Friday, July 28, 2006

Doing Time on Parkwood Drive

Ever have those days where from the second you wake up, everything already sucks?

Yesterday was one of those days. Currently, we are having a hellacious time getting Bellamy to go to bed on her own and sleep through the night. Ironic that as soon as Sutt starts sleeping through the night, Belly stops. Oh, the joys of parenthood. So morning came early at 6am, with a hungry, screaming baby, and a pissed off, screaming toddler. And a very grouchy me, because I had forgotten to get the coffee pot ready the night before so that all I had to do was stumble over to the counter and push the "ON" button in order to get my caffeine fix headed in the right direction.

In addition to that, I've lost too much weight and my insulin pump no longer works. I had to find that out the hard way, when everytime I inserted the catheter into my stomach, it would bend, unbeknownst to me, until a couple of hours later when my blood sugar was through the freakin' roof from my body not having any insulin. So it was shots every hour on the hour, plus a few extra, and a call to MiniMed to inquire as to what the hell the problem was. That's how I found out that I'm too thin for the stupid tubes (which I've used for the past 10 years with little difficulty, but hey, I'm currently a bit underweight--not a problem until now) and that I will have to get NEW tubes that go in at an angle so they don't hit muscle or bone and bend. And they won't be here to Monday. So lots more shots are in my future. (They don't bother me except for the inconvenience. It's obnoxious.) And lots more high blood sugars, which make me EVIL.

I was sick. The kids were whiny. Bellamy was demanding pancakes. Sutton was teething. Neither of them would nap. The dog peed in the garage. My ghetto neighbors kept revving their motorcycles. I got bitten by an ant. It was a million degrees outside. Life just kept getting better.

Until about 4pm, when Blaker comes rolling in. With two dozen roses--a dozen pink, and a dozen white (my two favorites--I hate red roses). Why did my husband bring me roses? It was the anniversary of our first kiss. And he remembered (all by himself). He took Bellamy out to play in the yard, managed to get Sutton to take a nap, and left me with a glass of wine and my beautiful flowers.

How could I ever ask for more? Why would I ever want to? Life just keeps getting better.

Friday, July 21, 2006

Don't Hiss At Your Brother!

Before I became a mother, there was a world of things I never thought I'd ever have to even consider, much less say. For example, "No, sweetie, the Easter Bunny does NOT want to see your girl parts," (as we are at the mall, fearfully dodging the 7-foot pink rabbit who wants to give my children a bath toy and, most likely, nightmares). Yes, my daughter is a flasher, but that's another story. I've already had to explain to her where babies come from (see Mommy's c-section scar?) and why wine is inappropriate for her sippy cups. Most of the time, I don't put much thought into how bizarre our conversations are, or how far from my parental ideal I have had to venture. Yet today I happened to take notice. Why? Because as we were riding along Interstate today, I heard my daughter hissing (yes, HISSING) from the backseat. This was not a "let's pretend we're a snake" hiss, as I've heard that one before. This was a gutteral, growling, let's-call-an-Exorcist-quick-stat-stat hiss. Trying to sound nochalant, I asked, "Sweetie, are you hissing at Sutton?" The hissing stops. "Yes, Mommy." "Ummm...why are you hissing at your brother?" "'Cause he's looking at MY HAIR!"

Yes, folks, my daughter was hissing at her brother because he was looking at her hair.

Now, Sutton is 8 months old. He doesn't even know what hair is--just that he likes to pull it whenever he can get his hands on it. Most likely he was looking at Bellamy's hair from his rear-facing carseat thinking, "If only I could get my hands on THAT stuff...." So I can understand why she doesn't want him looking at her hair. Sort of. But why the hissing? What makes a 3-year-old hiss like something out of a Wes Craven movie?

And, more importantly, what does one do when one's child hisses at her brother for looking at her hair? If you happen to know a definitive answer on that one, please let me know. WHAT TO EXPECT IN THE TODDLER YEARS does not have section on either hissing or demonic possession (trust me, I've checked and rechecked). And until T. Berry Brazelton or Ferber or whoever the "in" baby guru of the moment is writes one, I guess I'll just keep telling my precious, gorgeous, demon-possessed baby girl, "Don't hiss at your brother!"