Brat

There is this person who lives inside my adult body who...isn't an adult.

She's an eleven year old brat who wants to sleep in on the weekends (and on week days), read smut in the bathtub instead of scrubbing the tub, eat peppermint patties for dinner and take a nap instead of exercise.

This weekend, that brat was mean to Alyssa.

On Saturday morning, the girls were lovely enough to let me and my inner brat (tm Julie) sleep in until 8:30. I forced the brat up at that point and we made our way downstairs where my brat was buried long enough for me to make the girls breakfast and actually get some painting done.

But that evening, the brat stayed up too late and so when 7:45 rolled around on Sunday morning and Olivia was up saying she was hungry and Alyssa was awake complaining about her pull-up leaking and needing a shower, my brat reared her ugly head.

She insisted that Alyssa get up and shower on her own. Because, duh, she was right there in bedroom, which is next to the bathroom.

I did supress the brat long enough to go get Olivia a banana.

But Alyssa. Poor little Alyssa. She whined and my brat's head ached and we snipped back and forth about how she could shower all by herself because she's BIG now.

And the brat even told her, "I'm going to be so mad at you if you make me get up and get you in that shower myself."

And she started to climb back into bed.

The brat was furious. She was so spitting mad. She was tired and her head really did hurt (probably from too many peppermint patties in the tub the night before when she really should have been in bed.)

So she got up and stormed to the bathroom, where she started the shower.

She shouted for Alyssa to get her butt in that bathroom RIGHT NOW.

She ignored Olivia's tiny shriek of dismay at the raised voice.

Alyssa entered the bathroom sheepishly and was ordered to get that pull-up off and get into that shower.

Then, the brat stood there and stewed while her child, her seven year old child, showered and her three year old child sidled up to her and whispered, "I'm sorry."

Oh.

Oh dear lord.

The brat buried her head and shriveled up and wanted to just cry.

And the mommy came out and she picked up that little tiny girl and whispered, "No, Sweetie. I'm sorry. You have nothing to be sorry for. Nothing at all."

And when Alyssa stepped out of the shower, the mommy wrapped her gently in a towel and dried her off.

She helped both girls get dressed and made breakfast, praying, praying, praying that there are more good days than bad moments.

And moments like that? Those moments I'm so ashamed of? Those are the moments I keep close to the surface of my memory, not so much to wallow in guilt, though, oh yes, the guilt is there. But more to remind myself that I don't want to be that person, that mean mom who treats her children that way. That person who causes her three year old apologize to her because the MOTHER is a brat.

My inner brat is a constant source of frustration for me. I need to discipline her, train her that it's not all about her. I need to remember that sometimes, most times, it's not about me anymore. It's about them. About teaching them to curb their own inner brats, their own demons.

Balance.

I need to work on that one.

Two

This post is inspired by Charity's post about why she didn't stop at two http://lifesunexpectedblessings.blogspot.com/ and a conversation I had with the lovely Julie just this past weekend.

I knew when I had Alyssa that if I could convince Tom have just one more baby I'd be lucky.

See, he has three older children. They were 14, 15 and 18 when he and I met. Now they're 23, 24, and 27.

The older two have both had children of their own. That makes my husband a grandfather. Me? I'm still just Grandpa Tom's wife.

After I had Alyssa I wasn't sure I could possibly love another child as much as I loved her. And she was pretty amazing. I wondered if I was selfish in even wanting to try for just one more. I'd gotten perfection, why tempt fate.

But as she got bigger and more independent and more amazing, I realized that I not only wanted another child for myself I wanted her to experience the love of a sibling that's not more than a decade older than she is.

Her older siblings are more like uncles and an aunt than siblings.

I wanted her to have what I'd had with my brothers as I was growing up. I wanted her to know sibling love and sibling rivalry.

But even once I was pregnant with Olivia, I knew she would be our last. She would forever be the baby of the family.

And I was okay with that.

We found out she was a girl when I was 22 weeks along. I was thrilled that I was having another girl. I loved the idea of raising sisters. And heck, Alyssa had a lot of really cute clothes she could hand down.

The day after Olivia was born, my OB/GYN came in to discharge me so I could go be with her and he discussed birth control with me.

And he suggested the Mirena IUD. It's good for five years. He suggested that even at my advanced age, I might decide in a few years to try for a boy.

I'd given birth about 15 hours previous to this conversation. I hadn't actually held that baby yet and it felt like this doctor was implying that she wasn't good enough, she wasn't enough because she was another girl.

It's probably perverse of me to think this but...if I were to have a third? I'd probably wish for yet another girl just because I wouldn't want anyone to think we'd gone for number three just to get the elusive boy.

Not that I don't adorve boys. My nephew is all kinds of awesome and he's all booger-eating, mud-slinging boy.

But our family is complete. It's wonderful. Tom and I love our sweet girls and wouldn't trade them for anything in the world.

I often wonder where people get the nerve to judge how others build their family. Why is it anyone elses' business whether a couple has no children, one child or six? It's not.

No one ever really knows the reasons for the choices made by other people and until we do understand those choices, we should respect the fact that people usually have a reason for what they do. Usually.

Comparisons

I try not to compare my daughters. Not because either of them pale in comparison with the other, but because they're both amazing and super special in their own way.

Duh, I'm their mother, of course they're super special in my eyes.

But their births were so different and it's hard not to think about those two days that changed my world so very much.

Alyssa's birth was such a celebration. She was my first born and the first grandchild being born to my mom. Everyone had begun to worry that I wouldn't get around to having kids before my ovaries shriveled.

I was, after all, 31 years old when I got pregnant and turned 32 before Alyssa was born.

I worked the day before she was born. I had a doctor's appointment that afternoon, that Monday, January 13. She was due on Wednesday, January 22. At my appointment, the doctor did my first cervical exam. Yikes.

There was nothing going on down there. She was still wrapped up tight.

The doctor explained that that meant nothing. Some women go from 0 to 10 in less than a day. And some walk around at 3cm for days/weeks.

So whatever.

He did, though, say that while he didn't necessarily suggest it, he'd had some patients have success with castor oil.

Success at what? Why, at moving things along.

After we left the doctor's office, I looked at Tom and said, "We're not doing that."

He asked, "Why not?"

Well, it wasn't like she was overdue. I wasn't even that big. I wasn't uncomfortable. I hadn't gotten to that "I'm SO done being pregnant" stage.

But we went to the drug store anyway. And bought the castor oil. And I drank two caps full with a bottle of orange juice.

It was awful.

About eight hours after drinking the castor oil, my water broke.

We headed for the hospital, with no contractions in sight.

We reached the hospital a little after midnight. My cervix was still not doing anything at all to prepare for the birth of our child.

At eight the next morning, they started me on an IV of pitocin.

My mom arrived.

My dad arrived and plunked himself into a corner where my privacy was protected.

At noon, lunch arrived and the nurse said that while I couldn't eat it, anyone else could.

A couple of aunts arrived and one of them attempted counter pressure on my back. After she left about ten minutes later, I whispered, "Please don't let her touch me again."

Tom asked why not and I told him that it hurt so much to have her rub my back. He asked why I hadn't told her that and I explained that I didn't want to hurt her feelings.

I had to pee every ten minutes, would have a contraction on the way to the bathroom, while peeing and on the way back.

At about 2:30pm the doctor came in to check me. During his exam, I told him I wasn't trying to push but I couldn't help it.

They adjusted the bed, inserted a catheter (oh, the relief!!!) and it was time to push. My mom was on my left side and Tom was on my right side. My dad was still in his privacy corner. It seemed like there were people everywhere.

At 2:48pm, Alyssa Jean was born. Tom whispered to me that she was a girl. She weighed an even six

My mom said, "She looks just like her dad."

And she did.

People milled in and out for hours, visiting, exclaiming over her beauty.

My Aunt Lorry announced that Alyssa loved her first bath and having her hair washed.

By 7pm, there was still a crowd in my room and I was falling asleep mid-sentence.

We stayed in the hospital until Alyssa was 48 hours old so she could get her last exam out of the way rather than making the hour drive home and then back.

It was lovely and perfect and everything I'd hoped for for the birth of my first child.

I knew that the birth of my second child would be different if only because I knew that someone would have to miss out on her birth in order to care for her big sister.

But because there were complications from the beginning (she failed her non-stress test that was performed when she was nine days overdue) Tom was the only one allowed into the labor/delivery room.

And yet...in it's own way, that seemed right at the time. He and I needed those moments, those hours alone, preparing for our child.

We didn't know before she was born that anything was wrong with her. We had no clue, no inkling that she might have issues.

But when she failed that stress test, we were sent directly to the hospital. We were told not to stop and get food, which I'd wanted to do because I was STARVING. We were told I could eat at the hospital.

I checked in at 10:30 on that Monday, November 27. An IV was immediately inserted. The fetal monitor was placed. Olivia was steady, as she'd been during the non-stress test. She'd failed because her heart rate hadn't risen each time she moved. It just held steady.

At noon, the nurse inserted the cervidil.

At 12:30, she brought some lunch.

I ate a few pieces of broccoli.

At 12:40, she came back and took my lunch away.

She'd called the doctor and told him that Olivia wasn't responding well to the cervidil, her heart rate would drop and then rise and then drop again.

She removed the cervidil and started the pitocin by 1:00.

My doctor (a different doctor than the one who delivered Alyssa) was sure I'd be in for a C-section because I couldn't finish the round of cervidil and was instead moving directly to pitocin. Which is why they took away my lunch.

I protested that I'd responded well to just-pitocin before but...doctor's orders.

At 2:00, I threw up the broccoli and...I though I peed a little when I threw up. Ugh!! I apologized to the nurse and told her I'd had to pee a lot during my labor with Alyssa.

And they told me to lay on my left side. Which I did. For hours and hours. My left hip started to ache and when I'd roll to my back or even my right side, Olivia's heart rate would drop and I'd roll back to my left side, and she'd even out again.

After his office closed at 5pm, my doctor arrived do break my water. Ohh, that was unpleasant.

Apparently, my vomiting earlier in the day had caused the water to break and so he was digging for something that wasn't there.

He was amazed by how far I was already.

At 6:10, he did another check, I was at 6cm. I had one contraction that put me at 9.

Olivia was born after three pushes at 6:27pm on November 27, 2006.

She was born into a room with just her mommy, her daddy, the doctor and three nurses.

My mom and stepdad were watching Alyssa in the waiting room.

After she was born, the three nurses worked to get her breathing.

Tom met my mom at the door to tell her that the baby was here but she was having trouble breathing. My mom said he had tears in his eyes.

The nurses stablized Olivia and took her to the nursery where she was put under a cylinder.

Our family doctor came to ask me where I wanted Olivia sent. She was too sick to stay in that small community hospital.

I slept fitfully that night, waiting for the light of morning when I could be discharged and go be with my baby, who'd been taken by ambulance to a hospital an hour away.

Just less than 24 hours after being admitted, I was discharged and headed south with my mom and my first born to see my sick little girl.

Yet...I felt elation. She was here and I was going to see her and do whatever I could to let her know I was there, I was her mommy and I was going to her. Her birth was as much a reason for celebration as her big sister's had been.

And every day, I'm thankful for these girls. These girls who are both so amazing and super special to me, their grateful mom.

Vacation?

Yesterday I took a vacation day from work and spend the day with my children.

Well, sort of. Olivia was stuck with me all day and she and I drove to and from Alyssa's school four times in the span of seven hours.

Yikes! I don't know how you 'stay at home' moms do it.

There's really not so much staying at home is there?

I kind of had to come back to work just to rest.

The day started a half hour later than it does on the days when I have to come to work. That was a refreshing change in the routine.

At 7:40, we headed out to drop Alyssa off at school. Olivia and I hit the local grocery store for a few necessities and then went home, where she ate a couple of powdered donuts and swept the kitchen and entry way floors.

At 8:45, we raced back to the school where we walked with Alyssa in a fund-raising walk. For what we were raising fund, I do not know, but that first mile with Olivia insisting on being carried will remain a crick in my back for days to come. The second mile consisted of us making a pitstop at the car and retrieving the stroller. Both Olivia and I were much happier with that arrangement.

After the walk, O and I went home again. I vacuumed the remnants of O's powdered donuts off the living room carpet, packed lunches for us and ran a load of laundry.

And off we went again at about 10:40 to meet Alyssa for lunch. I figured if I had the day off, I should spend at much time with both of them as possible.

Alyssa loves showing her sister off, which is just so sweet and makes my heart swell with love for these girls. Lunch with second graders is loud and messy and fun.

I attempted to get Olivia to take a nap when we got home from lunch with Alyssa but she was having none of that. At one point she was standing in front of me, holding my hands and jumping up and down, screaming non-sense.

I asked her why she was doing that and she squealed, "I'm just so happy."

That? Made my day.

At 2:30 we headed out once again to pick Alyssa up from school and then race to town to Olivia's gymnastics class. We made it with three minutes to spare, which I used to pee. I know.

So today? I'm back at work and trying to recover from my 'vacation' day.

I really don't know how the stay at home moms do it on a daily basis.

But honestly? I'd more than willing to give it a try.

Translator

I'll admit that when my brother's son was born a year after Olivia, I worried about the moment when Jaxon (the nephew) would pass Olivia in developments. See, she was a year old and JUST starting to sit up. We had no idea when she'd crawl, walk, and talk. At that point, we didn't have a diagnosis. I'd found 5p-/Cri du Chat through my own research but at that point, two doctors had already shooed me away, assuring me that Olivia was 'too pretty' to have the syndrome.

I know, right?

So we were going on our merry way, just starting therapies in an effort to treat her symptoms even though we still didn't know what was causing those symptoms.

So when Jaxon was born, I kind of knew a day would come when he'd pass her developmentally. At least physically.

And that day did come. He started walking at the typical thirteen months. Olivia was 26 months old, still three months away from walking independently herself. And yet...while I'd sort of worried about that day, when it came...I wasn't nearly as bothered as I'd thought I might be.

I was happy for Jaxon and his parents. I wanted him to be typical. I didn't want him to have challenges. I just wanted those things for my sweet girl too.

I knew at that point, though, that she was moving at her own pace and she'd get there. There was never a question for us as to whether she'd walk and talk, it was just a matter of when.

Last year, as Jaxon edged in on two years old, my brother started to worry that his son wasn't talking as much as he should be for his age.

I suggested he talk to his doctor if he was truly concerned but reminded him that a lot of kids have a huge vocabulary jump when they turn two. And that happened for Jaxon. He did take it slow, though. One word here, two there. He spent a lot of time with my mom and Livie this summer and so his vocabulary grew by leaps and bounds.

These days, as he approaches his third birthday, he's talking pretty well.

But...Olivia's speech is better.

Just yesterday, Jaxon said something to my mom. She looked at him, confused and turned to Olivia, who translated for him, "He wants some juice. He'd prefer orange, but apple will do."

My child.

My little girl with 5p-. The one who is supposed to have a major speech delay, is translating for her one-year-younger cousin, in complex sentences.

And we understand her.

It's amazing to me. It shows me that we can never, ever underestimate these kids.

Last year as the school year ended, her preschool teacher/speech therapist wrote, "I see no speech delays in Olivia whatsoever."

Seeing that in writing from a profession meant so much to me. It meant that I wasn't just pushing my own hopes and dreams onto my daughter. She was surpassing what everyone said she'd do. She's making her own way and she's dragging her 'typical' cousin with her, expressing her wants and needs as well as his as they go along.

Anniversary

Yesterday marked seven years of marriage for Tom and me.

Yes, yes, if you do the math, you'll find that Alyssa was about nine months old when Tom and I got married. Whatever, right?

Tom likes to joke that if I didn't have so many aunts who enjoyed planning things like weddings, we might never have gotten around to getting married. It only annoys me a little.

We aren't really anniversary gift people. We prefer to save the money we'd spend on cards and gifts and be all frivolous and pay the mortgage. I kid, sort of.

Last night, we ate pizza and watched Dancing with the Stars with our daughters. It was nice.

One nice surprise was that Tom got the laundry all set up in the basement. No more having to sort pee-stinky laundry and send it 65 miles one-way with Tom every few days.

I cannot tell you how lovely it is to know that I can do a load of laundry right there in my own house again. Ahh, the joy of clean sheets!

Honestly, I think that being kind to each other day after day, all year is more important than gifts and cards on this one day of the year. I think the best gift I could give him is to take better care of myself in the coming year and be healthier at when our eighth anniversary arrives.

I'll try. I really, truly will.

Home

Every day when we walk in the door of our new house, Olivia exclaims, "We're home!" She then makes her way to the floor in front of the couch where she lays down and burrows in, snuggling up against the couch and taking it all in.

I don't think I realized how much our commute was taking out of the girls. Sure, I bitched and moaned about how much I hated it but I didn't realize how much they hated it too.

They're both so happy in our new home. They're so glad we get to go home every day, to a home that isn't over an hour's drive away.

The new house is having physical benefits for Olivia too. Now that we're in a house with an upstairs that we actually use, she's starting to walk up the stairs using alternate feet. It's awesome! She still prefers to hold my hand but she'll hold my hand, use the handrail and walk up the stairs using alternate feet, like any other four year old.

Olivia's first words to me this morning, after me being gone all weekend weren't what I'd expected. I kind of thought she'd tell me she missed my squishy boobies (she tells me that every single day when I get to my mom's to pick her up.) No, this time she tattled on her daddy. She informed me that, "Daddy slept in your bed."

Perhaps this family bed thing has gone too far. Sadly, Daddy's no longer considered part of the family, since she doesn't seem to be aware that Daddy is SUPPOSED to be that bed and she probably isn't.

Ah well, time goes by, things change every day and my girls learn something new and show me how amazing they are. And even, almost ordinary life isn't such a bad thing at all.