" are only slight more painful and persistent than the aches an 8-months pregnant woman feels rolling around the floor grasping for a goat in the dark.

I am very disappointed in how quickly my body gave up the good fight. This baby feels as low as my son did right before his head popped out of my crotch and my doctor told me I pulled some kind of ab muscle picking up that same son a few weeks ago. Ummm, abs...where are you? For the same bunch who used to run and run and run with me and go to early-ass morning bootcamp, you phoned it in pretty fast.

And lastly, I hate my hate. Pregnancy, you've made me one of "those" women and for that we will never be close. I don't want to groan everytime I move, get stuck on the floor, or look forward to a pre-natal massage for days. I don't want to sit on a couch and stare at a blank TV because I'm contemplating the tuck and roll maneuver required to get up. I don't want to stop caring how I look because the act of getting dressed tears muscles.

I've had it with pregnancy. Being pregnant, is fine. I'm happy to be and happy there will be a sibling in our lives very, VERY soon. However, if after reading a cheeseball facebook post shared by all my friends who (accidentally) have three children about how awesome/unique/loveable the third child is I say out loud, "I think we should have another!" I've asked my husband to punch me in the face or waterboard me until my senses return or I am beyond a child-bearing age.