not that you asked...

Back to reality

SIGH. So, NATURALLY, Lucy has decided to follow the crowd and bow to peer pressure, and is ramping up the defiant two-year-old thing. It's not too horrible yet – yes, she's perfected The Art of Going Boneless and if you try to tear her away from a display of Woody and Jessie dolls at Target she can thrash with the best of them (WHY, when our household is in possession of BOTH) but I can still reason with her when I need to.

Now, I don't reason with her when I need to leave Walmart and she's trying to drag a display of Pixar toys along with her. I just pick her up and take her. If I want her to do something and she's not doing it? Well she's two and she's not always going to understand why we need to leave when we do and after a certain amount of asking nicely, I just make the decision for her. If she doesn't like it, TOUGH.

In comparison, if we're at lunch after church and she wants to run around the restaurant without shoes on and take all the bags of potato chips out of the display and I have to stop her from doing that? The resulting tantrum is one I try to talk her out of. Not because I think she can really understand that wrecking potato chip displays is wrong, but because I want to stay at that restaurant and EAT because I am HUNGRY and Daddy is paying for our food and I don't want mine to get cold. I took her outside (ok, I'm blowing my cover here, this was not a hypothetical situation) and we chatted for a bit about listening to Mommy and she calmed down, but the kicker was that I had to remind her that she couldn't have dessert unless she sat down in her chair and ate her lunch and stopped acting like a raving lunatic.

Most of the time she is adorable and squeezable and charming. This morning she wandered into the bathroom as I was... uh, you know, USING it, and I pulled her over close to me and she pushed me away with disdain: “Mama, I don't want to get PEE PEE all over me!”

Unfortunately, she's also going through some kind of Bedtime Phase. At least, I FERVENTLY PRAY this is a phase, because my life would totally suck if this were to become the new normal. Every night Lucy is in bed by 8pm (Asher is in bed by 7:42 and asleep by 7:46), and every night for the last week or so, she's been keeping herself up until 9:30, having some sort of frat party in her crib. Some nights she also takes a giant crap right around 8:30, which she summons us for (over the monitor: “Maaaamaaaa. Daaaadaaaa. I poo poo in my diaper. I need a new diaper.”) and other nights she just squeals and has imaginary conversations that seem to go on for HOURS. And I wouldn't really mind all THAT much, after all, she is contained and happy, but when she's cranky and irritable the next morning, I TEND TO CARE. It's to the point where Dave and I have alternated nights rocking her to sleep, something we have not done for her in months and months and months.

Tonight she took it to a new level, though. We were quietly summoned by Her Highness around 8:30: “Mama? Dada? Mama? Dada?” Dave went upstairs and called for me a moment later. You know it's something bad/interesting/SUPER SHOCKING if the other parent needs you to see it, you know?

So I went upstairs and there's Lucy, totally buck naked from the waist down, and pretty darned proud of herself, too. So now she's undressing herself AND taking off her diaper after we put her in bed. It's funny in two ways, I guess, funny because, well, SHE TOOK OFF HER PANTS AND DIAPER, but also funny because she knew she didn't want to STAY that way; she called us up to rectify the situation. Girl knew she couldn't sleep in a puddle of PEE all night.

I don't know what to do about that if it continues. I've heard duct tape works and so does turning diapers or footie pjs around backwards but that seems uncomfortable NOT TO MENTION I just bought the CUTEST summer pjs for Lu last week ($3 marked down from $14) and they're SEPARATES so what am I supposed to do about that? I am hoping she loses interest in taking her pants off. Maybe the answer to that is to encourage her to take them off as much as she wants to during the day? I thought these kinds of children were Urban Myths, I swear. Asher, at Lucy's age, was the kind of child who I put in the crib at nap and bedtime and who LAID DOWN ON THE PILLOW and DIDN'T MOVE until he fell asleep. Like a little mini-adult! He never talked to himself or sang songs or requested books (which I know now was a leeeetle bit weird) but that's my benchmark, you know? From one extreme to the other. From child who practically holds a doctorate in sleep to one who is trying to avoid it altogether and is SUCCEEDING.

But those of you who have these crazy ones – the ones who take their diapers off and throw these trantrums of insanity and refuse to hold hands in a parking lot or let you put their shoes on for them – you'll agree with me: You just don't ever want to see them lose that spark. This kid has such a bright, amazing spirit and huge personality and I guess a roll of duct tape and a pair of backwards pajamas is a pretty small price to pay for getting to share my days (and, let's face it, lately my nights) with her.

Initial thoughts

The risk of developing preeclampsia in a first pregnancy is approximately 4.1 percent.

Check. Asher, induced 11 days before my due date, weighed in at a paltry 5 lbs 12 oz, despite being considered well beyond full-term. I was on medication for three months following his delivery due to lingering blood pressure issues.

The risk of developing preeclampsia in a second pregnancy for women who developed preeclampsia during their first pregnancy is 14.7 percent.

Check and... check. Lucy, induced three weeks early (four, by my count), weighed in at 5 lbs 11 oz. My blood pressure remained so high after delivery that I was put on bedrest for an entire week AFTER leaving the hospital. I stayed on blood pressure medication for an additional three months.

The risk of developing preeclampsia in a third pregnancy for women who had preeclampsia during two previous pregnancies is a whopping 31.9 percent.

It isn't a guarantee that I'd win the preeclampsia lottery again with a third pregnancy, but it certainly is a risk. Frankly, I'd consider it a pretty big risk. I still have those two products of those first two pregnancies to care for, you know. I'm pretty sure they love having a mother. The thing is, it seems that before we can consider whether or not we'd like to have a third biological child, first we must decide whether or not it would be safe for me to get pregnant with a third biological child.

Would it be safe? I guess there's a possibility that it would. I suppose I could turn out to be one of the 70ish percent of women who don't develop a life-threatening condition during pregnancy. But a little nagging piece of me doubts I could ever be lucky enough have a normal pregnancy. For crying out loud, I lost THIRTY FREAKING POUNDS between Asher and Lucy and absolutely nothing changed, except that the onset of preeclampsia symptoms started earlier and with more enthusiasm (nothing says “enthusiastic preeclampsia” like gaining nine pounds in a week). I wouldn't call that an improvement. And it was such a disappointment, based on how hard I'd worked and how much I felt I'd improved my body in preparation for that second pregnancy.

It's such a weird place to be, really. After reading infertility blogs for so long, I almost feel like an infertile. Except that instead of not be able to have a baby, I'm in the rare camp of people who shouldn't have one. I realize that I have two healthy children, and I promise you that I do not take that gift and privilege lightly, but there is something really unsettling about knowing that even if I was ready TODAY to start trying to have a third child, that it would be very ill-advised. I could be putting my life at stake; I could be putting the life of my unborn child (my husband's child, my children's sibling) at stake, too. Is it worth the risk?

I feel like I can ask that question now without any true sadness, because we really aren't married to the idea of having another biological child. It isn't something we desperately wanted and then lost. Perhaps if I had a history of fantastic pregnancies, it might be something we were already in the process of doing. If I had great pregnancies and more tolerable postpartum depression (a whole different post, I realize) maybe I'd already be pregnant. I'm pretty sure that the worry about an unhealthy pregnancy is what prevents my heart and my head from ever thinking too much about having another biological child. The worries and the what ifs are what keep me from falling in love with the idea.

So while I like the idea of adding a third child to our family, I don't really think much about that third child being a biological product of me and my husband. I'm not 100 percent CERTAIN it is off the table, but I am not wholly devastated that it might not be an option for us.

And it was this early thought process that got me thinking – thinking and dwelling and processing and weighing – the possibility of adoption.

I need to get a video of the fist pump

You guys, we have a new Neighborhood Menace and for once it isn't a crotchety old widow with three cats and an overzealous attachment to the (NON-ASSIGNED) parking space directly in front of her house!

We have a pooping robin.

It doesn't SOUND like a big deal, does it? Well, in fact, IT ACTUALLY IS. This bird spends his entire day (HIS ENTIRE DAY) flitting from car to car in our parking lot, POOPING. He poops on roofs and on spare tires, he poops on sideview mirrors and windshields. He flits and he flies and he lands and then he poops and WHEN DOES HE EVEN EAT, we don't even know, but he must be eating at some point, because LOOK AT ALL THAT POOOOOP. On Friday, the kids and I were home all day long and every time we looked out the window, there was the same stupid bird, ON MY CAR, perfectly positioned so that he could drip bird crap all down the kids' windows. We had to wash the car! The poop was LIMITING VISIBILITY. How does one bird produce SO MUCH POOP? It has solidified two things for Dave and I. For me, that I will never own a pet bird. I am just not interested in inviting that much runny, liquid poop into my home. (Among other things I don't really want in my home, like beaks and feathers and those little scratchy feet which are so so unbelievably gross.) For Dave, that he needs a BB gun so he can shoot it from Lucy's bedroom window.

We have been discussing the Pooping Robin all weekend long. The kids spend an inordinate amount of time at the storm door and the front window: “THE POOPING ROBIN IS BAAAAAAACK!” Last night I actually forgot that we'd agreed to not park our cars in the front row of the parking lot where he loiters, and I parked Dave's car there, so guess what? This morning we got up and there he was, already pooping up a storm on top of the Honda. Can you see him? On the mirror? Do you also see that nearly everyone else has taken their cars and VACATED THE AREA? No one likes the Pooping Robin!

I started parking at the back of the lot, which seemed very First-World Problem until it took me close to 10 minutes to herd two children to the car for preschool drop off this morning (they're prone to wandering) which is when I started thinking about where I might be able to pick up a BB gun for cheap. (Walmart or Craigslist, I'm thinking.)

In other bathroom news, Lucy has been wearing underpants around the house and PEEING IN THE POTTY. She stays dry in between the times I encourage her to go, and tries willingly.

She apparently does not care for reward candy – the only time she has ever accepted it is when I offered it, and she'd forgotten about it by the time I went downstairs to get it and then came back up. This is the only thing she and Asher have in common, except for their ability to hear a siren and tell me whether it is a fire truck (the one with the ladder) or a fire engine (no ladder) or an ambulance. I swear on my life, they hear it and then it passes us and they are RIGHT EVERY TIME. How is this possible? I'm about to ask them to fill out a March Madness bracket so I can sit back and figure out exactly how I will spend our plentiful bounty.

Other things Lucy has been doing lately: Breaking lamps at birthday parties. Saying, “Let's do this thing!” and accenting it with a fist pump (that's probably my favorite one). And falling into BASEMENT WINDOW WELLS.

Yeah, that last one? I wasn't there when it happened, but apparently on Sunday at my in-law's house, Lucy wandered outside (totally fine with that, as there is a kid-friendly patio and a big picture window to watch her through) and saw Asher looking at her through the window. So she sauntered up to the window AND DISAPPEARED. Dave said one second you were looking at her and the next second she was just GONE. And he said everyone in the room kind of went white and no one moved for a millisecond (I'm sure it felt longer) and then he was sprinting outside where he found her unharmed and a bit surprised, albeit three feet below ground level. She'd apparently walked on top of the plastic cover that tops a window well located under the big living room picture window (I'm not sure what the covers are for – certainly not for keeping out animals or intruders since it crumbled under a 24-pound toddler) and just... fell right through.

You southerners without basements have no idea what this is, do you. It's a cover that fits over a basement window that gets light because there's a little cave dug out around it. It looks like this:

Yes, she just FELL THROUGH the middle. Like a trap door! (I don't know if her hands went up in the air or anything.) I'm surprised the jagged plastic didn't cut her on the way down, but somehow it didn't.

Anyway, she's fine, and we're so glad she chose to break something at a RELATIVE'S house this time rather than a friend's house, please see above, re: broken lamp, which she did at a friend's birthday party, to which we were the ONLY NON-FAMILY INVITED. Way to make a good impression, Cassees! Seriously, we're talking shattered glass all over the carpet. It is HARD to break a lamp on carpet, but Lucy is pretty talented at wrecking stuff. (She gets that from her father.) 

yoor-uh-nuhs or yoo-rey-nuhs

You have no idea how hard it is to read this aloud to two innocent children.

Tender

I wish I had an explanation for Asher's recent transformation. I mean, I guess the real explanation is simply he's growing up, but it would be so much easier if I could trace it back to an increase in fruit cup consumption or (selfishly) some sort of genius parenting tactic I came up with all by myself. Then I could continue to encourage his new behavior patterns by stuffing him full of sugary-syruped fruit or writing a bestselling parenting book! Which doesn't sound like it would benefit him directly – I HEAR YOU THINKING THAT – but I think you will forget about that little detail when I make a bazillion dollars and offer to take you to Aruba with me for a month.

Not since infancy have I seen such rapid and dramatic changes in this kid. It's almost like someone flipped a switch a couple of weeks ago and turned him into Opposite Boy. Tantrums are now infrequent and really only triggered by exhaustion – rarely are they ever about control issues anymore. Asher will now use the bathroom all by himself – no one has to walk in with him and turn on the light (he has been tall enough to turn on the light himself for months and months and months) and although he often denies he has to go (while squirming uncomfortably on the floor), I'd say 75 percent of the time we can get him to try. He will now eat yogurt, cereal (with milk!) and fruit cups by himself, and doesn't get upset if he spills some on the table. HE WILL EVEN USE A NAPKIN. He wipes his nose by himself. He can and will dress himself (I help him a lot with this still, because he is NOT a morning person, so getting frustrated by a pair of pants can be KILLER in the morning, whereas if I was able to ask him to get dressed at 2pm, he'd be fine). And perhaps most impressively, he will actually get out of bed in the morning and come downstairs all by himself. (Well, only if we're already up and he can hear us. Otherwise, he just stays in his bed until he hears someone get up.)

He is becoming independent. Confident. And despite the fact that he rarely naps anymore (once in the last month, I think), he is so tolerable that most days, I don't even request a break from him. I DO NOT ENFORCE QUIET TIME, YOU GUYS. That's how crazy this whole thing is getting. I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'd rather spend my afternoon hanging out with him than stressing out about trying to get him to stay quiet in his room while Lucy naps.

This dramatic change is so welcome and wonderful at home, but the best thing of all is how much his confidence and independence is starting to come out at preschool. He has now been enrolled in the four-year-old class at preschool (despite technically being classified as a three-year-old) since September: SIX WHOLE MONTHS. And just last week - LAST WEEK, YOU GUYS - he raised his hand in class for the very first time and answered a question. He also joined other children already at play (HUGE deal for him, as he is very shy and to my knowledge, mostly watches the other kids play from the periphery) and his teacher also informed me that one day he was even ROUGHHOUSING with another child in a playful way. ROUGHHOUSING! My kid is roughhousing, like a normal four-year-old boy.

There are many challenges I face parenting Asher. I have written about them before; they're not just about him, they're also about me. I try, I really really try, to let him be Asher, and not what I personally would be like if I were in Asher's place, but it is hard. I am a huge extrovert, and when I watch my child in his classroom acting quiet and shy and introverted, it is hard sometimes for me to believe that he could be happy like that. I know I can't be happy watching from the outside, because I need to be involved. But who's to say that Asher isn't? Just because he's quiet doesn't mean he isn't happy. He loves school and he is enthusiastic about his classmates and he has never once come home and spoken of being picked on or made fun of or teased. He is, as the doctor told us he was, slow to warm up. He is six months in to warming up, but he is getting there. It is really hard for me to remember that my view of the world isn't everyone else's view of the world.

Back in January, his school sent home a progress report, and it was one of the best things I've read in my entire life. According to the report, Asher always shares toys and shows concern for people around him and has mastered cutting and sits attentively and follows directions and responds appropriately. But perhaps the best part was reading the notes his teacher included. She acknowledged his social skills are a little bit slow in developing, but that his academic skills are very advanced for his age, and that she is working hard to make sure he will feel secure enough in his environment that he will be able to eagerly participate in class.

Nothing about how he's sad. Nothing about how she's concerned. Nothing about how he could be friendlier or more talkative or less introverted. Nothing.

Instead, she called him “tender,” and revealed that she knew from the moment she met him that there was something special about him. There is no better feeling than knowing that someone else sees your child – quirky and different as he is – just as you see him. He's Asher, and he's supposed to be exactly the way he is, and we're really really enjoying it.