Insomnia Photo Dump

Nothing like pregnancy induced insomnia – as well as irregular contractions through the night to make you realize that you haven’t cleaned the digital photo card recently nor charged the camera in case, you know, you might want to take photos of that second child that could be coming in a few hours? in a few days? Who knows?

My mom gave me some face masks in our Christmas box, and of course, Stella was eager to share my presents with me. She picked this one to try because it was blue, her favorite color. I didn’t think I would be doing “spa day” with my daughter so soon, but she had a great time!

Our winter garden box which includes buttercrunch lettuce (in the foreground) and golden and chiogga beets (and the other green one in the distance holding way too much parsley and dill). Stella has been enjoying just digging the dirt and making mud pies. Does this ever get old?As I’ve mentioned, Stella routinely tells me that she is “a dancer” so my aunt sent her this dress. She’s pretty stoked.

And speaking of obsessed, this is our dog. At 7am. Out on his lead line in the yard, staring at gopher holes. This has been going on for weeks. Finally, the morning that I shot this photo, he decided that standing and watching was getting to taxing, so he started sitting and watching. It never ceases to crack me up.

      

A familiar site, up until last weekend… Steve took out the motor of the van back in mid-January and rebuilt the top end (I sort of know what that means, but basically, he re-built the motor). This was the day he was putting it back in the van, hoping that he didn’t forget any bolts and it was going to run (it does! it does!) The other familiar site is Stella sitting right in the middle of it all, snack and water in hand, hanging out with Dad. In fact, we were on a walk to visit the goats next door when Steve finally did start the motor after 8 weeks. We heard it go and I said, Stella, that’s the van! It’s fixed! Do you know what that means? Her immediate response? “We can go camping!”

Scupper celebrated his 4th birthday in style this year. Stella convinced me that he needed a cake, so we made a peanut butter cake that we could all enjoy. Stella had to blow out his candles, of course, and then Scuppy got a slice of cake, which he promptly inhaled in one bite.

And that’s February and March in a photographic nutshell.

We’ll keep you posted about Bittle. As usual, my girls tend to come when they want, on their own time schedule. Oh those independent daughters….

Myself

Score one for self-sufficiency. In literally the last week, Stella has:
 - started going #2 on the potty without any of us standing by. "No mommy, I'll do it." She goes, gets out the wet wipes for her bottom, actually cleans up, and comes back to us, proud as a peacock. Considering her timing is usually during dinner, this is nice to have to share dinner with poo clean up.
- unasked - goes in her room in the morning, takes off her nightime diaper, cleans up, puts on underwear, and puts everything away
- pours her own water (we put a 3 gal water container with one of those spouts within reach)
- feeds Scupper at the appropriate times with the appropriate amount of food (in fact, it's good that she is reminding me)

This is why we decided to try to have these kids at least 3 years apart. I hope to gosh this winning streak keeps up  in the next few weeks, because if so, we're golden!

*

Stella also made me cry this week. In a good way. On Sunday, I made the cover recipe from this month's Bon Appetit. Steve saw it when it came in the mail and basically started drooling all over it. And considering how cranky I've been, and how many "honey-do" list items he's been doing for me (because his rule of thumb right now is "placate the pregnant woman") I figure I can at least cook/bake good things for him. So I made these caramel sticky buns -

So maybe mine didn't exactly look like this - I halved the recipe, and I also didn't use heavy cream in the caramel (bad choice) so the whole glaze thing ended up being more like a syrup, but none the less, they were damn good. Anyway - back to Stella.

We are all happily munching away Sunday morning, not really talking because we were full of caramel pecan sweet roll goodness and Stella says, "Mommy. You are such a good baker. These are so good." (beat) "I love you Mommy."

And I thought the way to a husband's heart was through his stomach. ;)

*

Stella is deep into the world of pretend. Which is awesome. And exhausting. Although, I'm really digging this new pretend world she has been enjoying lately. It's called "The Beach." The beach is her 4 x6 rug on the floor of her room, which, of course, is the ocean (didn't you know that Mommy?). She puts on her bathing suit and basically rolls around on the floor, pretending to float, swim, look at turtles, whatever strikes her fancy that day. She also has a handy blanket on the "sand" (everything not the small rug) to dry off, and the best part? I get to sit in the "beach chair with the umbrella" - the rocking chair in the room. For a very pregnant momma, sitting in the beach chair is awesome, let me tell you. Today, Stella was swimming with blue fish, green turtles, swam out to the Islands and saw yellow snails and slugs. Sometimes the pelicans poop on my head, and sometimes she splashes so much in the water that she needs to come out and wipe the water off my head with her towel.

And when the beach gets boring - which mind you - takes at least 30 minutes to an hour (beach time is very important around here), we go "camping" and she makes "soup" for the campsite and we have to make sure that Scuppy doesn't step in the campfire and burn his paws. The campfire is usually in the middle of the room and Scupper, of course, steps in it every time. There is much scolding, and replacing of the "marshmallows" that Scupper squished when he stepped in the fire. 

Brilliant.

To be… or not to be

that is the question…. ‘Tis nobler in the mind…

What did Shakespeare know about about juggling a career and a family? Hamlet’s mediation on death and life came to me last night when I was tossing about at 3 am, my usual “get up and pee and then lie there for 45 minutes and stress” part of the night. To be a stay at home mommy  - or not? What is more noble? Is it all in our heads?

When my mom was here, we happened upon a rummage sale that was in the last few hours, so individually marked items turned into “stuff at bag for $5” (AWESOME!) and I picked up the book, “Mommy Wars.” It’s a bunch of essays by women who have faced the same decision I seem to be wrestling with this year – to stay at home with the children or continue in the work place. With appropriate timing, although not intended, I started it the week before I went to my on-campus interview for a tenure track job. And now, of course, I’m in the waiting stage (did they like me? did they really really like me?) and while I’m not sure I have the job or not, we must still talk through options so we are prepared if the offer is put on the table.
I’m torn. As usual. I feel that in many ways, both Stella and I have been given a gift by the circumstances surrounding the first 3 years of her life. I was lucky enough to be a graduate student without a set schedule when she was born, (and of course, the husband that could support said graduate student and baby). Her first experience at any type of “day care” was at 16 months – where she went to a local woman’s house for 4 mornings a week and was picked up at noon. 16 months home with Mommy, save for the occasional babysitter. Since our move to Santa Barbara at 18 months, even with her going into part-time preschool to preserve my sanity 3 mornings a week, she naps at home every day and she gets time with her mommy two full dedicated days a week. Now, I know by some standards, that’s still a lot of time away from home. Some women end up staying with their children until they reach school-age. Some women stay home with their children until they are forced – I mean, required, to go back to work at the staggering time of 6 to 8 weeks. (Was I even lucid at that point?) We are in the age when many women cannot afford the possibility of being home a very long time with their kids. And then there are those of us who dabble in both – who work part-time jobs, who have night gigs, who find a way to have a little bit of mommy time and work time, but not of the 40 hour a week variety.

So that leads me to this year. Bittle will be barely 5 months old if I start teaching the fall. I remember Stella at five months… just starting to sit up, play, enjoy the interaction with people, and most importantly, moving from mewing new baby into a malleable little person. Of whom I would have to hand over to someone else to watch all week long while I worked. Because although I would be teaching a college schedule, which some might see as forgiving and untraditional, teaching 4 different classes a semester, (which is what this job entails) is a hellish teaching load. Especially as a first time professor.

And yet I know I can’t let guilt run my life. Some of the women in the Mommy Wars book keep suggesting the sage, but wellworn advice, if Mommy ain’t happy, then no one else is, so just do what makes you happy. And if that means working full-time AND being a mom, then that’s ok. But of course, after 3 years of this unintentional situation that I have been in up until now, I feel like I’m short-changing my second child by not giving her the same experiences, the same attention as her sister received.
Of course, not that either of them are going to remember any of this. But I will. And that, I suppose, is the difference.
On the other hand, yesterday,  between going on a bear hunt, hiding in the bear cave in the living room, taking the dog for a walk and looking for sneaky places under palm trees, dressing up Bunny, going to the library, going to the garden center and then coming home and planting some flowers, I was furtively checking my work email throughout the day, trying to deflect a blow up at work, even though they know I “technically” work only during afternoon nap times. I want to believe that I can completely give over to my mommyhood and be present when I’m with Stella. that was one of my goals this year. But I can’t.

And here I am, up at the wee hours of the morning typing random missives into a blog just to help my brain calm down so it can sleep. I know that I can’t have guilt run my life. I can’t feel guilty for wanting this job, for wanting to practice what I feel have spent a majority of my life preparing to do, and yet, the desire to be a “good” mom seems to translate itself into being a mom who does not work. How 1950’s am I? What type of feminist do I assume to be? I don’t suppose I’ll come to a conclusion tonight. But those of you who do read the blog (the mighty few!) who have struggled with these questions, I would appreciate some advice. Maybe you haven’t struggled with them? Maybe you’ve intuitively understood that being a mom is all consuming, but that doesn’t mean that having a job means that you are any less of mother. it just means that you have a job. Simple as that. And that even if picking children up from daycare, running around to put food on the table, throwing them into baths and bed seems rushed and hectic, that it’s ok. Because who is judging what is nobler? Do your kids still love you just as much? Do they excel because Mom is also excelling at what she does?

For to be… or not to be… that is the question.

Interesting addendum: This morning, Stella asked me at breakfast out of the blue: "Mommy, are you a teacher?" Well, yes Stella, some days I am. "Are you still my mommy?" Oh yes, I will always be your mommy. Can I be your mommy and a teacher too? "Oh yes." she said. Was she giving me her blessing? I wonder....

Extreme nesting!

It’s been awhile since I’ve had time to blog – but I have a dozen posts in my head of things I’ve wanted to report, comment on, and share over the past few weeks. My mom graciously took time out of her busy retired life and part-time teaching to visit for a week while Steve was in tech number 2 of the month so that I wouldn’t go insane. The joy in watching Stella come alive in the presence of her grammy was amazing. Oh, this is what it would be like if Grammy could come over for a long weekend… or babysit on a random Tuesday night. I’m not just talking about the relief from the 24/7 of parenting, but the excitement of my daughter sharing her favorite moments with a grandmother. The book reading! The pretend play! The laughing! It was great for everyone. I, sadly, was high-strung, stressed out, and cranky due to the large bowling ball I’m currently packing under my clothes and an impending interview in Montana (which is over and more on that later…) Poor Mom. She took the full force of crazy prego woman for a week (something, I’m sure that Steve was happy to give over for a time) so I hope she’ll still want to come back when Bittle is born!

Her visit also reminded me of how much of a bad housekeeper I am. It’s not that she pointed it out, it’s just that she’s good at things like this, and I am woefully inadequate. I mean, I change the dirty wash towels and placemats when they are yucky, sure, but Mom tends to remember to also wash down the dining room table every day. (oops). Or scour the sink daily with something more than dish water (oops), or pick up the random stuffed animal that has been currently sleeping on a section of the kitchen counter top for 2 days (oops).

So in a burst of extreme nesting, I have been organizing and rearranging things all over the house, hoping that things might be a bit better when she returns. That box of framed art that is still in its packing materials from when we moved 16 months ago that has been sitting/hiding in a corner of the living room? Gone. The filing cabinet wedged in a corner that I don’t believe I’ve opened since I completed my dissertation 18 months ago? Cleaned out and moved. All the 0-3 months clothes organized and ready for Bittle? Done.  I have found, however, that in making changes in Stella’s room, I need to do it in baby steps. I asked her to help me move all her dress-up clothes and tutus to a bin in the closet. No problem – but then take away the now empty bin that is sitting in her room on the floor taking up valuable real estate? Oh dear the tears! No mommy! No mommy! For a second I worried about the autism spectrum and OCD, but then again, I also remember that toddlers like routine and change is hard. Just wait until recycling day tomorrow when the cardboard box house that has been looming large in her room since Christmas goes out to the trash. She’s either going to give a good send off with the trash guys (since she is enamored of their truck) or she’s going to lose it big time.

I’m trying very hard not to disrupt her world too much with the impending arrival of her sister. I want things to be as familiar to her now as they will be in a month so that when everything else goes to hell, at least some things will be a constant. However, the need to organize, re-arrange, and clean up is so strong right now that even she might not be spared. But that book chapter that I’m supposed to have a draft of by July 1? Do you think that has fallen into the “extreme nesting” category?

Not so much.

More "Stella-isms"

As evidenced by the post before this, Stella's way of making connections lately has had me cracking up. She's finally gotten to the point where her speech is not only used for asking for things in hopes of getting them or just recalling her day, but moving beyond and making bigger connections to things. Her memory has always been good and she seems to remember things that even I don't recall at times. But lately... oh lately...

Case in point #1:

In the car coming home from Trader Joes:

Me (to the car in front): Buddy, can you drive a little faster?
Stella: Mommy? You like talking to cars?
Me: Yes, Stella. I do. (We have had this conversation a few times before). 
Stella: I like talking to cars too.
--beat--
Stella: You truck! Drive straight! Stay on the road!

Case in point #2:

To encourage teeth brushing, we sing the "When you wake up in the morning and it's quarter to 2, and you don't have a thing to do, you brush your teeth shh-shh-shh- etc etc" The other night in the bathtub:

Stella (with washcloth in hand): When you wake in the morning, you brush your butt. shshh-sh-sh-sh-sh - you brush your butt.

Case in point #3:
(We were making banana bread this afternoon).
Stella: Mommy? When you go to school and teach your students, do you teach them how to mash 'nanas?
Me: Yes Stella, I wish I was teaching my students to mash bananas. I wish that were my job.
Stella: That would be fun.

Seriously, considering this horrible academic job market (year #3 folks!) I think those "Mommy and Me" cooking classes are looking better all the time. Anyone want to be a business partner to contribute start-ups costs? Don't you think these Santa Barbarians would totally fork over cash for something like that? Oh wait... they have people that "do" for them. They don't need to learn how to cook with their kids. Maybe they would send the nannies instead.

Not that kind of dancer….

A friend’s blog post prompted me to relay this on-going story about Stella. About six months ago, Stella came home from school and said to me “I’m a dancer, Momma.” Ok, Stella, yes, you are. Around the same time, my mom had sent some pajamas with a little ballerina applique on them. They now, of course, are her favorite pajamas, with the monkey ones coming a close second. “I’m a dancer” she likes to say randomly through the day, twirling and spinning and, if prompted by the appropriate music, lots of hip shaking and boogie-ing.

I’m not sure when one enrolls a child in dance classes (??) although by some friends’ stories, it seems that 3-4 seems to be the time that kids start to do these things. But I have been encouraging her to express herself through movement as much as she wants – either with music, or without. The local ballet company was doing a small showcase of their upcoming production in the local libraries last week, and after seeing that, Stella has increased the “I’m a dancer” rhetoric tenfold. She sweeps through the house, moving her arms purposefully and gracefully, and asks occasionally for me to pick her up “like the daddy dancer did to the mommy” at the “li-bar-bee.”

Yesterday morning, she almost made me spit out my tea, however. Trying to say quiet so Daddy could sleep in a bit, we headed to her room after the usual routine of cream cheese on toast to take off her pajamas and overnight diaper (oh when oh when will we be done with these??) Once in the nude, she began dancing through the bedroom, staring at herself occasionally in the small mirror I put up on her wall (for all those silly faces she likes making). “I’m a dancer, Mommy.” Yes, Stella, I really like the way you are moving so slowly, but shouldn’t we put on some underwear?

“I’m a naked dancer.”

Cue tea through nose.

Identifications

I teach college kids. Three years ago, even though I babysat throughout my youth, I don’t think I really knew *that* much about young children, much less how they make connections and their minds work. Every week, I continue to wonder at the connections Stella makes, her ability to remember things, and (after not speaking for so long) her articulation about the world around her. I’m not saying my child is brilliant. I’m sure she is just doing the things that’s she’s supposed to at this age, I just don’t always know what those are, so I’m continually amazed.

One thing I have been wondering about it is the insistence on animal recognition. I’m totally guilty of this. I guess it’s because so many children’s books have animals as the main characters, but seriously, does Stella really need to know what a rhino is? Chances are, she’ll be lucky if she even ever sees one of these things in a zoo. (Oh how we miss the awesome zoo, San Diego). Of course, I continue to ask when we see pictures, when she gets her monthly “Wild Animal Baby” magazine her grandparents graciously send her, etc. Then again, her little brain is such a sponge right now, why not? So I’ve also started on making sure that she learns the names of the things around her. Luckily, the barnyard animals actually do live in our neighborhood, so the fact that she now knows the difference between a “hen” and a “rooster” and a “coop” and a “sty” seems appropriate. She knows that Shasta and Cortez have hooves, muzzles, and manes, and that pigs and goats have hooves too, but not dogs. Dogs have paws, Mama. She can recognize by sight and sound the woodpeckers that nest in the palm trees, the hummingbirds that go to the feeder, the mourning doves that perch on our telephone wires, and the blue jay that likes to throw all the bird seed out of the feeder. The crows, the rooster, the ducks, the goose, and the turkey are old hat to her now, and when I casually ask “what was that?” she looks at me like, really? Come on, I know that’s the darn turkey. She asks now so I have started specifically identifying flowers and plants on our walks by name, so we’ve added gum tree, agave cactus and birds of paradise to our roster as well. Sadly, if we move anywhere else in the US, none of these things are going to be as commonplace again. The crux of living in Southern California. The weather and surroundings are beautiful; the people, not so much.

I list all of this not as showing off, but more as a reminder to us of all the experiences that she has had here in our little neighborhood that sadly, she will not remember hardly at all, and even more sad, my brain will probably fail me and I will not remember either! And yet for all that she does do to stupefy Steve and I, her occasional tantrums, screaming matches, and throwing herself on the floor and crying remind us that yes, she is indeed not yet 3. There are times when I forget, when I’m in the middle of having a perfectly normal conversation with her, and believing that she is more mature than her years, and then she has no concept that I can’t read a book to her while I drive from the playground , and then all hell breaks loose and I try as hard as I can to focus on the road while she screams from her carseat.