We'll be home for Christmas

Tomorrow afternoon we are leaving Dela-nowhere for Indiana, because we prefer our winter weather to be of the bone-chillingly-cold variety. Well, I guess there are grandmas and grandpas there, too, and they have promised that there will be presents and (more importantly) food for us there. Because we are driving, and because Dada doesn't start teaching again until February, our schedule is quite flexible. I think we will be gone for 3 weeks. I hope to spend most of that time with my feet aloft on fluffy pillows and my mouth loaded with bonbons. I also hope that, when I am not off my feet, I can sneak in a few dinner dates with Dada, no toddlers allowed. I will do my best to blog, especially since now everyone has high-speed internet and my mom and dad even have wi-fi, but that may require I get off my butt for a second or two, and I just can't guarantee that that will be happening.

Wish us luck with the 10-12 hour road trip. Dada and I decided to buy a portable DVD player instead of getting each other presents this year. But really, what is a better present than Isaac sitting contentedly through most, if not all, of a long road trip? This evening we hit Wal-Mart, God of Stores, and loaded up on $50 of Isaac-friendly DVDs. You name it, we got it...the 'tubbies, the Wiggles, the new Little Einsteins movie, Thomas and his homeboys. And, after a rough start of Dada and I figuring out how to burn a movie DVD on his desktop from work, we are also bringing along a library of TiVoed Wiggles and Little Einsteins episodes from the Disney channel. Oh, there are other non-TV-related things that will be coming along, but I am particularly proud of our massive selection of movies that Isaac will be drooling over, and especially that Dada figured out how to magically transport stuff from the TiVo ether onto hard, shiny DVDs.

Getting our vitamin FD&C Red #2

Isaac and I were invited to a cookie-decorating party on Friday, held at our buddy Sara's house. It was plenty of fun, and we got lots of yummy sugar cookies to take home. Isaac's personal favorites were not so much the cookies as the chocolate jimmies. Perhaps because they bounce better.

Here is the cookie-decorating crew, minus myself, Sara, and the infants:



Sara in her infinite genius nature designed the icing such that it could be painted on. Isaac took to this with his typical artistic gusto...

...though when he would get the errant red icing on his fingers, it was, of course, "yucky" and the best way to dispose of it was by wiping it on my shirt. Turns out icing comes right off in the wash. Did you know that?

One thing I didn't really expect at this party was the NOISE. There were four moms there, including myself and Sara, along with three 4-1/2 year olds, three toddler boys (including Isaac), and two infant boys. That makes two moms with two, one mom with three (under 5 years!), and myself with my lowly one-plus. I think I've been officially cured of any desire I might have had to have three babies.

To my surprise, Isaac was a little freaked out by the noise. My typically sociable guy spent most of the time playing in a separate room by himself, away from the more boisterous older kids. When he did play towards the end, he gravitated towards the oldest, the only girl there, she seemed like she really enjoyed his company. I guess it does stay pretty quiet in our house during the day, because while we had a great time, I know *I* was sure ready for my nap at the end of our visit. After a large helping of milk and cookies, of course.

This is my confession

Mrs. Flinger tagged me to do a blog-board confessional thing. Alright, alright...but because I've been meaning to do something like it for awhile now, it will be Confessions: Second Pregnancy Edition. This all, therefore, must come with an important disclaimer.

U.B., I love ya. You were very planned, and you are very wanted.

With that said...

Confession: I have eaten complete crap while pregnant with you. Lately I have been more conscious of this and have done more to eat fruits and vegetables. When I was pregnant with your brother, I ate a large bowl of oatmeal for breakfast every morning, yogurt for a morning snack, organic vegetarian dehydrated soup and a piece of fruit for lunch, and then something at least moderately healthy for dinner. No wonder your brother is a fruitatarian. I think you, U.B., will be composed of 50% fudge and at least 30% Lean Pockets.

Confession: I haven't been as religious with the prenatal care as I was with your brother. Oh, now, not to the point of maternal negligence, but still. I didn't see any practitioners between 9 and 20-or-so weeks, when I should have had 2 or 3 visits. Your dad and brother and I are getting ready to go on a long vacation and I will probably not get back to the doctor until you are almost full-term, meaning I will be skipping another two visits. I didn't interview your O.B.; in fact, I've only ever seen one actual doctor in my pursuance of your care. When I was pregnant with your brother, Dada came to every prenatal visit with me. Now, Dada is my babysitter and I go by myself because your brother is a holy terror inside an exam room. Despite all this (and perhaps what encourages me to think that most of these visits are probably not necessary anyway), you appear to be thriving, all of your own accord.

Confession: Your middle name will be Michael, after your father. We still don't have a first name picked out for you. Yours is much harder than your brother's was, because now we feel we must pick something that is not only good for you, but also one that won't sound ridiculous when said quickly next to your brother's. Your dad comes up with the most awful names. He wants to name you after crusty authors: Bertholdt or Landon or Clive. Don't worry, I won't let him. Unfortunately, if he weren't around to stop me, I would ensure you a lifetime of teasing with my own name choices. First I wanted to name you Jackson. Dada laughed almost to tears thinking I wanted to name my child Jackson Michael, you know, in mirror image of a certain child-molesting pop star. Then I wanted to name you Ryan. Apparently there is already a very famous actor named Ryan O'Neal, and you would forever be saddled with stereotypes going along with the lead character from Love Story. We have pored through our ridiculously unhelpful baby name book and we hate everything. Hopefully we will get our act together and your name will not go in hospital records as "TBA O'Neal".

Confession: I have a secret fear that you will be a camper. If I hadn't unknowningly lied about my water breaking, I bet your brother would have been, too. I have been told that if you run two weeks late they will induce me. Today, I realized that two weeks late = March 8. My birthday is March 9. I don't want you to mess with my birthday. I think we both deserve our own birthdays, don't you?

Confession: I am deathly afraid of your coming. Not in that short-term-labor-pain sense. I could really care less about that. In fact it has always angered me mightily to hear whiny ho-bags (like Britney!) losing sleep over how much pain labor will cause them. No, my fear is more in the whenever-I-pick-up-another-baby-your-big-brother-totally-freaks-out sense. In the when-exactly-am-I-supposed-to-sleep sense. My lame attempt at self-soothing is to TiVo episodes of "A Baby Story" where the family is expecting their second. In the last one I watched the dad said, and I quote: "Having two makes having one seem like having none." Great. I am still not sure how this all is supposed to work, with me being shared between you and your brother. I am only slightly reassured by thinking that I probably would never be capable of knowing until you actually come along and I am thrown into the den of little-boy lions.

Now I am supposed to tag people, but everyone I regularly read has already been tagged, so this is the end of the road for this confessional lineage. Unless Susie wants to carry the torch.

Big Bird needs a diaper

This morning Isaac found his little stuffed Big Bird, who had apparently been buried deep within the toy box strata for some time. After running around joyously with his newfound buddy, something suddenly dawned on Isaac. He laid Big Bird down on the couch and started making hand motions around Big Bird's naked waist, saying "Bye-per Bye-per" (Isaac for "diaper"). Then, almost in a Garden-of-Eden moment, Isaac became very upset that Big Bird was unclothed and, worse, might get caught unawares without britches to catch his inevitable poops and pees. I fetched an Isaac-sized diaper and had Isaac help me put it on Big Bird, but it was way too big and that would just not do, oh no. Finally I found an errant swim diaper that was a little smaller and, after rolling up the waistband, the diaper fit Big Bird to Isaac's satisfaction.

Not so much later, as I was helping Isaac dress for the day, it again dawned on him that, while he was donning a shirt, Big Bird had no shirt. Repeat above process for finding Big Bird a shirt. Followed by pants. Oh, and then Isaac's big stuffed Mickey Mouse needed a diaper. I, of course, took my cue and heartily heaped on the praise about "what a good big brother you're going to be!" He's done a little of playing the caretaker with his zoo of stuffed critters before, but never quite like this.

U.B. grows -- 30 w 1 d

Here is a picture of me with a basketball strapped to my belly. Oh wait, no ... that's my second kid, isn't it? According to ivillage, he already weighs over 3 lbs and is around 14 inches long.
The close-up:


The full context:



For reference, here is the last belly picture I posted.

Reusing our Christmas card

Since everyone should have gotten their O'Neal family Christmas card already, I decided it was cool to reuse the picture as our lovely new season-aware banner. Now the blogisphere can share in the joy that is my cutie-pie in the shirt and tie we bought him last year for a wedding as he is allowed to momentarily touch the tree.

U.B.'s 6.5 month appointment, AKA Dr. Suck v. 2.0

After my last prenatal appointment with my genuinely nice and caring, but seemingly a little loopy nurse practitioner, I scheduled this visit with one of the practice's many O.B.s. I will be griping about him shortly, but the important stuff first: U.B.'s house measures 29 cm (and here I am at 30 weeks, meaning U.B. is growing perfectly); U.B.'s heartbeat is great; my blood pressure and weight gain are peachy. So far I have gained 27 lbs, which, if you account for the Christmas cookies I have yet to eat, puts me possibly a little over my end-goal of repeating my total Isaac-carrying weight gain of 35 lbs. Oh well.

Dada and Isaac came with me and waited in the waiting room while I did my thing. Isaac did his part to reassure all the first-timers out there waiting nervously with their husbands. Dada said Isaac saw another little girl come in with her pregnant mommy; he went up to the girl and said "Hello!!" before giving her a hug. And then he asked the receptionist to turn the TV on Sesame Street, and as we left said "Bye, Cookie" to Cookie Monster. He is a walking advertisement for procreation, my buddy is. Except for the no-sleeping part.

Meanwhile, there was me, and the waiting. This board-certified dude made me wait for 45 minutes, you know, because his time is more valuable than mine, my husband's, and my son's put together. I instantly hated him: he is the kind of doctor that thinks it's best to carry about him an air of absolute authority, yet has no ability whatsoever to listen. This kind of doctor (and he is usually a dude) cracks me up, because I likely have more education than he in the area in which he is trying to operate.

After strolling in abominably late, with no apology whatsoever, he asks me a few lame questions that were covered by my N.P. in previous visits (and marked as such in my record). He measures me, and I ask, as I always do, how big I am. His response? "Your mother and mother-in-law may have their own opinions about how big you should or shouldn't be, but the only opinion that matters is mine." Thanks, genius, but I just want to know for myself. He then took about a year to find U.B.'s heartbeat, which I'm sure my N.P. would have found in a jiff because she knows (again, from reading my records) that U.B. is already lodged head-down. After the medical business, he informs me I am now on the 2-week visit schedule (um, read my record: isn't it two weeks since my last visit, when N.P. told me the 2-week visits should begin?), and so I need to come back in two weeks. I tell him I will be out of town for awhile, and won't be able to come in again until the third week of January. He "reiterates" what I said, writing down for the scheduler to find me an appointment in the *first* week of January. ARGH.

Oh, but none of these are the best part, the one that really makes this woman-doctor version of Dr. Suck worth blogging about. Editor's note -- this part requires a disclaimer to be fully enjoyed: I, Isaac's mom, am not and never have been a skank. I do not have herpes. In fact, our entire household is disease-free. Shocker!

Back to Dr. Suck... here is what transpired shortly after he got in the room.
Dr. S: So, has anyone talked to you yet about a herpes treatment plan?
Me: Um, no...
Dr. S: Well, then. It's very important that we have a treatment plan in place to control your herpes. If you should have an outbreak when you deliver, you could pass the disease on to the baby.
Me: Um. Um. (half-chuckling) I don't have herpes.
Dr. S: Oh! Oh. Um, well, it says here in your record...
Me: I get cold sores. Oral herpes. I don't have genital herpes.
Dr. S: Oh! Oh. Um, well, when did we test for that? We don't usually test for that.
Me: You didn't. They tested for it, along with the disease-equivalent of the kitchen sink, at my old practitioner's in Seattle. LIKE IT SAYS IN MY RECORD. (another note -- my previous O.B. said that around 80% of the population tests positive for oral herpes. Who doesn't get cold sores?)
Dr. S: Oh! Well, um, I guess that's taken care of, then, isn't it?

And then this lamewad doesn't even apologize for his sheer incompetence at not recognizing the difference between HSV-1 (oral herpes) and HSV-2 (skank herpes). I made sure to tell the scheduler NOT to reschedule me with him. Like, EVER.

Oh, but U.B. and I are just fine. This pregnancy is a snap even compared to my extremely easy pregnancy with Isaac. I can still wear my wedding ring -- I had to take it off when I was 4.5 months along with Isaac. Now, if we could only think of a name...

Santa comes early (and brings along his fat sister)

Seeing as how we are taking off next weekend for the Midwest, we thought it only fair that Isaac should open his remaining Christmas present today to give him ample time to play with it. Dada insisted we take lots of pictures of this, the sole present-opening event at our house this year. I got this first picture of Isaac lusting after his "Toy! Toy! Toy!". This is immediately before he tried to get into the box by peeling off the cardboard, layer by layer, with his fingernails:



After that, Dada took the camera as I helped the boy unpack the many parts that go to his Little People Garage. I had hoped the focus of these pictures would be on Isaac's excitement and unbridled glee at his new "Toy! Toy!", but instead the eye is drawn, like to a car wreck, to the gigantic woman sitting next to him, trying to read the assembly instructions as her belly flops out of her shirt. So attractive.

Having a baby changes things

Today the babysitter came over for a little so Dada and I could enjoy a Starbucks run alone in honor of his birthday. As I walked home by myself, I happened to look up and see that the moon was out, already, at 4 in the afternoon. I grinned like a madwoman, thinking of the dimples that erupt in my child's chin when he sees the moon in real life ("Isaac, look! It's the moon!" ... pause ... look of delicious recognition anoints his face ... gigantic smile spreads from his twinkly eyes, crinkled-up nose, gigantor teeth, pointy dimpled Irish chin ... then an echo in a voice a little higher, "It's DA MOO!").

I couldn't help but think, before Isaac came along, that I probably saw the moon hanging in the sky thousands of times and thought nothing more than gee-that's-pretty. Now, I can't see the moon without thinking about my boy and the dimples that only come out in his chin when he smiles that big.

This one goes out to the one I love

Dearest Dada,

Today you are 36 years old. This morning we played a fun game where we decided your new age was a magic number, since many numbers are factors of it. The fun in this game stopped, according to you, when we realized that 2 and 18 were factors of 36, meaning that you are now twice as old as the freshmen you would be teaching. Then you decided that birthdays suck and that you are tired and old and fat. Honey, you aren't fat. Now go be a good boy and eat that pumpkin pie I made you.

Yesterday we found out that Eddie Van Halen and Valerie Bertinelli are getting divorced after 24 years of marriage. You are a big Van Halen fan and we have always enjoyed talking about how Eddie wrote this or that song for Valerie, and how their Hollywood marriage has endured where many others have failed. Tonight you asked me if I would still love you in 24 years (you will be 60 then, the age your mother turned yesterday -- Happy Birthday, Mamaw!). Did I even hesitate to say yes? How can you not want to be with a guy who:
*is a superstar at his new job
*is not intimidated, and in fact is proud, that his wife has a Ph.D.
*can cook a mean Thanksgiving turkey. And make his own gravy (from scratch)
*intends to install a wood floor in my parents dining room over Christmas. In two days. By himself. And is also entertaining the idea of building a house for me and our two babies
*is the world champ at making up alternate, child-unfriendly lyrics to Wiggles songs for my amusement
*is GQ enough for the both of us, who makes my girlfriends so jealous of me because I don't have to pick out your clothes for you, because you are appalled to think that your peers believe black sneakers can double as dress shoes. Someone whose genetic material must carry such ideas along because, after 8 years of your loudly loathing my beloved but probably worn-out and tacky maroon Mary Jane Doc Martens, today your son told me they were "yucky" and brought me some nicer shoes to wear as we were getting ready to leave the house
*is unabashedly in love with and beloved by our beautiful, genius child
*continually reassures me that having a second child will be so much fun and will, in fact, not result in my demise (and puts up with my moody pregnantness)

Oh, I could go on, and get generic about how you're smart, funny, thoughtful, and all that Hallmark stuff. But I would prefer to let your actions continue to speak for themselves, to let the list continue to refresh daily, as it does, giving me and the boy more reasons to be so thankful each day that you are ours. Forever. Whether you like it or not.

Yours,

Mama

Oh yeah, about that...

People keep asking me how I did on my 3-hour glucose torture triathalon tolerance test. Funny how, when you're worried about something it's at the forefront of every thought, and then when you find out it was really nothing all along you forget it ever was a problem. I called the O.B.'s office on Monday to see if they had the results back and the nurse I talked to said all four of my blood-glucose readings "looked great". Obviously this is insanely good news, given the amount of holiday cookies and chocolate confections I am expected to consume in the next 2 to 3 weeks. Yay for not having gestational diabetes.

20 months old

Jeez. Will you just look at him, and remember with me for a second that a year ago at this time he couldn't walk?


A snippet of what has transpired with our fledgling young man-child in the last month:
*The truck/tractor/car/bus/boat/airplane/train/moving vehicle obsession continues to grow like a virus, now infecting his every waking moment. He wants to read about trucks. He wants sheets with trucks on his bed. He wants to wear, or carry around, his Thomas the Tank Engine T-shirt. He wants to watch TV shows with moving vehicles (our new favorite is Little Einsteins, solely because of the rocket). He uses his superhuman hearing to point out to me when the garbage truck is rolling by on the street outside. He carries his trains ("choo-choo") or toy airplanes ("air-mane") around the house, in the car, to the store. Looking for a guaranteed Isaac-pleaser for Christmas? Look no further!

*As of ~ 2 weeks ago, he can put blocks (circle, square, star, triangle) through all four holes in his shape-sorter with almost no hesitation. To do this, he looks at each and names them, then finds the appropriately shaped hole and points to it, and then fits the blocks to the hole.

*If I ask him to throw something in the trash, no matter where we are in the house, he will take it, run into the kitchen, throw it in the trash can there, and run back.

*When he is in a good mood, he is excellent at sharing, or even giving others toys, either of his own volition or at my request. This is incredibly sweet to watch, especially with his 10-month-old friend, Ella, to whom he likes to show different objects. When we are away from Ella, he will pick up his old baby toys and say her name, as if he thinks that she would enjoy playing with such things.

*Interestingly enough, though I have often blogged about his show-boatery, this growing desire to share and be helpful to others keeps him from being aggressive. For example: at the end of each storytime, the teacher asks the kids to line up around her if they'd like a stamp on their hands (and who wouldn't?). I ask Isaac if he would like one and he says "Yeah!" (more on that next) and runs up to her by himself. However, he sometimes ends up coming back to me without a stamp because all the other obnoxious kids have pushed themselves in front of him (and the stupid teacher takes no notice that he is waiting there quietly and patiently). Though he clearly knows what he wants, he is content to sit back and watch others be jerks rather than being a jerk himself. You can see this, too, at playgroup when a particularly awful child wrenches a toy out of his hands. While most any other kid would start bawling and throwing tantrums (and rightly so), my kid looks after the Toy Thief for a bit, like, "Whatever, man, if it's that important to you..." and then moves on to play with something else.

*The biggest and most exciting development on both sides: he is no longer the "NO!" machine, but readily says and nods "Yes" when appropriate (and sometimes when not). Isaac was an all-around nice guy to begin with. But with the doors that have opened to him since he learned that saying "yes" can get you everywhere, he is simply a jewel at almost all times. It has become clear to me that the ability to distinguish "yes" from "no" in interactions with others is really quite key for him, and really for everybody -- it doesn't really matter how many gazillion words one can say if they don't help others to understand one's wishes. In learning the meaning (and usage) of "yes", he is less frustrated because it is easier to get what he wants (duh), and, here's the greatest part, to understand why he can't have what he wants at certain times.

Twenty months. It's great. It's like the Golden Age of Isaac. I can't wait to show him off to everyone at Christmas.

Shop 'til you drop

We were forced to brave the snow and crazies for a diaper run. Here is what happened to my poor precious boy after 10 minutes of KMart:



We did manage to score a 92-pack of size 4 Huggies on sale for $20. Costco prices without the journey to Costco!

3 inches of snow is "yucky"

Beautiful, storybook-quality snow started to fall on our fair town at around 7 last night. The snow, with its obscenely large, fluffy flakes, literally sparkled in the streetlights as it fell. We woke up this morning to a healthy 3" accumulation, though the university salt trucks had made sure that driving surfaces were completely snow-free. Dada and I showed Isaac the winter wonderland through our front window, to which he responded, "Oh no." All his beloved cars were completely covered. You could see his little brain already forming negative opinions about this strange "snow" business: Where did this white plague come from? Would it ever go away, with its car-tainting nastiness?

Regardless of his indoor impressions of the white stuff, I figured I wouldn't be a mommy worth my salt if my little boy stayed inside this morning. He doesn't have a snow suit or a really heavy jacket yet (because we suck and are lazy), but surely 4 or 5 layers of clothes does the trick. I promise he donned gloves immediately after these pictures were taken.

"Kicking the snow could possibly be fun..."



"...but that leads to the white stuff getting stuck on my shoe. And that is YUCKY."



"Will you fools please stop taking pictures and get this crap off my shoe?" (note him saying "shoe")

Rockin' around the tree in oh-five

Last year we didn't get a Christmas tree. Isaac was a psycho-fast crawler and we had a hard enough time the year before that trying to keep cat-brother from littering the floor with shards of glass ornaments he had batted off the tree -- we figured together, the two of them were a recipe for disaster (or at least for hospital visits). This year, as far as Isaac goes, the curiosity and mobility are much advanced, but we decided having a tree now would be good for all of us to help spread the Christmas cheer (and to train us for the inevitable tree encounters that will occur when we visit the grandparents for the holidays).

We bought our tree at a small lot run by and benefiting a local boy scout troop. The scouts and their leaders were so nice and helpful, and one of them even volunteered to snap this picture of us in front of our chosen tree.



We ran to KMart for a tree skirt and some candy, because Dada and I needed chocolate fuel to help us be extra merry. We ended up buying a big canister of Martha-Stewart-approved red jingle bells, which were nice and unbreakable; we also let Isaac choose an ornament (an airplane) for himself, something that should make a nice tradition to continue in the coming years. At home, I busied myself stringing the bells up with gold ribbon (more toddler-safe than rusty metal hooks, yes?) while the boys decorated the tree together. A picture-perfect Christmas so far, don't you think?

Long overdue Thanksgiving pictures

Finally, I get around to posting pictures taken from our holiday of two weekends ago. We had four guests who drove all the way from Indiana to eat Dada's delicious turkey. We all enjoyed it, except for the resident fruitatarian, who had pancakes and blueberries for dinner:



Because of the foul and cold weather, we were mostly stuck inside. We would have bored our poor houseguests to death had it not been for our resident one-man-three-ring-circus Isaac. He engaged us all in some quality toddler time. He and Aunt Jean and Uncle Chrissy became fast friends. Aunt Jean caught them in the act of learning about the potty through the magic of a flushing story:



...and horsing around with Isaac's playhut:



Isaac's greatest discovery was that he could rope just about anyone to sitting down for endless hours with the Thomas the Tank Engine website. Here is Grandpa assisting our Junior Web Surfer:



...and then Chris and Jean teaming up for the job:



Another highlight was introducing the houseguests to their nightly show, AKA the Diaper Dash. Remember the bit from a Dana Carvey stand-up about his kids: "It's NAKED TIME!" Well, that's our guy -- opening the bathroom door after his bath is like opening the gates at the Belmont Stakes, with him shrieking gleefully and running like the dickens to flee the inevitable re-donning of the diaper. Aunt Jean caught him running out of his Cozy Coupe as a Diaperer approached:



For the entirety of the weekend, Isaac was a total ham. He can't get enough of being the center of attention. I'm thinking that our returning the visit at Christmas might be okay by him.