(Formal & Belated) Introduction of Chunkasaurus

Well, um, he's here!
(6 months, 2 weeks, and 4 days of being here, actually... but, hey, LIFE HAPPENS. Move on, people. Move on.)

I've gone back and forth on whether I should write out his full "labor story", but ultimately decided that, yes, it should be committed to (cyber)paper just like his big brother's (The Squish) was. Fair is fair... and, honestly, I don't want to emotionally scar one and not the other.

The PrequelOn Monday, May 23rd, I reported to my OB's office for the mind-numbing procedure known as the "non-stress test" (NST), which I had been partaking in twice a week for the previous four weeks. Upon checking in, the receptionist promptly congratulated me on my impending c-section!
... I wasn't going to... have... a... huh?!
Thinking that it's what my OB wanted/recommended (giving the CRAPTASTICAL way the pregnancy was progressing), I went ahead and scheduled it for that next Saturday, May 28th and started telling friends and family about the development.
That Wednesday, the 25th, I went to Valley Medical for an amniocentesis to determine whether Little Dude's lungs were mature enough to handle the Anti-Womb Zone. My OB was there, thankfully, but gave me the weirdest look as she walked into the room; I figured I had spilt coffee down the front of my shirt (again) or something along those lines, and shrugged it off. The procedure went well, save for the whole sticking-a-huge-effing-needle-into-my-uterus-through-my-side part... or when Mini-Man reached out and grabbed the needle. He GRABBED the needle. HEGRABBEDTHENEEDLE. I tell you, folks, sometimes you just don't want to see what's happening on the ultrasound. Suffice it to say, we all yelped.
Afterwards, my OB walked me to the maternity ward to make sure Chunker and I didn't have a bad reaction to the procedure. On the way, she dropped this little bombshell: "Um... I didn't say to have you scheduled for a c-section. I said "induction" - they must not have heard me correctly." Kind of explained the funny look, huh?

The Show
After waiting at home all day, Man-Mate and I reported to Valley Medical's Birth Center around 7:30 p.m. on Friday, May 27th to begin the induction. The nurses tried a couple of different options before we switched to a pitocin drip early Saturday morning... and that definitely got things started. By about 12:00 p.m., we had turned the drip up a few notches, and I was ready to get an epidural.
**Moment of silence for the wonder that is modern medicine, and Dr. John Bonica - inventer of this particular slice of heaven.**
When the anesthesiologist showed up to start the epidural, The Husband and I joked with him about the doctor who gave me the epidural I had with The Squish; how the meter is only made for women 5'10'' and under, and how he gave me too much medication so that my blood pressure dropped down to something low enough to have a nurse rush in with a crash cart (not needed - a shot of epinephrine was enough to bring me back to Happyville). Yeah, well, turns out it was THE SAME DOC. I would never have known, if it wasn't for The Husband telling me after he left the room.
When the nurse checked me around 1:00, I was 7cm and about 90%... so we figured it was time to call Man-Mate's mom and have her come down for the birth. Well... an hour later, I'm feeling awholelotofpressuredownthere and convinced that a baby (or a small rhinocerous) was going to come flying out any second, and Mom wasn't there yet, as she was taking care of The Squish. Man-Mate went to get a nurse (WHERE WAS SHE??) and, sure enough, the nurse delivered the age-old advice of "Don't push... just hold it in..." before she (wisely) fled the room to find the doctor.
Right as the doctor was suiting up and nurses were adjusting the bed, Mom came in carrying The Squish! I didn't have the time - or the care - to worry about whether seeing his brother emerge from his mother's nether-regions was something that would haunt him into perpetuity... but The Husband took Bubba and kept him up near my head, and having Mom at my side enabled me to focus and not let fly with a string of especially creative curses. With only a couple of pushes, our new little guy was born.

The After Party
Ugh.
Okay, so he was an amazingly cute newborn; no funky-shaped head, bright blue eyes, and pink all over, but I. Was. DONE. Bubba asked to cuddle with me, so I got to spend the first few minutes of Baby 2.0's life with both boys snuggled next to me, and I tell you this: I have discovered what Heaven will be like. It was amazing.
Mom spent the night with me so that Man-Mate could get some rest, and we all went home the next day.

So, how's that?

Life with our little Chunkasaurus has been amazing. The Squish loves him, and acts as if he has been in our family as long as The Squish himself... and even our cats have accepted him, bless their furry little hearts. So far, his favorite things in life are watching his brother (do anything - seriously), farting, attempting to clap, watching someone else clap, holding their hands while they clap (sensing a pattern?), snuggling, taking baths, chewing on his fingers/other people's fingers/burp rags/anything he can reach, and farting some more.

... he's perfect.



"Uh-HYUCK!"



An open letter from The Squish to his Parents...

Dear Mama and Dada,

As I'm approaching the big two-point-five years of life, I thought it might be time for a little progress report. I overhear you talking about all of my accomplishments (of which, of course, there are MANY), and airing your frustrations (are you INSANE?)... so I think it's only fair that I, your benevolent Little Dictator, chime in at least once.

Here are some things I want you to take note of:

1. When I say "down", but am pointing 'up', don't be an ass. You know what I want, so why correct me? You're just embarrassing me in front of Bobo the monkey and the rest of my toys. Not cool.

2. Why must you call me out when I am pooping? I picked that corner of the room for a reason; it allows me the best view of the television while just hiding me from your sight so that I might do my thing. If I really wanted to learn how to use a potty, I'd ask you. Have you heard me asking you? No? Then back off and let a boy soil his shorts in peace. (P.S. - That potty, you know, the one with the duck face on it? IT CREEPS ME OUT. Not gonna use it.)

3. Mama, I know something is changing. Your belly is fat, it kicks at me when I'm sitting on your (increasingly smaller) lap, and you're eating more ice cream than ever. But whatever is going on, I don't believe you for one second when you point to your belly and say "There's a baby brother in there for you, Bubba...!" Oh, there's something in there, sure, but it sure as hell ain't for me. If I don't like it, I'm sending it back.

4. So what if I like crackers and chips? So what if that's all I want to eat? Maybe I'm proteinphobic... ever thought of that? You keep telling me that eating chicken and fish and that loafed meat stuff will make me grow big and strong like Dada... but have you ever stopped and LOOKED at Dada? The man's a hairy beast! Sure, I want to look like Dada one day, but I also want to enjoy my few years of hair-free bliss, thanks... and for all I know, he's hairy because he eats his protein.

5. Dada, tickle me more. I love it.

6. Dada, if you don't laugh when I punch you in the nuts, I'll stop doing it.

7. Dada, I think I love you the most... don't tell Mama.

8. Why am I allowed to color on my desk, table, and body, but not on the refrigerator, the floor, the couches or the cats? Is my skin less important to you than the food-cooler??

9. It's cute how you think you'll get me to sleep in my own bed when the "baby" comes. You're stuck with me, guys.

10. Have you noticed that I no longer scream bloody murder when you attempt to trim my nails, dislodge a booger, or change my poopy diaper? A little praise would go a LONG way.

11. Mama, I know I'm really independent right now... but I still love it when you squat down, throw open your arms, smile and say "MY BABY!" so that I can run to you. I think I love you the most... don't tell Dada.

12. I know that Granny is "Granny" or "Granmama", not "This"... but she's so fun to tease. I think I love her the most... don't tell Graddy.

13. You know why I'm not hungry for dinner? Graddy sneaks me cookies when you're not looking. I think I love him the most... don't tell Granny/Granmama/This.

14. I'd never tell you this to your face, but I kind of like signing things while I talk. Can we do more of that, please?

I love you both, even though I can't always show it. Then again, if you allow me to have a popsicle for dinner every night, I could be convinced to show it a liiiiittle more...

Mwah,
The Squish/Bubba/Dookiedoo/SquishFaceButtNugget

Your Loving Little Dictator...

 

A Toddler Turns Two

If our post about "swamp monster-esque poo" didn't gross you out, chances are this post won't either... but you never know. This is a mother's recount of some of the highlights, low lights, and sepia tones of the last couple of years leading up to our son's second birthday because, really... every mother and father of a toddler need a recap.Or twelve. Sorry for the thing we missed... blame it on SpongeBob.

Day One

• It feels like just yesterday that I was waking up at 2:00 a.m. with the worst cramping sensation I had ever felt, followed by 6 hours of pacing the living room feeling like insides were using a battering ram on my girl-parts. That, apparently, is the "Joy of Labor!!!!!" that every about-to-be-mother has to look forward to... and something not adequately described in the one all-day birthing class Man-Mate and I took.
•  I remember the intense satisfaction upon hearing "Oh, wow... you're 5 centimeters dilated already. You're getting admitted..." from the triage nurse at the hospital. After two weeks of false labor, you had better believe I wasn't leaving, not without an epidural sticking out of my back. 
• I remember the intense fear and shock at seeing Dr. Herman, or, "He Who Shall Not Be Allowed To Practice Medicine Anywhere Near Me" in the hallway while the nurse wheeled me along to my room, praying that he wasn't the doctor on call for the day. 
• At some point, the anesthesiologist came in and worked his magic... leaving me pain free in just under 20 minutes. Then, about two hours later, my blood pressure dropped to around 65/40, and I started thinking that I was in Russia. Never been to Russia. Scary time.
• During this entire time, Mr. Baby kept squirming away from the belly monitor. We'd be hearing the steady wub-wub-wub of his heart and, then, "BEEEEEEEEEEP!!!! BEEEEEEEEEEP!!!!", which would bring a nurse or two at a run. They hooked our little man up to a scalp monitor (which he promptly twisted his way out of), then threw in the "You might want to consider a c-section" bomb.
• After 6 minutes of pushing, with the help of a vacuum and Dr. Jolly unwrapping the umbilical cord from around our Squishy's neck, our Sweet Boy was born at 8:51 p.m., to an audience of Mama, Dada, Granny, Dr. Jolly, and the entire Neonatal Intensive Care Unit of Valley Medical Center. 
• He still likes to make an entrance, the little Goober.

Days Two through How The Heck Should I Know?

• It was on the second day of his existence that Man-Mate and I could ignore it no longer; our son looked more like one of the aliens from "Mars Attacks!" than either one of us, or any possible human ancestor. 
• We had a steady stream of visitors that second day, and I was practicing all the self-control in the world when I let anyone other than, say, ME, hold my precious Li'l Bug/Li'l Buggie... which was, in fact, the first nickname I ever gave him. It's still the one I use when he's sick or sad or extra cuddly.
• Unfortunately, time from then on out is a blur. Literally. Have you ever tried to focus on the trees whipping by your car window when you're going about 60 miles per hour? Well, hopefully you weren't the one manning the vehicle, but you get my point; it's impossible. I could say that it was all a blur because I was so in love with our Bundle o' Joy... or even that it was due to New Parent Sleep Disorder... but, no. I had the worst postpartum experience ever. 
• My thyroid, which had been on the low side of 'wonky' for years, decided to sky rocket after giving birth. Having no clue this would happen (or had happened), I continued to take my thyroid supplement at the high dose I was on. Guess what happens when your body gets too my thyroid hormone? You go crazy, that's what. Couple that with your body already having to adjust to fluctuating hormone levels after giving birth and, well, let's just say that Girly lost 37 lbs in 2 weeks, couldn't be left alone for any period of time, and thought the world was, quite literally, crushing her into the ground whenever she held her son. It was the most horrible time of my life, when it should have been the best. 
• Now you see why everything sped by so quickly...!
• Around his 3-month mark, I came back to the Land of the Sane... and started noticing some adorable, endearing, and heart-stoppingly wonderful things about our Boy, and have been in love ever since.

Days _____ through One Year

• He cooed, he laughed, he farted, he smiled, he drooled, he peed, he snuggled, he nursed, he pooped, he clapped, he rolled, he spewed, he stabilized, he stood, he crawled, he scooted, he cried, he tantrum-ed, he hiccuped, he ate, he gummed, he walked, he signed.
• We cooed, we laughed, we farted, we smiled, we drooled, we peed, we snuggled, we nursed (him), we pooped, we clapped, we rolled, we spewed, we stabilized, we stood, we crawled, we scooted, we cried, we tantrum-ed, we hiccuped, we ate, we gummed, we walked, we signed.
• Right before he turned one, Man-Mate and I took him to visit my Grandfather near Orlando, Florida... over the course of a weekend. Never, ever again will we attempt taking an 11 month-old on 4 flights in under 48 hours... no matter how well-behaved said 11 month-old is.

Days One Year through Two Years

• From words to short sentences, from walking to running, from eating to inhaling... the kid is a force of nature. We've lost track (but not really, thanks a certain Mother-of-the-Squish who is obsessed with documentation of Life Events) of how many things our little Dookie-Doo has done that has made us stop and go, "Whoa". Very Keanu, and very appropriate. Here's our attempt at putting some of them down to paper, er, cyberpaper:
• This was the year of "Chowder", the year of "SpongeBob", of knocking on doors, giving kisses and hugs both on demand and freely, of climbing stairs, discovering slides, building towers, getting haircuts, visiting the dentist, learning names and roles, discovering Chicken McNuggets, learning how to be gentle, throwing a ball, taking off coats and shoes, swimming in one (and only one) pool, seeing hydroplanes, and doodling on tables. 
• Words under his belt now include: 
• Please, thank you, mine, no, up, down, Mama, Dada, this, why, what, SpongeBob, Chowder, uh-oh, wow-wow (car), dog, guy, lady, baby, bus, choo-choo, away, move, bye, nigh-night, me, ball, book, applesauce, juice, spoon, cracker, cookie, num-num, Bobo (his monkey), hot, brr, around-around, more, water, boat, dirt, shoes, socks, stop, vroom, roar, weeeeee, airplane, and nine.
• These are just the words he can say on his own... not counting the ones that he seems to know, but is unable - or unwilling - to try out.

I used to hate it when parents would ramble on and on, listing the accomplishments of their children (toddlers especially), as if it were some great race that had to be blabbed about to every (un)willing ear.

I used to swear, over and over, that I would just let my child be a child and experience life on his or her own terms, without feeling pressure from me to perform to a certain level.

Part of that still holds true; I still want our Little Man to grow at a healthy, happy pace where he feels comfortable, loved, and valued just as he is... but I've also matured enough as a Mommy to get where those other parents are coming from. 

If we don't share, in some way (whether verbally, written, or ____) with other, comprehending adults what our child has grown into, how else are we to remember it?
Our best reminders aren't the little sticky notes that we leave, scattered all over our homes, cars, purses, and bottoms of those gym shoes we swear we're going to use sometime in the next millennium; they're other parents, sharing their stories, which trigger the most fond, warm memories of our own Bundles o' Joy doing the same exact thing.

Happy Birthday, my Li'l Buggie... I love you forevers and evers, now and always, near and far.

Popsicles... how I love you.

There are three things in this world that are sure-fire "Tantrum Busters".
Am I proud of employing them, instead of sticking to my guns and riding out Bruiser's reign of terror? No.
Will I continue to use them as I see fit - and implore Man Mate to do so as well - as a method of preserving our (rapidly depleting) sanity? You'd better believe it.

1. SpongeBob SquarePants
How can one animated, yellow sponge bring a toddler so much joy? How can our sweet Dookie-Doo sit for hours (yes... I've let him on occasion, ok??) smiling and clapping along to the same theme song over and over again? How can Man Mate and I stand to watch another episode, knowing that it will be full of the shrill, "Bwaaaaaaahaaaahaaahaaahaa!!"?
I'll tell you how: Bubba loves it.
Whether he's tired, sick, or needing a distraction while I finish making dinner, SpongeBob has become his favorite pal. I would feel guiltier than I do, but he is already phasing him out in favor of his books... so, really, nothing to beat myself up over.

2. The Unexpected Tickle-fest
"What's that, Little Dictator? You're mad at me because I won't let you touch the insanely hot stove, and want to show me your anger through the medium of a tantrum? How about... TICKLES TO YOUR TUMMY!" He can be in the middle of telling us off (as demonstrated by pointing to the offending party and saying "No", before doing his best umpire impression, saying "bye-bye", scowling, and hitching his thumb out to the side)... and all we have to do is aim our wiggling fingers at his neck, armpits, ribs, or waist, and the kid turns into a giggling mass of hilarity. Stove? What stove?

3. Popsicles
Cherry, strawberry, grape, lime, orange... our kid eats 'em all. A recent discovery at our household, popsicles have become as much a part of his nightly routine as his 7:00 p.m. tubby-time. (P.S. - Any other mommies wish THEY could have a regularly schedule tubby-time?) What started as a means to get more fluid into our son during his last bout of sickness quickly turned into Squishy's most loved time of the day. Since we are trying, however, to limit anything containing sugar after he brushes his teeth during tubby-time, Graddy bought him some sugar-free popsicles so that the joy may continue. Granted, Bruiser does look at the sugar-free popsicles like he knows something's different - again, genius - but down the hole it goes, regardless... well, after a brief stint as a paintbrush (he just has to decorate his pajamas in swipes of bright, sticky red) or microphone.

Out of all of the Little Dictator's vices, I'm still pro-tickle. Let's see how he is in his teens...

Fieldtrip to The Fires of Mordor... or, Introduction toThe Squish

Our son is brilliant. I'm sure every mother thinks so at some point but, really, what are the odds of every boy-child possessing the intellect of a Fortune 500 CEO? Squishy, on the other hand, is brilliancy personified. Don't believe me? Well, it's your prerogative... however wrong you may be.



1. He walks (or, rather, a complex stomp-run-trip-slide hybrid).

2. He talks (well, more like a rambling stream of the following: dada, mama, pez (please), day-do (thank you), up, down, no, mine, me, baby, this, 'way (away), muh (more), muhhhhv (move), dogf (dog), Bobo (his monkey), wow-wow (car), bus, beerbong (airplane... we hope), uh oh, help, wee, gung-gung (swing... or a war cry), adur (water), juice, beep-beep, hi, hello, bye, nigh-nigh (night-night), dirt, knock, num-num, gacker (cracker), brr, hot, teef (teeth), stuck, ow/ouch...)

3. He signs (please, thank you, up, eat, water, more, move, away, no, mine, I'm going to punch you in the effing face if you don't give me that g-damn thing that I want that you can't seem to discern from my series of grunts and pointing, etc.)

4. He sings (granted, until very recently, it consisted of the words "doh doh doh" over and over, while strumming a pretend guitar held vertically).



But, best of all, he cuddles. Oh, the cuddling; my mommy-heart melts into a puddle of A&D-scented goo when our little Bruiser decides he needs a hug. This brilliant creature wants to take time out of expanding his already-gigantic brain to fit in a snuggle with the ol' Mom?! I'm in!



One thing both the Man Mate and Girly could use a little less of? The Toddler Temper.

Have you ever heard the saying "Red skies at night, sailors delight. Red skies in morning, sailors take warning."?

Where is OUR early warning system?

What I wouldn't do for a quick little "Hey, Girly? Your son is going to have a meltdown in 3.2 hours... you might want to get home to the safety of SpongeBob SquarePants and some Garden Herb Ritz crackers if you want to keep a grip on your sanity." Instead, it's smooth sailing through the mall, poster child for good behavior at the climbing toys (where children three times the height limit are jumping off of the play structures, coming mere inches from landing on my Sweet Squish-Face... but that, and Sweet Squish-Face's reaction, is for another post), and then *WHAM!* A fairly accurate, if not overly dramatic, reenactment of Chernobyl at the restaurant when he's made to sit in a high chair.



All in all, our son is brilliant. He is learning in leaps and bounds, and impressing us with his sheer ability to stomach any and every food we put in his path. He holds his father's Wariness of New Situations, but still manages to embody his mother's Desire To Befriend Everyone in The Room. He is equally at home in front of the television (again... SpongeBob SquarePants is his religion) as he is out playing in the dirt with Grandma (whom he calls "Hi" and "This", alternately).



His temper is one to be feared, but his cuddles are those to be craved.