I have heard it oh-so-many times. The second child gets the shaft. My own younger sister holds a grudge for signifiantly less memorabilia in her baby scrapbook. First time parents will note every major milestone their new baby makes (and a bunch of the insignificant moments). They will send out a birth announcement with her newborn portrait and have professional photos taken every six months thereafter to measure her growth and developing cuteness. They'll video family events on a regular basis capturing her original personality and her voice as she learns to talk. And then they'll have all the photos archived in scrapbooks and make DVDs of her greatest hits. Then, along comes baby number two, all hell breaks loose, and Mommy finally remembers her second kid's first portrait when he brings home the order form from school picture day.
Well, this is not going to be me. For starters, Cavan has already gotten screwed in the memorabilia department. Her first portrait was taken at 11 months, and it only happened because my sister arranged for the sitting. She's 2.5 years old, and it is still her only professional photo. I do, however, have a scrapbook. Don't get your hopes up: it is still blank. I can say that we have taken multiple videos, but the tapes still reside in the camera bag (yes, tapes. We have not transitioned to digital yet). But before you think I am a bad mommy, consider the fact that went into this parenting thing realizing the discrimination toward second (third and fourth) children and I did not want my first child to feel like she was any more entitled than her later-arriving siblings. And you believe this, right?! Actually, we were busy as hell when Cavan was born: I was working full time, Hubby was finishing graduate school, and we just renovated and moved into our new house. Cavan was lucky I was able to rearrange our schedules to accomodate her delivery!
So, what do I have planned for baby number two? Certainly, if he/she still gets shafted, you can throw rotten tomatoes. a) Birth announcements. (Cavan hasn't even been featured yet on a Christmas card.) b) Professional photos (a given, since I'm sending out birth announcements). Can I start with that? After all, I can't play favorites, and I don't want BOTH kids chastizing me later in life for not documenting their childhoods. (Cavan, I'll find a way to get you some photos before bambina/o is born!)
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
No more nappies and no more naps
About a month ago Cavan's daycare teacher informed me that she no longer wears nappies (diapers during nap time). She has been potty trained since last summer, except for night and naps, but this is a HUGE milestone! My mommy-pride was glowing. And for the last couple weekends, we have experienced this to be true—completely dry, even during a three-hour siesta.
But, last week Cavan turned over a not-so-pleasant leaf: she now has stopped taking naps at school. At first I blamed her friends—one of those other two year olds is a bad influence on my baby, and my precious Cavan surely has fallen victim to peer pressure. Well, not exactly...in fact the opposite. All of Cavan's classmates DO take naps. Moreover, Cavan is the bad influence on her little friends, trying to convince them to get off their cots and play with her.
So now, when we get home from school, my easy, darling daughter is held hostage by an IED (improvised explosive device)—in fact, very similar to the type terrorists use—unstable and unexpected. Today, she burst into tears as our car hit the potholes in the road, when I wouldn't let her climb our spiral stairs in her sock feet, when Spoons, our beagle bumped into her (though he didn't even knock her down), when I told her she had to put her coat on to play outside, and when I wouldn't let her play on our neighbor's swingset. That was all within the first 40 minutes after pickup. AAAHHH!!! Hubby comes home and asks "why is Cavan crying?" (Oh, she's still crying? I guess I just tuned out the last five minutes. Mommy defense mechanism). "No nap. 'Nough said."
But, last week Cavan turned over a not-so-pleasant leaf: she now has stopped taking naps at school. At first I blamed her friends—one of those other two year olds is a bad influence on my baby, and my precious Cavan surely has fallen victim to peer pressure. Well, not exactly...in fact the opposite. All of Cavan's classmates DO take naps. Moreover, Cavan is the bad influence on her little friends, trying to convince them to get off their cots and play with her.
So now, when we get home from school, my easy, darling daughter is held hostage by an IED (improvised explosive device)—in fact, very similar to the type terrorists use—unstable and unexpected. Today, she burst into tears as our car hit the potholes in the road, when I wouldn't let her climb our spiral stairs in her sock feet, when Spoons, our beagle bumped into her (though he didn't even knock her down), when I told her she had to put her coat on to play outside, and when I wouldn't let her play on our neighbor's swingset. That was all within the first 40 minutes after pickup. AAAHHH!!! Hubby comes home and asks "why is Cavan crying?" (Oh, she's still crying? I guess I just tuned out the last five minutes. Mommy defense mechanism). "No nap. 'Nough said."
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
New yummy!
Pregnancy and Lent (yes, the Catholic thing) have brought about a new discovery—one of my new favorite foods.
I go to the salad bar in the school cafeteria every day for lunch to get my daily dose of multi-colored veggies since dinners in my household are usually monopolized by meat. But, salads are generally not-so-filling, especially for a preggo belly, so I also usually stock it with a thick layer of lightly breaded chicken. BUT, no-meat-Fridays in Lent forced my hand last week—the only protein option was plain tofu. Well, what the hell, I figured I could cover it with enough ranch dressing to choke it down. (I have never, ever been a fan of tofu, despite how uber-chic I would look enjoying this moist and spongy vegan delicacy. By the way, since I'm already writing in a parenthetical, I hate the word moist. Unless you are describing a cake, moist almost always refers to something you don't want to touch.)
I'll congratulate my hormones for blessing me with my new yummy discovery. I'm now hooked on tofu, which has to be the strangest food craving I've ever heard of. With Cavan I was obsessed with doughnuts—the chocolate-covered, cream-filled kind—which may have been responsible for my 42-pound weight gain. But happily, my crazy fetus has chosen a healthy delight for to satisfy my urgent indulgences. Can anyone out there relate??
I'll congratulate my hormones for blessing me with my new yummy discovery. I'm now hooked on tofu, which has to be the strangest food craving I've ever heard of. With Cavan I was obsessed with doughnuts—the chocolate-covered, cream-filled kind—which may have been responsible for my 42-pound weight gain. But happily, my crazy fetus has chosen a healthy delight for to satisfy my urgent indulgences. Can anyone out there relate??
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Diaper bag vs. purse
A purse is a symbol of womanhood. A tool that provides support for female sexiness and success—touch-up make-up, mini-mirror, wallet (with money or credit) for purely pleasurable and social shopping trips that result in the year's chicest styles. It carries all the necessities that women need and men can somehow make-do without.
That being said, I was never much of a purse-toter; rather, a stick-my-money-and-driver's-license-in-my-pocket kind of girl. But now I find myself envious of all the cute designer (or knock-off) bags I see other women carrying. This is because I've had my fill of lugging the diaper bag with countless articles of clothing, food products, toys, and cleaning agents to quell a two-year-old's impulsive desires or accidents.
The diaper bag does absolutely nothing for illuminating womanly assets. You could be dressed to the nines, in 4-inch stilletos with hair freshly blown out, but the 25-pound polyester lump flopping against your hip, sippy sloshing, just screams "Look out, there's a mom, not a woman." Wait a second, where are you going in heels and make-up...with your two-year-old? (Thus necessitating the use of the diaper bag?) Oh yeah, no toddler tonight, it's date night! But you can no longer locate anything resembling an actual purse, so even a night on the town (or just an adults-only trip to Applebee's) utilizes the DB. You just now throw your compact, mints, and lip gloss on top of the travel wipes (which really come in handy for cleaning up after buffalo wings). It's a good thing you're married because de-tangling your wallet from the elastic leg hole of a diaper—in front of the waiter and nearby patrons—probably wouldn't result in any action later in the evening if this was a real date, if ya know what I mean.
I love my mommy title and believe it is the best part of being a woman. But every woman (occassionally) needs to feel attractive—to both her hubby and the world. Thus, I am looking forward to carrying a purse again—specifically the beautiful Coach bag I received from my sis as a matron of honor gift last year. I'm looking forward to looking good at first glance and then revealing that yes, I am a mom. And I guess I'll be looking forward to this for a long time because just as Cavan is approaching the no-more-diapers-or-sippy stage, I will be birthing another little pee-pot, eating machine. And no, I will not be investing in a couture diaper bag because in life, practicality is more important than vanity (and a sour-milk smelling Louis Vuitton with a cheerio-crumb covered interior just says you're an idiot.) Hopefully I will be using my Coach bag before it becomes vintage!
That being said, I was never much of a purse-toter; rather, a stick-my-money-and-driver's-license-in-my-pocket kind of girl. But now I find myself envious of all the cute designer (or knock-off) bags I see other women carrying. This is because I've had my fill of lugging the diaper bag with countless articles of clothing, food products, toys, and cleaning agents to quell a two-year-old's impulsive desires or accidents.
The diaper bag does absolutely nothing for illuminating womanly assets. You could be dressed to the nines, in 4-inch stilletos with hair freshly blown out, but the 25-pound polyester lump flopping against your hip, sippy sloshing, just screams "Look out, there's a mom, not a woman." Wait a second, where are you going in heels and make-up...with your two-year-old? (Thus necessitating the use of the diaper bag?) Oh yeah, no toddler tonight, it's date night! But you can no longer locate anything resembling an actual purse, so even a night on the town (or just an adults-only trip to Applebee's) utilizes the DB. You just now throw your compact, mints, and lip gloss on top of the travel wipes (which really come in handy for cleaning up after buffalo wings). It's a good thing you're married because de-tangling your wallet from the elastic leg hole of a diaper—in front of the waiter and nearby patrons—probably wouldn't result in any action later in the evening if this was a real date, if ya know what I mean.
I love my mommy title and believe it is the best part of being a woman. But every woman (occassionally) needs to feel attractive—to both her hubby and the world. Thus, I am looking forward to carrying a purse again—specifically the beautiful Coach bag I received from my sis as a matron of honor gift last year. I'm looking forward to looking good at first glance and then revealing that yes, I am a mom. And I guess I'll be looking forward to this for a long time because just as Cavan is approaching the no-more-diapers-or-sippy stage, I will be birthing another little pee-pot, eating machine. And no, I will not be investing in a couture diaper bag because in life, practicality is more important than vanity (and a sour-milk smelling Louis Vuitton with a cheerio-crumb covered interior just says you're an idiot.) Hopefully I will be using my Coach bag before it becomes vintage!
Friday, March 25, 2011
Scary movies and my new "mom" POV
Hubby and I haven't been to the movies in four years and five months. I know this exact figure because the last movie we saw in the theater was "The Prestige" with Christian Bale, and it was released in October 2006. But this isn't such a bad thing. We save a ton of cash by avoiding $12 ticket prices, $10 in snacks, and $25 babysitting fees for an evening. Instead, we are Netflixers. And this presents ridiculous (but not serious) arguments in our house.
I manage the queue. This is because Hubby is never online (and it's usually best that he avoids technology in general). So I pick movies that a) I want to see, b) are up for awards, c) I think Bret would like too, and d) flix that are recommended by someone else. And despite how much Hubby complains about the movie selection every time a red envelope appears in our mailbox, he is usually satisfied after watching.
My latest selection was "Shutter Island" because it was recommended to me by some of my students (I teach high school English). The synopsis read something like this: "WWII veteran turned US Marshall (Leo DiCaprio) investigates a disappearance at a mental institution for the criminally insane." Paired with the previews I saw when the movie came out, and knowing that Martin Scorcese was the director, I thought I had a good idea of what to expect—a creepy, psychological thriller.
Let me digress for a moment. I have always been one to enjoy horror movies. This began when I was about 12-years-old when I saw Hitchcock's "The Birds" and the horror classic "Poltergeist." But over the last 10 years or so, the new trend in scary movies is gratuitous violence rather than creepy situations. I'm completely disgusted by movies like "Saw" or "The Hills Have Eyes" and ever since I saw the latter, I have refused to watch these types of horror movies (and look back nostalgically to the days of the good ole haunted house, Amittyville-horror-type movie.)
But "Shutter Island" seemed like it was inspired by the roots of horror—pure creepiness. **SPOILER ALERT! If you haven't seen the movie and care to see the movie, do not continue!** And it starts off super creepy, establishing the remote island for the insane asylum, the hurricane that conveniently traps the investigators because the ferries cannot run, and of course, the disturbing inmates/patients. But 3/4 way through the movie, I was completely disturbed, in the not-expecting, not pleasant way. Leo regresses into his memory to remember that his wife drowned their three small children in a pond behind their house. And this scene, the memory of him finding his dead babies, lasted forever—at least 10 minutes of screen time. At this point, Hubby wanted to kill me for choosing this movie, and I was equally regretful of my selection. But how could I have known??!! To reveal this scene in the synopsis would have been giving away a main ingredient of the twist.
The movie itself had a great plot line, if you just think about the development of stories in general. It had a great twist and even presents some ethical questions to consider by the end. BUT I DO NOT WANT TO WATCH MOVIES ABOUT MURDERED CHILDREN. This movie probably wouldn't have bothered me before I had Cavan, but now that I'm a mom, I am hypersensitive to the safety of children, particularly my own. I do not want to watch movies that make me picture scenarios of kidnapping or violence because I do not want to ever imagine myself dealing with that devastation.
I mentioned to my students that I was completely disgusted by the movie. They couldn't understand it. They all thought the movie was "awesome." But they are not viewing it with the lens of a parent. I told them that they would all understand after they had their own children (and then I thought to myself, god, I must sound like a lame old fogey to them. Oh well.)
So for the record, please do not recommend any movies like this to me without a mommy disclaimer. I will not like you much if you are the reason I have nightmares!
I manage the queue. This is because Hubby is never online (and it's usually best that he avoids technology in general). So I pick movies that a) I want to see, b) are up for awards, c) I think Bret would like too, and d) flix that are recommended by someone else. And despite how much Hubby complains about the movie selection every time a red envelope appears in our mailbox, he is usually satisfied after watching.
My latest selection was "Shutter Island" because it was recommended to me by some of my students (I teach high school English). The synopsis read something like this: "WWII veteran turned US Marshall (Leo DiCaprio) investigates a disappearance at a mental institution for the criminally insane." Paired with the previews I saw when the movie came out, and knowing that Martin Scorcese was the director, I thought I had a good idea of what to expect—a creepy, psychological thriller.
Let me digress for a moment. I have always been one to enjoy horror movies. This began when I was about 12-years-old when I saw Hitchcock's "The Birds" and the horror classic "Poltergeist." But over the last 10 years or so, the new trend in scary movies is gratuitous violence rather than creepy situations. I'm completely disgusted by movies like "Saw" or "The Hills Have Eyes" and ever since I saw the latter, I have refused to watch these types of horror movies (and look back nostalgically to the days of the good ole haunted house, Amittyville-horror-type movie.)
But "Shutter Island" seemed like it was inspired by the roots of horror—pure creepiness. **SPOILER ALERT! If you haven't seen the movie and care to see the movie, do not continue!** And it starts off super creepy, establishing the remote island for the insane asylum, the hurricane that conveniently traps the investigators because the ferries cannot run, and of course, the disturbing inmates/patients. But 3/4 way through the movie, I was completely disturbed, in the not-expecting, not pleasant way. Leo regresses into his memory to remember that his wife drowned their three small children in a pond behind their house. And this scene, the memory of him finding his dead babies, lasted forever—at least 10 minutes of screen time. At this point, Hubby wanted to kill me for choosing this movie, and I was equally regretful of my selection. But how could I have known??!! To reveal this scene in the synopsis would have been giving away a main ingredient of the twist.
The movie itself had a great plot line, if you just think about the development of stories in general. It had a great twist and even presents some ethical questions to consider by the end. BUT I DO NOT WANT TO WATCH MOVIES ABOUT MURDERED CHILDREN. This movie probably wouldn't have bothered me before I had Cavan, but now that I'm a mom, I am hypersensitive to the safety of children, particularly my own. I do not want to watch movies that make me picture scenarios of kidnapping or violence because I do not want to ever imagine myself dealing with that devastation.
I mentioned to my students that I was completely disgusted by the movie. They couldn't understand it. They all thought the movie was "awesome." But they are not viewing it with the lens of a parent. I told them that they would all understand after they had their own children (and then I thought to myself, god, I must sound like a lame old fogey to them. Oh well.)
So for the record, please do not recommend any movies like this to me without a mommy disclaimer. I will not like you much if you are the reason I have nightmares!
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Introducing Cavan and the wisdom of a two-year-old!
Cavan (pronounced like CAT not like KAY or KAH) is my two-year-old little girl, and what better to start this blog about life and parenting than with an anecdote about her.
The other day while I was taking a shower, Cavan was playing with some blocks and a dry paint brush. I asked her what she was doing and she said decorating cupcakes. I love her imagination. Of course, I try to play along by saying, "Can I have one?" She replies without looking up from her decorating, "Bear with me Mommy, they're not ready."
While I have decorated cupcakes in Cavan's presence, I have no idea where she got the phrase 'bear with me' (let alone know how to use it in the right context!) Wise beyond her years, I suppose.
Life with Cavan has been amazing—she is the easiest child I know. She sleeps for 11 hours every night, she plays quietly by herself if I need to do something (like right now writing this blog), she is a good listener (for the most part), and she takes a one to three hour nap every day. I know some of you moms and dads out there are ready to kill me right now, but I'm really not trying to brag—I'm just setting up the inevitable dynamic that is sure to enter my life in less than four months.
My husband is convinced that our next child will be a boy (we're not going to find out via ultrasound.) Everything about this pregnancy is opposite of my experience with Cavan—I even dare say that this baby has made my life miserable for five months and counting. Extended and violent morning sickness, repeated winter illnesses, a broken rib, and now sciatica. Granted, the baby didn't cause my bronchitis and sinus infections, which caused the coughing fits that fractured my rib, but, the baby did prevent me from taking any effective medications during that time period! Now all you moms who were cursing me just moments before are laughing your butts off because you and I already know that boy or girl, this new child is going to be trouble with a capital T. I hate to be the one who falls victim to a self-fulfilling prophecy, so I'll hold out optimism for another good eater/sleeper/listener, but aren't second children always the opposite of the first?
So on that note, I find myself in this strange netherworld—on the way out of the working world and on my way into full-time Mommyhood. If you care to hear my thoughts, fears, philosophies or general observations about life in-flux, follow and keep reading!
The other day while I was taking a shower, Cavan was playing with some blocks and a dry paint brush. I asked her what she was doing and she said decorating cupcakes. I love her imagination. Of course, I try to play along by saying, "Can I have one?" She replies without looking up from her decorating, "Bear with me Mommy, they're not ready."
While I have decorated cupcakes in Cavan's presence, I have no idea where she got the phrase 'bear with me' (let alone know how to use it in the right context!) Wise beyond her years, I suppose.
My husband is convinced that our next child will be a boy (we're not going to find out via ultrasound.) Everything about this pregnancy is opposite of my experience with Cavan—I even dare say that this baby has made my life miserable for five months and counting. Extended and violent morning sickness, repeated winter illnesses, a broken rib, and now sciatica. Granted, the baby didn't cause my bronchitis and sinus infections, which caused the coughing fits that fractured my rib, but, the baby did prevent me from taking any effective medications during that time period! Now all you moms who were cursing me just moments before are laughing your butts off because you and I already know that boy or girl, this new child is going to be trouble with a capital T. I hate to be the one who falls victim to a self-fulfilling prophecy, so I'll hold out optimism for another good eater/sleeper/listener, but aren't second children always the opposite of the first?
So on that note, I find myself in this strange netherworld—on the way out of the working world and on my way into full-time Mommyhood. If you care to hear my thoughts, fears, philosophies or general observations about life in-flux, follow and keep reading!
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