Uno, Dos, Tres...

...Quatro (my sweet son's chosen name for the fourth member of our family- pretty dang smart, if you ask me)

Due to join us on quatro de Mayo.

Why I Love Him

... my husband, I mean. The other night while I was showering, a memory surfaced. I'm not sure why it picked that specific moment to come up (I have my ideas, but that's a story for another day).

When I was 17 weeks pregnant with my son, we had our "big ultrasound" (where you find out the sex, but we didn't because we're the ones who enjoy driving everyone else nuts by not "needing to prepare"). Instead, we found out that my triple screen (for neural tube defects and genetic abnormalities) had come back abnormal and that there were some abnormalities on the ultrasound that were markers for genetic problems. One evening while we were still reeling from all of that, I was lying on the couch and had a huge gush of blood. I. was. terrified. It's funny how your brain protects itself. I was too scared to think at all, yet I had the presence of mind to gather all reminders of what had just happened and the pregnancy itself and put them away. I was so sure that the next time I walked through my front door I would no longer be pregnant.

The car ride to the hospital and wait in the emergency room were like a dream... a bad one. I didn't know what was going on inside, but I did know that it was bad. And it had to be over. It was too good to be true after all. I was numb, not really processing much. When they put the doppler on my belly and we immediately heard a strong "whoosh whoosh whoosh," I cried. I wasn't sure if it was relief that the baby was still alive or horror that I was about to deliver a live, healthy, very non-viable baby because my body was failing again. At one point they told me that they saw some tissue (like ruptured membranes) coming out, later they said no, it was just blood. Finally there was an ultrasound and we were no closer to figuring out what was going on. Over the course of hours and several doctors, we began to understand that I wasn't dilated, they didn't think my membranes were ruptured, the baby was doing well, and nobody knew where the bleeding was coming from. I was to be admitted overnight for observation.

While I waited in the ED for a room upstairs, my husband ran home to take care of the dogs and get clothes. Throughout the whole ordeal, he'd never shown any sign that he was shaken at all. And I was too distraught to realize that of course he was. He just calmly led me through the motions, held my hand tight when we listened for the heartbeat and when I got a catheter, sat close to me, joked, but only at the right time. He later told me that when he walked out of the hospital, he called our families to explain what was happening. First my family to ask them to call me since he was worried about leaving me alone. And then his. As soon as his mom answered the phone, finally relieved of his duty to be the strong one, finally able to be the frightened parent, he broke down and couldn't talk. Of all that we experienced that day, that is the only part of the story that still brings tears to my eyes.

I love him because he is my rock, and man do I need one. I love him because he's stood right by my side through the hell we've endured in our quest for parenthood. I love him because we've weathered storms together and understand this experience mutually. I love him because he allows me to grieve our losses in my own way. I love him because he loves being a Dad as much as I love being a Mom. And I love him because he is a darn good one, just ask our son.

And Disneyland Rides in on His White Horse

I have belonged to an online community for women experiencing pregnancy after IVF since I was pregnant with my son. Though I have actually only met two of them in real life, I consider many of them friends and value their opinions highly. It's a unique mixture of intelligent, thoughtful, well-educated women bonded by a heartbreaking journey followed by the happiness of succeeding at one of life's fundamental joys. Being pregnant after failing for so long to either become and/or stay pregnant, while wonderful, can be really scary. Years of failure condition you to believe it will always be that way. You are painfully aware that it could all be taken away at any moment. The early days of parenting, I believe, are a shock for anyone. As it turns out, it is not a Hallmark commercial: calm and adoring mother, simply glowing in the light of her new little cherub, holding sleeping said cherub closely to her overflowing breasts while proud, admiring papa stands by ready to help in any way necessary as a soft light spills ever so gently through the sheer, billowing curtains. Noooo, not quite. And this can be a very big shock to someone who has been dreaming of and praying for this scene with increasing fervor over the course of years. So this community of women is a fantastic source of support and information for those of us navigating through a situation which often nobody we know in real life has.

In any case, there is a saying on the board oft-quoted to new moms who are somewhat dismayed to find that they spend all day caring for baby and the moment Dad walks in the door, baby couldn't care less if Mom is around or not. "Daddy is Disneyland." This is often true. Mom fixes boo-boos. Dad is fun. Mom cooks meals. Dad is fun. Mom finds the favorite shirt. Dad is fun. You get the idea. But, you know, that's not always a bad thing. Parents are different for a reason and having the different influences of each in a child's life is healthy and balancing, I believe. And, at least in our household, Dad has earned his Disneyland status.

After my last post, I had a little chat with myself about my lack of patience, did some reading on toddler behavior and discipline and woke up the next morning calmer and ready to respond to two-year-old-ism with a calm yet firm, rational yet loving approach. Additionally, I informed Disneyland that he would have to take Toddler to the park from time to time and give Mom a break. Which he happily agreed to. I also asked that he start giving baths since the transition from play to bath was a guaranteed battle at a time of day when I am generally running low on patience. He agreed to this as well. So the first night, instead of my method of giving a 5-minute warning, 4-minute warning, 3-minute warning, 2 minute warning, 1-minute warning, 30-second warning, etc. and then declaring it time for a bath, only to be met with a very angry toddler, towing said toddler up the stairs, wailing all the way... INSTEAD of all that, he simply said, "Hey, Toddler (not his actual name, you understand), race you upstairs!" and took off running. And heck if it didn't work. Second night, same thing. No crying. In fact, he GIGGLED all the way up the stairs. Well, duh! Why didn't I think of that? So Disneyland has saved the day (or rather, the night time routine). And I am fine with that. Peaceful evenings, happy Mommy. Thank God for Disneyland Daddy.

I am also happy to report that another bit of wisdom from my online community is also true. "Toddlers are like dogs. They can smell fear." Once I had a more solid plan for dealing with the tantrums and my frustration, he sensed that I am no longer afraid and hasn't even bothered. We're down from 3 meltdowns an hour to one a day. Haven't even had a time out in two days. I know that every day won't be so easy, but I feel like I've had a minor victory and that's enough for me.

Mommy Crappy

We spent last week as a family on vacation (at least two of us were) in the southwest. One of us was taking what we hope will be the last exam for the next 10 years. So my son and I came along to see a new city and have a little get away. Here's the thing. Two-year-olds don't really enjoy get-aways. At least my particular two-year-old doesn't. He'd rather be in his own house playing with his own toys and sleeping in his own bed. And when asking nicely for those things failed to get him anywhere, he resorted to making our lives just as miserable as his apparently was. Our last two days were spent listening to a screaming toddler object (LOUDLY) to every. single. thing. that happened. I was tired, hot (it was a hundred and freaking five degrees there), and my patience quickly wore quite thin.

Since being home, things have improved. A little. Which leads me to believe that some of his acting out was because he was tired and out of his element. And the rest was because he's two. And that's not going away anytime soon. We do battle a hundred times a day. In the car he wants me to get the toy he's just thrown onto the floorboard. At mealtimes, he wants more bread without having taken a single bite of vegetables. At night, transitioning from play to bathtime is a guaranteed tantrum. He screams at the top of his lungs. Time outs are ineffective. He'll happily sit in his time out spot for 2 minutes. Take away a toy- he couldn't care less. Yelling and hitting aren't options (for me, anyway), so I'm at a loss. And my patience, unfortunately, has not improved much at all.

I've been through med school so I am not at all unfamiliar with feeling like a total moron. But parenting has brought that feeling to a whole new level. Just when you are starting to feel confident- you're in a routine, everyone thinks your kid is great, you're in a happily symbiotic relationship- they up and change the game. And you're back to bumbling idiot. I always thought that parents had until their kids were teens to find out how little they (the parents) know. But, it happens from day one. How do I handle this? Why do they do that? Am I doing it right? How badly am I messing up?

A month ago I was happy Mommy. Today I feel like crappy Mommy.