X or Y?

As many of you may recall, Friday was the big day of our gender reveal ultrasound.  And...

...it's a boy!

So, this is where I provide the traditional pregnancy disclaimer where I say that I will love him no matter what, and I just want a healthy baby, yada yada yada, which I've always understood but found a little ridiculous.  I've never heard a mother prefer an unhealthy baby over a healthy one of the opposite gender, and of course I will love this baby the same if it were a boy, a girl or a ferret.

That being said, I am a little disappointed.  Not with the boy we'll have, but with the knowledge that I'll never get to experience having a daughter.  No pretty dresses or fake press-on nails, no Barbie dream house and no shopping for Prom.  And in my family, where this child will be my Dad's seventh consecutive grandson (with not one girl in sight), it feels like a let down for everyone. 

Give me a few days and I'll be over it, though, because I know how sweet it is to nuzzle a brand new baby boy.  But until then, here are a few key phrases to avoid when speaking to me on this subject: 


"Sorry he's not what you wanted." 
That's not true.

"Just dress him up like a girl anyway.  He'll never know."
Seriously?

"Just keep trying until you get that girl."
Ouchy.

"Trust me, you don't want a girl anyway."
Yeah, I did. 

But that's okay.  Now I don't need to buy much to prepare for his arrival, and I won't have to pay for anybody's wedding.  And let's face it, if I get another boy like the two I've already got, I'll be a pretty lucky woman.

Or I'll be in serious trouble.  It's too early to tell.

Pregnancy Brain

I'm kind of scatter-brained at times, and that is a frustrating admission for a Type-A person like myself.  So when I realized late last night that I had not posted anything on this here blog in two full days without as much as a thought about it, I knew what was to blame.

Pregnancy Brain.

If you've had a baby, you know how it is.  Your body is so busy constructing a human that some of the energy previous allotted for brain function gets diverted for creating microscopic toenails or signaling to your stomach that you can, in no way, eat grape jelly on anything.

For me, pregnancy brain has generally manifested as forgetfulness, an excuse that I wield shamelessly each and every time I misplace something or forget something important. 

Forgetting "Pajama Day" at Graham's preschool last week?
Pregnancy Brain.
Sending Cael with two pieces of dry bread in his lunch because I forgot the peanut butter?
Pregnancy Brain. 

But no conversation about maternity-related foolishness would be complete without mentioning my experience while carrying Cael, and the holy grail of pregnancy brain atrocities.

When Cael was on the way, I had no other kids at home to blame for my stupidity, just a loosely house-trained puppy, a full time job, and a big pile of dirty laundry that was getting increasingly difficult to handle with my protruding belly.

I dumped the dark colored items into the washer, turned it on, and waited while it washed away the grime.  When it was time to move the clothing into the dryer, I hardly noticed that I couldn't detect the smell of detergent, and definitely didn't notice the wet, crumpled dryer sheets that were agitated with our shirts and pants. 

I did notice, however, when I pulled those same things from the dryer an hour later and found that everything was stiff and crusty from the baked-on detergent that coated the inside of the machine.

Yep, I put the dryer sheets in the washer, and the detergent in the dryer. 

Pregnancy Brain.

I can look back on it now with a chuckle and only a little embarrassment, realizing how ridiculous a mistake it really was.  So please forgive me for not posting earlier in the week, because I had a really good excuse.

Pregnancy Brain.  

That and also the fact that it took me three days to remember my Blogger login information.  Is it June yet?

What's In a Name?

I've thought a lot about baby names recently, for obvious reasons, and I think I am even farther from making a decision than I was when I got that first positive test result.  I shouldn't be surprised, then, by the dream I had last night that my baby was assigned a name by the hospital from a rotating list as if he or she were a hurricane about to make landfall.

And the name given to my baby?  Gertrude Wilbur.

Sure, you don't usually see a girl's name and a boy's name on the same birth certificate, but this is my overly hormonal subconscious talking, and this particular combination is probably not on my list.  But the even bigger dilemma is that I have no list.  I love the names we chose for our boys, and the way they suit their childhood personalities so well but would also sound sophisticated on the nameplate of a future architect or lawyer.  Cael Thomas... Graham Elliott...  Gertrude Wilbur?

There are so many odds stacked against us.  Our last name Foreman nearly eliminates any more modern choice ending in -an, -en, or -on, because they feel as though they rhyme.  We've exhausted boys' names and no longer find anything appealing, and as a teacher, Joel knows a girl with nearly every conceivable name and wants something new for our child that comes with no preconceived notions.

Maybe we need to take a step back and look to others for advice.  When Cael and Graham were asked, we were provided with the following suggestions:  

Chinateen

Catapult

Sweaty Balls

Hot Potato

Sweetie Pie

Pinkyboo

Hmm... not quite my style.  I do like names that are not frequently used, though, so maybe we should look to celebrity baby naming trends to choose something fresh and unique.  Perhaps something like:

South Wynd
Axl Rod

Oranje Julius

Moonbeam Sunshine

Yikes.  Sometimes it feels like we'll never come to a decision, so I am glad I still have until June to come up with a moniker that all of us enjoy.  

And if all else fails, we can always go with George Foreman.

Pushing the Point

One thing I really struggle with is how hard to stress a point with my boys.  For example, when a child grinds cereal into the carpet and pours milk on top because, naturally, "cereal needs milk, Mom", you can't laugh if off, or you'll inherit the cost of outfitting your home with vinyl flooring.  Similarly, if you throw the book at them (don't really throw a book, you know) they just might develop a food aversion to cereal and then you'd have make fresh scrambled eggs for breakfast each day, and who has the time?

It can be really hard to find that middle ground, and last night I went too far.  Considering that we had struggled through a very challenging day, I thought I was being charitable by letting the boys use their bathtub crayons to scribble their names and vandalize the shower walls with rudimentary rear ends.  I stepped out from time to time to flip my kale chips in the oven, and upon my return one of those times, I noticed that the water was a bit murky.  Quickly, my brain scanned through the possible causes.

Vomit?  No, no one is sick.
Poop?  Not enough laughter.
Cereal and milk?  Sounds like something they'd do, but I was in the kitchen and saw no such heist.
Then, using my mothering detective abilities, I scanned the room and zoned in on the roll of suspiciously low and crumpled toilet paper, and it all clicked.  When Cael had stepped out quickly to use the toilet, he'd returned with a souvenir from his trip, and he and Graham spent the duration of their bath swimming with millions of shreds of floating paper.

I found myself in the same dilemma as before.  If I drained the tub and filled it up again, giving them another chance at a bath and not teaching them the reasons why it is disgusting to bathe in what I can only hope was clean toilet paper, they'd surely graduate to napkins or cardboard boxes within the month.  So I quickly pulled them from the tub, dried and dressed them, and sat them down to explain what a poor decision they'd made.  Putting toilet paper in the water is unclean.  The pipes could clog.  And as a result, the basement could flood.  Again.

They had to sit quietly and think about it, had a few minutes to clean up, and after I read them a story, tucked them into bed.  Before I could leave the room, however, it began.

"Do you have enough money to pay a plumber to fix the toilet?"

"Mom, will we wake up underwater tomorrow?"

"Will we ever get to take a bath again?"

"If the basement floods, will we die?"

I couldn't send them to bed thinking they'd drown during the night, so I had to concede a bit.

"No, guys.  If the bathtub clogs, which it didn't seem to do, it would just mean that I couldn't drain it next time.  There's no way the house will flood as long as the water isn't turned on.  You can go to sleep now... I promise you will be fine."

I gave them an extra kiss for good measure and shut the door, frustrated that I'd scared them so badly but glad they had at least considered the consequences and sure it wouldn't happen again. 

"Psst, Graham.  If the bathtub is fine, next time we should swim with your underpants!"

So close.

Potty Mouth

I got pretty lucky with my boys.  We never went through the aggravating biting or hitting stages, and despite a uniquely intense desire to trash our home, Cael and Graham's behavior is pretty typical of children their age.

Along with that typical behavior, I understand, is a love for all things inappropriate.  Body parts, things that stink, bottoms, diapers, belches and armpits.  These things and more are like catnip-laced crack for four and six year-olds.  But as time has passed, their interest in bathroom humor has grown exponentially, just like their ability to produce gas (and laughs) on command.

At first, my husband (a former boy) reassured me that this activity falls under that rhetorical list of What Boys Do that mothers will never understand.  I have also placed "beating each other senseless and coming back for more" on the list, right behind "eating sandwiches into the shape of a weapon".  He urged me to let it go, and know that this too, as many say, will pass.

Expect it didn't.  It hasn't, that is, and now it bothers him as much as it does me.

Their bone-deep need to be inappropriate is like a terrible itch that, if they had any semblance of control I would likely let them scratch from time to time just to get it out of their system.  But that itch has become an obsession and I can barely speak without triggering a vicious cycle of bathroom humor hatred.  I speak some innocuous word that causes laughter; laughter leads to lack of control; lack of control leads to forced farts; and forced farts cause laughter again.

And let me just say that you don't want to be trapped in a car with them when this laughter > loose bowel > fart cycle hits.

It goes something like this.

"Okay, boys, who wants to go with me into Target?"

"We just want to go home."

"Okay, but if I don't--"

"Hahaha!  Graham, Mommy said 'butt'!"

"I did not, I was just saying that--"

"Butt!  Butts and poop!  Poop stinks, Cael!  Your butt is stinky too, when you poop!"

"Graham, that's enough.  I was just saying that if I don't run into Target I can't get noodles and peas for--" 

"Pee!  Like peeing in a toilet or in a diaper like a baby!  Mommy pees in a diaper!  I have to tell my teacher that Mom pees her pants into a diaper!  I bet my teacher pees her pants, too.  I'll tell her that and she'll think it's funny."

"It's not funny, Cael.  Neither your teacher or I pee our pants.  We are far past the point where stuff like that is funny." 

"Point, Cael!  Like pointing a toot at you.  Excuse me!  Excuse me!"

And then the air turns green and my hair goes straight.

It seems like too ridiculous an offense to escalate to timeouts and loss of privileges, but we are far beyond the point of ignoring the constant, never-ending, mind-grating bathroom banter.

So what is a Mom to do?  (Do, not doody.)  I just hope to nip this in the bud (the BUD!) before I expel a little potty talk of my own. 

"Mom said potty!"

%*(&$!

Christmas Festivities, Part II

When the boys got up the next morning, it was finally Christmas and time to open presents!

Well, that's not exactly true.  When I was awakened by the sound of the television and toys being rattled around, I prepared for the holiday extravaganza only to realize that it was 5:07am, and far too early for my small children to be up.  Children who hadn't gone to bed, mind you, until nearly 10pm, pushing back my bedtime until nearly 2, since we still needed to assemble the "big gift", and I had some Christmas brunch prep work to do.  I stumbled downstairs and tucked them back in, reminding them that Santa hadn't even returned to the North Pole yet, and hoped the threat would be enough to let me sleep until 6:15am.

The second time I was roused from sleep it was lighter in my room, and I was immediately grateful that some time had passed.  Checking my alarm clock, however, I could see that only 11 minutes had passed, and the light in my room was streaming from the hall where the boys had been sneaking peeks at the wrapped gifts since I'd left their room.

Or probably sooner.

We managed to distract them until 7:30am when my Dad came by to open gifts with us, and we subjected them to the pain of opening gifts one by one, an offense that must be comparable to any of the torture methods banned by the Geneva Conventions.

But one by one, the stockings and gifts were opened.  Joel had gotten his main gift in November for his birthday, but we still wrapped up a new shirt and tie for him (an annual tradition), the game Cards Against Humanity and a hunting/utility flashlight tool.  Joel had surprised me with a very large spa set, a new sweater and a brand new phone to replace my faulty device that had taken a swim in the toilet last March.

The boys, as it always seems, had too many things to count.  I've learned that, at their current ages, I can get away with spending more on one than the other because they have nearly no concept of what things cost.  But should one of them receive one more gift than the other?  Watch out.  They'd have all of us strung up in front of the fireplace by our stockings.

I was so happy that we could provide a nice Christmas for them, but no holiday would be complete in our house without the customary surprise.  Every year we hold out on one gift that we deem to be the best (although Graham's week-long obsession with a tiny whizzing airplane from his stocking proved me wrong) and we pull it out as the pièce de résistance of the day.  Once it was the Gator.  Another time, it was the Polar Express train set, which now graces our tree each year.  But this year, it was a kitchen.

We'd been considering a kitchen for the boys for several years, but I hadn't found one I liked and that wasn't adorned with pink flowers.  Some more serious searching this year yielded my first choice, a faux-stainless steel kitchen that is slightly taller to accommodate older kids.  We ordered it shortly after Thanksgiving, and let the box sit in our house so long that neither Cael nor Graham considered it suspect.

But come the night of Christmas Eve, Joel and I learned what selflessness is all about.  Sacrificing for your children is sitting on your knees, bleary-eyed, until 1:15am, assembling mismatched and unmarked boards and avoiding a landmine of weak and tiny factory provided screws.  My Dad once told me that if a couple can put up wallpaper together without someone being assaulted, they have real staying power.  Wallpaper may be "out" now, but I've found a suitable substitute, and I'm glad my boys' Christmas surprise was not the news of our impending divorce.



After all of the effort made, I was a little bummed that they were not as excited as I'd hoped when we revealed the kitchen, but over the last week I have eaten enough fake doughnuts and cobs of corn to wrestle in a higher weight class, or at least to prompt people to ask me if I'm carrying twins.

Yeah. It's the kitchen's fault.

Later my sister's family came and we shared our traditional Christmas brunch, and it was with full stomachs and full trash cans of wrapping paper that we promptly fell asleep and caught up on those missing hours of sleep.

I hope you all had a great Christmas as well!  My kids are finally back in school after a ridiculously long winter break that was compounded by three additional snow days, and life can begin to return to normal.

For a handful of months, that is.  Next Christmas there will be a whole new stocking to fill...

Christmas Festivities, Part I

With the windchill this morning approaching 50 degree below zero (no joke), it has been a bit hard to make my numb fingers type this morning.  But today, of all days, I am grateful that my furnace died a little over a month ago during a cold snap that I now understand to have been balmy in comparison.  The large sum of money we shelled out to replace it was little cost to sleep well last night knowing that the house would be safe and warm this morning.

This winter has been exceptionally rough; lots of ice and snow pelted us a couple of days before Christmas, and the brutally cold temperatures have kept the blanket of white from melting even on the days that dare rise above freezing.

We did have a beautiful Christmas, however, and since I was unable to share it with you at the time, let's do a brief recap, shall we?  After all, this blog serves as something of a virtual scrapbook for my family, a place where I can edit the truth to say "my children looked so angelic performing in the church Christmas Pageant" rather than "I had to practically drag Cael onto the stage and nearly drag Graham off of it". 

 

It just doesn't have the same poetic ring.

Christmas Eve was a similar affair, with Graham rearing to go to church as it symbolized another step closer to Santa's arrival and the overindulgence that he knew would occur.  But Cael, being Cael, was feeling stubborn and didn't want to leave our warm house when it was, shock of shocks, snowing outside.

But after the Christmas Eve service, both boys knew it was time to open their one designated present, which despite always being pajamas, we feel we must pretend we don't know about in the interest of preserving the magic of Christmas.  In the end, there was no need for lies or shiny wrapping paper to get them excited, because it only took one brief glance at their pajamas for them to bounce up and down in joy. 

Butt flaps do that to a kid on Christmas Eve.

So we tucked them in with kisses and whispers of Santa, and hoped against all hope that they could open that flap during the night if the need arose.  There are only so many surprises meant for Christmas morning...