Dear Santa

How are you? Very busy, I'm sure, so I'll try not to take up too much of your time.  No, wait, you don't have to go check your lists to see which one I'm on... I'm sure I'm on the "nice" list.

What's that?  You've seen me sneaking extra cookies?  But that doesn't count as naughty, does it?  I mean, I'm cut off from ice cream and chocolate, so those gingerbread cookies are the only treat I can have!  Ah... I knew you'd understand.  And there will still be plenty of cookies left for you, don't worry.

Ok, it's possible that I raised my voice a time or two this year.  If you lived with a two-year-old - and not just a bunch of people that are the same height as one - you would probably raise your voice occasionally, too.  You would try very hard to remain calm when he chews up pieces of grilled cheese, decides they are yucky, takes them out of his mouth and throws them on the floor.  But if in your shock and dismay, you shouted, "STOP THAT!" it could hardly put you on the wrong Christmas list, could it?  That's right, I was provoked, so it doesn't count, either.

Hmm... you see a note of "sarcasm" next to my name, huh?  Well, I'm not sure how else one could respond to a chipper, "Good morning, how did you sleep?" from one's husband who slept a solid 9 hours while you were up every hour with the baby.  Is it possible to avoid sarcasm in that instance?  I submit that it is not.

You seem a little skeptical here, Santa, so maybe I can help you out.  I make sure that three humans and two cats have food, water, attention and (for the humans) clean clothing.  I sing songs, play games, take care of almost all diapers, hairballs, and cat puke.  I do my best to return phone calls, emails and favors.  I forego showers in order to make waffles, and give up naps to run errands.

You're right, it's true.  I should be volunteering and giving more to charity.  I'm not saying I'm at the head of your Nice list, but maybe there's some room for me... right there?  at the bottom?  What do you say?

Yes??

Yes!!

Ok, so here's what I would like for Christmas:

I want one moment.  It might come in the middle of the present-opening.  It might come just after, when everyone is busy admiring their gifts.  There will be a blurring and I will be able to look around at my family but not quite hear what they say.  I will see smiles, hear laughter, and feel nothing but love.  In that moment there will be no such things as stress or fatigue or neuroblastoma.  There will be only joy and peace.

That's all.

I know, it doesn't quite fit in a box.  It is both smaller and bigger than that.  But if you can find a way to get it to me on Saturday, I'll be even nicer next year, I promise.

Thanks, and Merry Christmas,

Jessica

Thinking about Katy Caboose

My husband has a thing for Bill Peet books.  I had never heard of Bill Peet, and when he brought home The Caboose Who Got Loose, I rolled my eyes at him after reading one page.  This was way over the head of my two-year-old.  But, since I have an entire (floor to ceiling) bookshelf filled with children's books that I love that are also too old for him, I figured I shouldn't say anything.

Until he started reading the book to Sebastian.  Did I mention that the kid is two?  And that the book takes forever to read and includes vocabulary that I might have to explain to my fourth graders?  Sebastian, of course, decided to request it over and over and over again, driving me insane because I wanted to read other, shorter books to him at night.

Now he has that book entirely memorized, and I'm pretty sure I do, too.  He understands it based on what I have told him about each page, like that Katy is nervous about being up so high as she travels up the "steep mountain grade" at the end of the train.

After reading the book a hundred times, I can't stop thinking about Katy Caboose.  She doesn't like being a caboose.  She wants to live somewhere peaceful and quiet and traveling up those mountains terrifies her.  She dreams of escaping.  One day she meets a little shack that tells her he wishes he were a caboose because she has the "best life."  She leaves again, determined to be satisfied with her lot in life.  And yet... she isn't.  As soon as the train starts up the mountainside again, she is nervous and upset all over again, sure she is going to crash down and hating the exhaust that she travels through at the back of the steam-engine-powered train.

And then it happens... Katy is jerked free of the train, goes careening down the curve and flies off the track.  Derailed!  She would have had her nightmares realized and been smashed to bits except that she gets stuck between two evergreen trees.  The crew who comes looking for her doesn't find her, and she gets to live out her days in peace and quiet, with a beautiful view.

Many people have told me recently that I sound a bit down and out, depressed, tired, etc.  They have told me that I have a lot to be thankful for (true), that I have accomplished a lot in my life (perhaps), and that this discontent will pass.  I've tried to say that I agree, and to go on and be a happy caboose at the end of the train.  But you know what?  Katy couldn't deny who she was and what she wanted, and neither can I.  Sure, there is a lot to be grateful for, and overall I love so much of my life, especially the three guys with whom I share what I hope is a happy home.

Yet I want more.

The thing is, that's ok.  It's good to feel a little uneasy sometimes in life, to feel that itch that there is something else waiting for you to open your eyes and make a move.

It doesn't mean that I don't spend a moment (or ten) every day smelling Theo's head or kissing his soft, chubby cheek.  It doesn't mean that I don't feel my heart leap as high as Sebastian does when he jumps into my arms after a good nap, chattering about what he will have for snack from the brown cupboard.

I can do all of that, and still want to find my own path.  Something that is more than diapers and laundry and dishes and playdates, and even something more than grading papers and writing lesson plans.

The real difference, I've decided, between Katy Caboose and me is that she waited for it to happen.  It happened by luck, and it was only by chance that she wasn't lost in the process.  For me, it's going to be by choice.

My choice right now is to keep soaking up these precious, sticky, chaotic moments while I can... and keep my eyes open for what's next.

(Un)Solved Mystery

So your four-month-old who previously slept consistently all night with the exception of one or two quick feedings suddenly starts waking up every hour and a half.  What's wrong?  What do you do?

I think you probably have some immediate ideas and suggestions.  If you don't find yours below, feel free to email me or comment here, because I can tell you that we are in the middle of sleep-deprivation hell (not to be confused with other kinds of hell, like not having a job hell or living in a war zone hell, both of which are obviously worse).

So this is what's been going through our minds for the past two weeks:

Maybe...

~He's teething.  (checked and saw nothing coming through, but gave Infant Tylenol just in case)
~He has a cold.  (tilted up the mattress, plugged in the humidifier, and again tried Tylenol)
~He's too hot.  (changed his sleeper for a onesie and his fleece swaddle blanket for a cotton one)
~He's too cold.  (changed back to a sleeper and replaced fan for a new sound machine)

~He needs a new diaper. (so many changes while child is screaming, I lost count)

~He's in an unfamiliar place. (left sister's house half a day early to get back to our own beds)

~He has gas.  (more cutting out of dairy so now I eat NONE, along with those gas drops)
~He has a foremilk/hindmilk imbalance.  (stopped taking fenugreek to boost milk production)
~He's going through a growth spurt.  (upped bedtime bottle to six ounces)
~He's ready for solid food.  (started him on baby oatmeal and rice cereal; he loves it.)
~He's about to make some developmental leap.  (yes, he started reaching for toys and holding them and then he rolled over from his back to tummy for the first time.  nothing we can do about that but ride it out.)

Ok, ok.  So maybe it's none of those.

Maybe it's just that (sigh) he's not yet sleep-trained to fall back to sleep on his own.

So we began phase one of the sleep training, too, on top of all of that.  And if you've ever done any method of sleep training, you know that it gets worse before it gets better and it's mentally and physically exhausting.

And suddenly he started sleeping normally again.  Five or six hour stretches, only one or two wake-ups.

Ahhhhhh.

Except that the last two nights we're back to every hour and a half.  And if I look at the list above of what we did, I have NO IDEA which of those interventions actually worked, so most of them are still in place.

Which should bring you to one conclusion:  that I am desperate for a chai latte, a pint of Chubby Hubby, and a decent night's sleep.

Toby

This is Toby.

He's Sebastian's woobie.  I think the technical term for it is transitional object and the hip term is lovey, but Mr. Mom says woobie and so say I.  Either way, he's been helping Sebastian get to sleep since he was about eight months old.

But lately Toby has taken on some new roles.

First and most importantly, he's the new BFF.  He goes EVERYWHERE with us, even if it's just upstairs or downstairs.  He helps Sebastian drive his trucks, chug chug his Thomas train, and read his books.  He stares at us while we eat now, too, because "Toby wants to sit at the table with you."

In proper best friend style, Toby cheers up Sebastian when he is mad at someone, bumps his head, or has to be apart from us.  Since Sebastian is pretty much climbing the walls these days now that it's crummy outside and his brother sleeps half the day away, there's a lot of this going on...

Me:  Sebastian, slow down, you're going to...
Sebastian: (bonking on the table or some other hard object in his way)
Me:  Are you ok?
Sebastian:  You need a kiss.  Right here (points to random body part that may or may not be what was hurt).
Me:  (giving kiss) There you go.
Sebastian:  (rushing back to get Toby) And Toby will help you feel better!!

All of this is generally pretty cute, and it has helped Sebastian feel better when he goes to his day care on Thursday mornings while Theo and I have our class together.  

Toby also regularly plays the part of The Baby.  Sebastian often tries to give Toby milk (from his arm, which is apparently how I give milk to Theo), or puts him down for his nap, or pretends Toby is crying so Sebastian can pick him up and bounce or rock him.  He has baby dolls, but Toby is the all-purpose toy these days.

Toby being picked up after "crying"

But then there is Toby, Sebastian's Evil Twin.  Toby doesn't want to go to school.  Toby doesn't want to share. Toby wants to eat some of Nyli's cat food. Toby does NOT WANT A QUICK CHANGE.  

Toby would much rather have a wet diaper and stay in bed and look at the aquarium.  See?

It's a good thing Toby's cute.

There, I said it. (updated)

Every week I get those emails from Baby Center about the development of one or the other of my children, and the ones for Theo often include a link to this poll:

Breastfeeding:
a) love it
b) hate it
c) some parts are great; some parts are difficult

I usually pick (c), but I think I'm going to come right out and admit that often I want to choose (b).

That's right, I'm going to take on the Nursing Nazis and this ridiculously controversial topic and say that I wish there were no such thing as breastfeeding.  Before I begin, I want to say a few things up front to put your mind at ease.  First, I think that for some people it is an incredible experience and... you know, kudos to them.  Second, I have definitely loved some aspects of nursing each of my boys and for sure it is easier this time around with Theo.  And third, I recognize that I don't have to breastfeed.  Which brings me to why I wish there were no such thing...

1)  You feel compelled to do it.  Many, many other talented writers have taken on this topic and poked fun at the enormous pressure we all feel and the crazy thoughts we have as parents that if we don't breastfeed we are dooming our children to lives of earaches and mediocrity.  We know intellectually it's not true.  And yet... the "breast is best" message is nearly impossible to ignore if you pay attention to anything related to parenting whatsoever.  And the data just keeps on rolling out to support that breastmilk is better than formula for so many reasons I don't have time to write them all down before someone wakes up.

So it's pretty hard to tell yourself that what's best for your children is also not having a mother who is insane (see reasons for insanity below) and that they will be just fine.  Even though you KNOW it's true, you've met people who are perfectly normal who had pretty much all formula and even if you've given formula to your older child.  You still feel this crazy guilt for not breastfeeding.  You feel the need to explain to people why you stopped or why you supplement with formula, because total strangers will parrot "breast is best" at you if you don't.  (I'm not making that up.  People are obnoxious.)

Even saying this out in the blogosphere leads to comments about the fact that you shouldn't have children if you're not prepared to make sacrifices for them, which is both rude and stupid since fathers get to become parents without this enormous burden.  I think the pressure to do it is one of the absolute worst aspects of this job.  If no one cared how we fed our children as long as we fed them, it would be a lot easier.

2)  It sets the mother up as the default parent.  I thought surely I had written about the default parent before on this blog, but somehow that topic never got out of my head.  But you know what I'm talking about, call it what you will:  Default parent, Parent of Last Resort, the Nursing Mom.  You are the person who MUST be with the baby every 2-4 hours or else you have to pump or supplement (see below about the breastpumps, a.k.a. the bane of my existence).  And how many of us have had the tired father hold out the screaming baby and say, "I'm pretty sure he's hungry," and you try not to have your head explode because seriously you just fed that kid an hour ago and two hours before that and SURELY he isn't hungry, but then you take him and he snuggles in and eats like you've been starving him and the dad looks at you like, "See?  Of course I couldn't calm him down," and it's a good thing you're busy nursing because otherwise you'd throw something at him.  {Or maybe that's just me.  But I don't think so.}  The point is that then YOU HAVE THE BABY, and in order to get any time to yourself you have to ask someone else to take him after you're done nursing, whereas everyone else has a clear endpoint to their time with the child - when he needs to eat again.  Sometimes you, the nursing mother, could have him all day before anyone else notices.

3)  Wardrobe malfunctions.  Honestly, having to spend a ton of money on special nursing gear seems crazy, but if you don't then you end up having to lift up your entire shirt every couple of hours, which is cold and also a bit much for people who have any kind of desire for personal privacy.  It's fine in the comfort of your own home, but who stays home all day every day?  And no matter what you wear out, you have to choose between using a blanket or nursing cover or risk snide comments about nursing in public, no matter how legal and supposedly acceptable it is.  Finally, I don't know how many times I have also forgotten to pull my tank top back up and walked around with half my bra showing without realizing it.  Using a bottle?  Rated E for everyone.

4)  Breastpumps.  Seriously.  I hate these things.  They have a zillion parts that have to be cleaned after every pumping, and they look like medieval torture devices.  Yes, they allow people to continue "breastfeeding" even if they go back to work.  But they don't let you truly skip a feeding because every time you don't nurse you have to pump or else you have less milk the next day.  So it's not like this is a free pass to get a day off.  You still need to be disrobing every couple of hours (see above).  I knew my experience of pumping at work was about to end the day I looked down while pumping in the conference room off my classroom and saw that I was pumping out my own blood.  I kid you not.  Apparently I had gotten some kind of cut earlier without knowing it and as I watched the pump go, red liquid was being squeezed out of me and into the little collector bottle.  Clearly I am still traumatized.

5)  Night duty.  This goes back to the default parenting, but really, if you're nursing then you're the one who's sleep-deprived, end of story, unless you night-wean or pump enough at some other point in the day.  I've tried to have other people take night shifts, but then everyone just ends up tired because I still have to get up to nurse even if the other person then changes the diaper, puts the baby back to bed, etc.  It's helpful once in a while, but for the most part it's all me, every night.  Every.  Night.

6)  Better bonding with bottles.  Everyone says that you bond more with your baby when you breastfeed because you have to hold him closely for every feeding.  You see pictures of these blissed-out mothers (who I'm convinced are mostly just massively sleep-deprived based on #5) and their babies gazing up at them.  I have never found this to be the case.  Both of my boys nursed with eyes closed or staring vaguely off in the distance.  When I give them a bottle, they stare up at me with all the adoration a mother could want.  So to me the bonding was a lot better when I gave up the breastfeeding.  I know, that's not true for everyone, which is why I put it last.

I know, I know, I've made it sound like it's all bad.  It's not.  It is awesome always having his food with me and ready to go, no bottles necessary.  I'm proud, knowing that all of Theo's weight gain so far is my accomplishment.  I love rubbing his soft little head while he eats and holding his tiny hand, neither of which I seem to do when he takes his evening bottle.  That's why I choose (c) on the poll.

I'm all for choices, and I'm happy that many mothers get to choose how to feed their babies.  But I wish there were no such thing as breastfeeding so that one choice wasn't considered better than another by overwhelming consensus.  And so OUR choice to have children doesn't feel overwhelmingly like MY responsibility for the first year (or so) of each child's life.

I'd come up with a clever ending here, but it's time for me to nurse the baby.

---------------
Wow, I know I'm low on functioning brain cells when I forget two of my top reasons why breastfeeding is so hard.

7)  It hurts.  I'm going to interrupt you and your "If it hurts, you're doing it wrong," mantra and say that it hurts no matter what.  At least at the beginning, and occasionally at the start of each feeding, and definitely if you get horrible things like cracked nipples, mastitis, or a blocked duct.  Those last three caused major toe-curling pain, and I wasn't doing anything wrong according to the hospital's lactation consultant.  It just goes with the territory for a lot of moms.

8) The limited diet.  Sure, we know about not having a glass of wine too often (or pumping and dumping), but for some unlucky moms there is the realization that what we are eating is causing some gastrointestinal distress for our little ones.  That's the fancy way of saying they get awful gas and wake up many times a night wriggling their lower halves, crying, and tooting like an old Chevy.  It's no fun to give up most forms of dairy, I assure you, though it is worth the extra sleep we both get.  Still, when it's Saturday and I know I used to enjoy my Ben & Jerry's and relax after the boys' bedtimes, I do curse the power(s) that be for inventing this breastfeeding nonsense.

And now you know what I'll be doing the very day I finally wean Theo:  eating an entire pint of Chubby Hubby.

Right now

I've received many kind responses to my latest posts, most of which gently reminded me to count my blessings and enjoy the moment.  Cliché, but excellent advice nonetheless.  So here I go.

Top 10 reasons I'm grateful to be a stay-at-home parent this year:

10.  I can sleep in until 8 or 9 if one or both boys has had a rough night.
  9.  Each boy and I get to go to a fabulous parent-child class through Bellevue College once a week.
  8.  I don't have to spend five nights a week frantically packing lunches and diaper bags.
  7.  I only have to pump once a day instead of four times.
  6.  Rather than thinking about lesson plans, I can spend time with my mom discussing her cool doctoral project(s).
  5.  I've had time to discover the wonderful world of blogs and Facebook, all of which have helped me to make new friends, reconnect with old ones, and feel closer to my family.
  4.  I'm able to take a step back and think about what direction I want to take next in my career.
  3.  Being "free" on weekdays has allowed me to explore the lovely area in which we live: parks, playgrounds, museums, stores, and other fabulous places for families.
  2.  Instead of grading papers at night or on weekends, I'm able to talk to my sister after she's had a grueling day at the hospital, or to go visit Xavier when he's home.

and best of all...

  1.  I don't have to ask anyone else how Sebastian or Theo's day was.  I was there for (almost) every giggle, tear, and new discovery.

Halloween, his way

I should have known how it would turn out, and yet I was as surprised as I always am when the stories begin that way.

First, I should say that I LOVE holidays.  I was one of those people who was fortunate enough to have a happy childhood, and that childhood is filled with memories of the special events that surround special days.  Moving out west meant that holidays held a bittersweet taste for me as I had to figure out how to celebrate them away from the rest of my family.  And when I say "bittersweet" I mean that I cried on most of them for the first two years.

But then I became a parent.  Suddenly the idea of holidays was exciting again.  We could do all those things that I did growing up!  We could pass on traditions that the kids would love as much as I did!

Sebastian obliged for the first year, more or less.  He let us dress him in a pumpkin suit for the his first Halloween, took a bite of oatmeal on his first Thanksgiving, pulled on the wrapping paper for his first Christmas.  He did it all again with slightly more enthusiasm the second time around, but still with no real awareness of the holiday. Each time I thought how it would be even more fun when he was old enough to really participate, get excited with me, and actually do the traditions I remembered doing.  This is going to be the best year yet! I told myself.

The kid loves to eat and he's starting to play pretend, so Halloween is going to be awesome, right?  We'll get to go trick-or-treating for the first time!  Hurray!

So we go to the consignment store to pick out a Halloween costume.
"Do you want to be a lion or a tiger?" I asked him.  Those were the two that were the right size and not too odd.
"No tiger," he said.
"Ok, so a lion, then?"
"You don't want to be a lion."
I try to explain.  "You dress up as a lion or a tiger and then you go to the neighbors' houses and you get CANDY."
"You don't want to pretend to be a lion or a tiger," he tells me.

And that's the point at which I definitely should have known how it would turn out.  Because you already know, don't you?  You can see it coming, even if I could not.

I bought the lion costume.  We'll figure it out later, I told myself.  Some weeks passed.  I brought it up every so often, how he was going to be a lion for Halloween.  I even got him to say what he would pretend to be and what a lion says and he seemed all set.  But any time I tried to put the costume on him?  "You don't want to be a lion!" he said, in an admittedly good imitation of said beast.

As we got closer, we were looking for a bear costume for our baby bear and my mom stumbled across a Thomas the train costume.  Sebastian is all about Thomas, so we gave him a choice to be the lion or Thomas.  He chose Thomas, of course, and I thought that maybe the problem was just that he wasn't that into the lion.  But now he was all set and we could do Halloween!  Hurray!

The holiday arrived.  We had picked out the pumpkins, bought the candy, and chosen the costumes.  Except that Sebastian refused to be Thomas.  He would SAY he wanted to be Thomas, was going to be Thomas, but "no, thank you" to actually putting on the costume.

We tried to practice trick-or-treating so that he got the idea and got excited.  He happily trick-or-treated around the living room to each of the three adults, pretending to ring the door bell, saying the famous words, and getting his piece of candy for his little pumpkin pail.  But try as we might, we could not convince him to put on the costume or do anything really except state that he wanted whatever candy we had just given him.  We gave him a little piece of a Three Musketeers with his dinner.  He was sold on the candy part, no problem.  But the costume?  "NO, THANK YOU!"

We explained that you have to wear the costume in order to get the candy.  We practiced again and again.  He finally agreed to wear the hat.  Then as he practiced one last time, I slipped the costume on and took a picture while he examined his practice loot.

And then he was done.  I took it off, and figured we'd just carry it along with us as we went trick-or-treating.

It didn't really hit me until we were walking up the steps of the neighbor's house.  Practice wasn't going to matter in the least.  Sebastian wasn't going to do this.  He hates talking to strangers.  He gets shy if people say hi to him in grocery stores, he cries if they get too close to his personal space.  He loves his family and the friends he sees often, but everyone else is suspect.

So the idea that this kid was going to wear strange clothes, go up to anyone's house, say trick-or-treat and thank you, and do this repeatedly?  Was completely ridiculous.

We went to the house of neighbors we see often.  He stood, mesmerized by the bowl of candy she held out for him, completely tongue-tied.  We said the magic words and chose his candy, and he said thank you and practically flew down the steps and away.

But wait!  What's that you say?  You say they gave us M&Ms??

Ok, one more house.

This time he may have mumbled trick-or-treat, I'm not sure.  He definitely said thank you when he got M&Ms again.

And that was it.  It was time to go home.  "But there are more houses," we told him, "and we can get more candy."

He looked in his pumpkin pail and then up at me.  "You want some?" he said.

"Ok, let's go to a few more houses and then we can go home and have some."

He looked in the pumpkin pail again and up at me again.  "You want some," he said more firmly.

So I paused for two seconds that was more like two hours as I realized what was happening here.

I was trying to make Sebastian do Halloween.  I had spent half the day convincing him to dress up, to trick-or-treat, to get candy that I didn't even really want him to eat!  I had wanted the pictures, the celebration, the excitement, the moment.

Sebastian?  Just wanted to sit back and watch and see what this whole thing was about.  Well, that and the M&Ms.

So that's what he got.

He snuggled up with his Gramma, ate his M&Ms, and watched the bigger kids come and go, saying trick-or-treat in their excited voices and getting their candy and racing around our street.

I've had to learn this before.  That my children are not extensions of me; they are their own people.  That they won't always love what I love or do what I expect them to do.  That I have to let Sebastian be Sebastian.

And you know what?  He did love Halloween.  He loved it his way.


---
Postscript.  His brother, however, did let me dress him up.  The bear costume we found was too big, so here is our little pumpkin.

Thirty-two

It doesn't seem that special.  It's not the age at which you're legally allowed to do anything for the first time.  It's not a multiple of ten or five that lets you celebrate a new decade or being halfway through.  My husband pointed out that it's two to the fifth power.  My stepfather wished me happy 10,000.  They are both computer programmers of one sort or another, so they'll forgive me if I didn't see the interest of the number the way they do.

Thirty-two.

I don't know where I thought I'd be by now, but it wasn't here.

Here.  In Washington, so freaking far from most of my family.

Here.  At home, alone with two boys, thanking my lucky stars that they are taking their afternoon naps at the same time.

Here.  On leave from a career I'm still unsure of.

I thought by now I'd have met more of my life goals.  I thought I'd HAVE more life goals.  I keep looking around, wondering what I'm doing here and where There is going to be.

Birthdays are different now.  I didn't want any particular thing.  I just wanted some sleep, a happy birthday from my guys, and a little time to think about my life.  I got all three, along with a brownie that Sebastian sprinkled for me with leftover sprinkles from his birthday.  The time to myself came as I sat, eyes closed softly, while a lovely lady at the hair salon washed, cut, and dried my hair.  I couldn't believe how relaxing it was, a testament to how hectic most of my other moments are now.

But I still don't know what I think about my life.  I feel lost, awash in the everyday-ness of it all, unable to look beyond Tomorrow or maybe Next Week.  I read and am impressed by so many people in real life and in the world out there... people who are making a difference, pursuing their dreams, starting new careers or side projects, creating beauty and order... and I feel... flat.  How can I fail to be inspired by these amazing examples all around me?  Instead I feel embarrassed that I am just sitting here, self-indulgent as I type in this blog instead of finding my passion and running away with it.

I've told myself many times that my children are my passion right now.  Spending these early years with them is important, to me and to them.  It's true and yet I have a hole where something else belongs.  Something that is uniquely me; something that is a purpose.  I just haven't found it yet.

Thirty-two was never a particularly special number to me, but maybe it's the bend in the road.  Maybe the rest of my life is waiting around this corner.  I guess that's what I'm about to find out.

Let me explain...

I can't turn it off.  

The judgmental conga line in my head always starts dancing around when I'm with other parents of small children.  It's not the other parents I'm judging, though.  What I hear in my head are the comments I'm afraid they are making about me in their own thoughts.   

When I'm alone with my boys, I feel like I'm doing an ok job at this whole parenting thing.  Mostly, anyway.  I manage to get everyone fed and clothed, I smile and laugh with them, I play and give them time to play alone, I feed them more or less healthful food, I make sure they are home for naps.  I generally follow the guidelines of most of the parenting experts that I've decided know what the heck they're talking about.

But days alone with small children are a bit lacking in sophisticated - or even normal - conversation, so I try to meet up with other adults.  This is when the trouble begins.

As soon as another adult enters my day, my brain splits into three parts.

Part one:  Woohoo!  Someone who understands four-syllable words!  I have so many conversations I want to cram into this next hour!

Part two:  What is Sebastian doing?  Is Theo getting sleepy?  Ok, baby, let's swaddle you for snoozing.  Yes, Sebastian, I see the train.  Yes, Sebastian.  Ok, Sebastian.  Just a minute, Sebastian.  How do you ask nicely, Sebastian?  

Part three:  Oh, lord, I just gave Sebastian juice with his snack.  I know it's because his cold is making his nose run a mile a minute and he won't drink enough water, so this is the way to ensure that he'll get some fluids, but that other parent might think I'm one of Those Parents who gives her kid juice all the time even though you're not supposed to and so now instead of a great conversation about something other than children I should probably mention the reason I'm giving him juice today and how I don't normally do that and I really watered it down...

I know you're thinking what I'm thinking.  Part three is the Crazy Part of my brain.  You're right.  And yet I can't stop it.  I think I spent half of the last four days with lovely friends who were visiting explaining myself and making excuses and apologizing for my less than ideal parenting behavior and my messy house.  These were friends who were completely sympathetic to the fact that we all got sick the very morning they arrived and who are so far from judgmental that it was silly for me to be wasting valuable conversation time.  But I couldn't help it.

I also find that I really am a less than stellar parent whenever we're on playdates or at classes or in public in general.  I don't want to have the Toddler Conversation when there are adults around.

{You know, the Toddler Conversation.

Toddler:  That's a big, red ball right there.

Parent:  Yes, it is!

Toddler:  That really is a big, red ball right there.

Parent:  You're right!  Are you going to kick it?

Toddler:  Are you going to kick it?

Parent:  Yeah, are you going to kick the big, red ball?

Toddler (joyfully):  That's a big red ball right there!

Parent (sighing):  Yes, it is a big, red ball.

Is it just my kid who fixates on things?  Another question for another time.}

Anyway, so I don't want to spend time on big, red balls when I could be talking about...well, anything else.  And when I'm talking about anything else, I might not be as quick to react when my kid is asking a zillion questions or is about to do a face plant as he's trying to step around one toy to get to another.  I'm always sure that the other parent thinks that I'm totally neglectful and that it's amazing that Sebastian isn't covered in bruises.

Then there are the inevitable misbehaviors by my toddler.  They happen when we're alone too, of course, but I just deal with them.  When someone else is around, they take on a new light.   I'm trying to ignore his screaming tantrums when he doesn't get his way so that he stops getting attention from them and stops having them.  Occasionally other parents will try to fill what they see as a breach.  Then the conversation has to turn to my parenting strategy on tantrums.  (This almost never works, however.  Few people have the capacity to ignore Sebastian's tantrums.  They are annoyingly effective at attracting attention.)

All the while I am sure the other parent is a) thanking her lucky stars that her kid doesn't have screaming tantrums over crackers or b) judging whether my strategy of ignoring is pretty much the dumbest thing she's ever heard and is wondering whether to ask if I've tried telling him to stop or to give him time outs. (Yes, yes, I have.  They don't work.)

I have no idea if either of these reactions is true, but because I am so busy wondering if I'm a bad parent because my kid is screaming, I assume that the other person is wondering the same thing.

And the house.  Oh man, don't get me started on the embarrassment that is my house.  But not all the time.  Only on days when I've (foolishly) invited someone over to play.  Why is it that the boys never sleep on the days before the playdate so I can clean??  I won't see my neighbor for weeks at a time when my house is more or less put together and my chores are all happily checked off the list.  Then I get sick, the boys get sicker, the house goes to hell, and ...yep...there's the knock at the door.  Hi, D!  Welcome to my wreck of a house.  Sigh.  I want to explain that it's not always like this, but what's the point?  And am I just kidding myself?  I think it's like this more often than not these days.

My point, my point.  Yes, I have one.  Parenting has brought me to levels of insecurity I didn't know I possessed.

I just hope the people around us are a lot less judgmental than their imaginary counterparts in my head.  

And that I can turn off those voices soon, because I'm pretty sure that hearing voices is one of the first signs of insanity. 

Popcorn Days

Yes, I'm still here...just never on my computer.  You see, there is almost no time whatsoever from 7 a.m. to 9 p.m. when both boys are actually asleep.  Most days I get about 40 minutes, in which I run around like a madwoman trying to finish at least one household chore and one Must Do item on my task list.

But not all breakless days are created equal.

Some days neither boy takes a decent nap.  Theo wakes up after 40 minutes all three (or four) times I put him down.  Sebastian is up after an hour or so.  They are cranky and overtired and by the end of the day I want to run screaming into the night.

And then there are Popcorn Days.

These are the days in which they sleep on completely opposite schedules.  One goes down within five minutes or so of the other waking up.  When that one finally goes down, the other wakes up.  Repeat all day... one up, one down.

But Popcorn Days - though still tiring - are also wonderful.  I have each boy to myself for a chunk of time.  I can laugh and sing songs with Sebastian.  I can coax an almost-giggle out of Theo.  And neither one is overtired.  They are at their best, even if I'm not quite.

Popcorn Days remind me how much fun each stage of childhood is.  I'm not wishing Theo could just sit and play by himself while I feed Sebastian, nor wishing Sebastian would STOP SINGING FOR TWO FREAKING SECONDS so it's quiet enough for me to put Theo down for his nap.

Instead, I am reveling in the wonder of wherever each boy is and how lucky I am to be a part of his life.

There are wonderful moments on other days when they are both awake and Sebastian kisses Theo on the head and is rewarded with a big, gummy smile.

But Popcorn Days are the best.

(Until the day when they both sleep for two hours in the afternoon at the same time, of course.  Is that day ever coming??  Please let me believe in it for a while longer.)

A little note

Dear Theo,

Clearly you already have a sense of humor, what with following up your stellar sleeping through the night routine with a three-day (and counting) growth spurt.  Eating every hour and a half or two hours, even through the night, is exhausting us both.  Seriously, baby bear, you are 14 pounds already.  I think you can just hang out at this size for a while.  Let's enjoy the fall clothes before you outgrow them because everything in the next size up is for winter, buddy.  Also, my back is killing me and I could use another month or so to get those muscles geared up for carrying around a bigger baby.

So, yeah.  Enough with the constant eating.  The Dairy Queen needs a night off.

Much love,
the mama

The difference sleep makes

It's been said before, and it will be said again many times before my children are grown and gone:

Sleep makes all the difference.

Ok, maybe not ALL the difference.  But a huge difference.

First of all, when the kids don't sleep well, I don't sleep well.  When they don't nap, I don't get things done during the day, which means I have to do them at night when they finally go to bed, which means I get less sleep before they wake up and we repeat the chaos, only this time way more exhausted.

When they don't sleep at night, I don't sleep at night, end of story, no explanation needed.  Except, wait...what's that you say?  You want to know whether my husband can get up with them and I can still sleep?  Yeah,  right.

When my husband doesn't sleep 8 or 9 hours a night, he yawns repeatedly all morning, making me want to hit him with a pillow and chronicle how much more sleep he has gotten than I did.  He then falls asleep randomly during the day, usually right when one child needs to eat and other needs to nap or when one needs a change and the other needs attention or...well, you get the idea.  Never at a helpful time.  Since I juggle them all week, I'd rather not do it all weekend, too.

When I don't sleep, I am foggy, inefficient, unable to carry on a conversation, incapable of answering questions from a 2-year-old patiently 100 times each.  I am grumpy and apparently likely to want to hit people with pillows (look, he's lucky it's nothing harder.  I can't remember the last time I slept 8 or 9 hours straight).

But I do settle into a sleep-deprived routine, learning how to get everyone fed, clothed, and more or less entertained on 4 to 6 hours of interrupted sleep a night and no nap - because heaven forbid both boys nap at the same time for more than 30 minutes - and I start to forget that it was ever different.

Until a miracle happens.

A miracle titled "The Baby Slept Through the Night"!

No, it's not really sleeping through my night, it's that stupid textbook definition of more than 6 hours straight, but you know what?  I'll take it.

Theo slept for 7 straight hours last night, of which I slept five and a half!!

He then ate and fell back to sleep for 2 and a half hours!

I know it's not a miracle, he's just getting older, but I swear when the sun came up I heard angels and a hallelujah.  (Except that I didn't, because I was ASLEEP!)

And then I remember that sleep makes the difference between the person who's been impersonating me for the past three months and the Real Me.

So maybe I was right the first time: sleep makes all the difference.

The first day

Yesterday wasn't the first day that I'd ever spent alone with the boys, but the first in a long time.  They rose to the challenge by refusing to take any afternoon naps, which resulted in there being not one minute for about 10 hours in which I didn't have to deal with one boy or the other.  This wouldn't have been so bad had they been well-rested and just on opposite schedules, but no.  They were cross, I was cross.  They were tired, I was exhausted.

And yet there was this moment:

...which made the day seem not so bad.  Wonderful, even.

All the milestones are exciting, but the first laugh is one of the very best.

Hunkering down

Three more days before I am full-time on my own with my two boys.  I know, you can't believe I haven't been on my own already by now, but we were lucky to have a lot of help and four full weeks of paternity leave from Microsoft.  So I've spent the last few months buying too much stuff and getting ready to spend A LOT of time at home while someone or the other is napping.  Here's what we now have:

In the backyard:
*a mini-picnic table
*a climber with two slides
*a sand box with a ton of digging and sifting toys
*a water table
*a tricycle (ok, this is in the garage)
*8 front steps, which are apparently far more interesting to Sebastian than any of the above.  Sigh.

In the house (for SP):
*practically every category of toy imaginable, including...
*a bed, highchair, and stroller for "Sebastian's baby" who is otherwise nameless
*a mini-kitchen, shopping cart, and tons of fake food
*at least 2 of every vehicle you can think of
*tool box
* building blocks/Legos/Lincoln logs
*a dollhouse complete with baby, who always seems to need a "quick change" or a nap
*a box full of "noisy toys" that will soon be the bane of my existence
*so many books I think we could have our own children's library
*a snack table that doubles as an art table, with many, many (washable) art supplies
*two dice that are apparently far more enticing to Sebastian than any of the above.  Double sigh.

In the house (for Theo):
*swing
*playmat
*bouncy seat
*mobile attached to crib
*aquarium (coming soon to a crib near us)
*Bumbo and Jumperoo waiting in the wings for the next month or two!
*Mama's arms, which are far more comforting than any of the above.  Bittersweet sigh.

In the house (for Mama):
*the nook so I can read books one-handed, along with fancy nightlight so I can read while someone falls asleep at 4 in the morning
*the Wii so I can work out with Wii Active, courtesy of EA Sports.  (Stop laughing.  I'll start doing it eventually.)
*Netflix that I can stream over the laptop or aforementioned Wii
*and this fabulousness, which anyone who has ever had two small children in cloth diapers will instantly understand is almost as exciting as any of the above.

Sigh of relief.

I think we're ready for fall.

The thinking chair

We have discovered the joys of "Blue's Clues" these days.  We got a Wii a while back and can now stream Netflix movies over it, including three seasons of Steve and his dog Blue.  Typically Sebastian doesn't watch tv, but this show is great!  Well, it's great for him.  For me it's Daily Tedium.  It gets us through the dinner hour, though, so who am I to complain?  The funniest thing is that Steve has a Thinking Chair that he uses to ponder the three clues before solving that day's puzzle.  Sebastian was delighted to find that he, too, has a red Thinking Chair!  Now this is where he sits while he watches.

I suspect this Thinking Chair may get used as a place to ponder other important toddler lessons like Why We Don't Scream and Sharing is Hard But You Better Get Used To It...

Yes, they are brothers

Two years... things change, things stay the same...

Sebastian yawning, Sept. 2008

Theo yawning, Sept 2010

Sebastian's tummy time, 2008

Theo's tummy time, Sept. 2010

Sebastian's smile, Sept 2008

Theo's smile, Sept. 2010

Conclusions:
*The playmat is a big hit....
*...except when it's time for nap.
*Two more pounds makes for a noticeably chubbier baby.
*These boys have smiles that make my heart melt.
*They look like brothers.  I love it.

Future posts

Titles of posts I wish I had time to write:

~A new perspective
~It's ok to complain when things suck
~What not to say: the sick child edition
~Back to toddler school
~To Montessori or not to Montessori
~When Daddy is home
~Sleeping with a bear cub
~Hanging onto my career by a thread
~Smiley faces and gold stars unite
~The carpet wreckers
~Endless laundry
~Ode to my Nook
~Frere Jacques and other earworms
~Are you ready to say sorry?
~The difference sleep makes
~Growth spurt
~Yes, they are brothers

Someday I'll have time to write again.  Perhaps even someday soon.

Self-portrait

...of the Photographer as a Young Man:

{subtitled:  Sebastian Entertains Himself with BlackBerry While Mama Feeds Theo.}

A conversation

Me:  This doesn't make sense.

God:  I get that a lot.

Me:  And?

God:  It makes sense to me.

Me:  I'm not finding that helpful at the moment.  How do these terrible things happen to people?  Why do they happen to small children?

God:  It would take me a really long time to explain every part of my plan to you.

Me:  I'm on leave.  Sometimes they sleep and I can skip the chores.  I have time.

God:  More time than that.

Me:  Hmpf.

God:  Wasn't there something you wanted to ask for?  Besides the Answer to Everything?

Me:  Ah, yes.  I want him to be healthy.  You know, now.

God:  That sounds an awful lot like a demand.  Didn't they teach you the right way to pray after 13 years of Catholic School?

Me:  Yes.  I should say, if it's your will.  Or I should ask for courage or strength or something.  I really don't care about the right way.  I'm just saying it like it is.  I want what I want.

God (sighing):  You and 4 billion other people.

Me:  But what *I* want is RIGHT.

God:  I know you think that.

Me:  Are you saying it's wrong?

God:  I'm not saying that either.  I'm just saying that if you make demands, you may end up disappointed.  At the very least, you're not understanding the way this all works.

Me:  You know, this is exactly why people stop believing.  There's no good answer you can give me for why a two-year-old would get sick.

God:  I know you think that.

Me:  You already said that.  You're starting to tick me off with this whole Omniscient attitude.

God:  Listen, that's why it's called faith.  You have to hang on even in the tough times.  You have to believe that there's a plan.

Me:  Yeah, but you know what?  I don't.  There can't be any reason for this.

God:  I didn't say there was a reason.  I said there was a plan.

Me:  What do you mean?

God:  People have come up with all kinds of crazy ideas, like that there are reasons for everything.  Sometimes things just happen.  But that doesn't mean that there isn't a plan I have to help you through.

Me:  This oughta be good...

God:  That's why you were taught to ask for courage, strength, love, wisdom... all that... instead of making demands.  My plan is to be there to help you out when bad things happen.  Stop looking for reasons.

Me:  Hmpf.   (thinking...)  This sucks, you know.

God:  I know.

Me:  No one needs this.

God:  No.  But I'm with you.

Me:  Doesn't feel like it.  Feels a lot more like you're sitting there watching, knowing how awful this is and not doing anything about it.

God:  I'm doing plenty.

Me:  Oh, really?

God:  I've sent you talented doctors.  I've surrounded you with family and friends who love you.  And the best thing?

Me:  (waiting, arms crossed, frowning)

God:  I've given you hope.

Me:  (big, shaky sigh)  What if all of that isn't good enough?

God:  It will be.

Me:  You haven't heard the last of me, you know.

God:  I certainly hope not.

Me:  And I'm not entirely sure I believe any of this.

God:  Oh, I think you do.

Me:  Always with the smug self-assurance.

God:  Many millennia of practice.

Me:  All right.  Well.  I've got phone calls to make, diapers to change, boys to snuggle, tears to shed...

God:  You go ahead.  I'll be here when you come back.

1000 steps

1.  One o'clock in the morning.  The baby is fed, changed, swaddled, and ready to go back to bed.  Now to start the orbit around the kitchen island, employing that bouncy gait guaranteed to lull a newborn to sleep.  I begin counting my steps.  I can make it to 1000, I tell myself, before I might need to wake anyone up to help.

75.  For the love of heaven, don't spit out the pacifier anymore.  I need you to just take it and go to sleep.  I see those yawns, I know you're tired.  Give in, little one.  Just give in.

110.  Two years ago I would've been sitting on the purple exercise ball, bouncing Sebastian, but willing him to go to sleep with the same fervor.  Should I get out that exercise ball?  No, I don't want to look at it every day, or have to explain to people that I'm not subjecting my child to shaken infant syndrome by using it.

335.  Three weeks feels like an eternity with a newborn.  Everyone says I should be easy on myself, stop trying to do it all.  But I'm tired of being an invalid.  I'm ready to get on with this new normal.  Ready to pick up Sebastian again - to cuddle him, of course, but also to remind him who's in charge here when he's pitching a fit.  He's getting a little too big for those britches these days.

451.  The new normal terrifies me.  Alone most of the week with two small people.  Changing diapers.  Constant feedings of one or the other.  Begging the universe to give me at least an hour of overlapping naps in order to have my brain to myself.  Coordinating the carrier, the stroller, the diaper bag, the schedules, the boys.  Is this really what my life is going to be about?  I'm not afraid I can't do it.  I'm afraid I don't want to.  And then I feel guilty.

504.  Oh no.  Not the hiccups.  I was more than halfway there and he was almost totally asleep!  ARGH.

660.  This time goes by fast.  I know that from looking at Sebastian.  So it's going to be hard for a few months, and there will be too many diapers.  But then they will both be bigger, Sebastian will be off to preschool, and I'll be going back to work part-time, sad that my time at home is up.  But... will I?  Will I be able to find a position in the district that will work for me?  Am I willing to share a classroom again?  Is being a teacher even what I am supposed to be doing?  I should really stop reading that Yale Alumni magazine.  It just depresses me to hear what fabulousness my classmates are all doing while I am home breastfeeding and cleaning up spilled yogurt.

722.  Look at that sweet face.  I can only see it every 20 steps as I pass the glow of the oven clock, but that is enough to show me that he's finally dropped off.  Ok... should I keep walking, just to be sure?  Why not?  I can make it to 1000.  C-sections are no match for me and my need to do it myself.

790.  A squirming, a red face, a wiggling of the lower body.  Gas.  Dang it.  At times like these, it feels like I will never sleep again.

815.  Ok, asleep again, that wasn't so bad, just one time around the island.  Shouldn't have panicked.

903  I should be grateful, I know.  I'm lucky to have the option to stay home with my boys, and the idea of only seeing them nights and weekends doesn't work for me at all.  I think I'd be fine with these years off if I knew what I wanted to do afterward.  But I don't.  I'm not sure teaching - at least not what I was doing - is really my passion.  But I haven't really proven to myself that I can be great at it yet.  And if it isn't my passion, then what is?  Why don't I know this already??

960.  So close.  Two more times around.  Look at that sleep smile!  I love that, and the little giggle when he's dreaming of something funny.

982.  One more lap.  One more shift done.  One more year in which to make life changes.  I have to remember to enjoy it, for more than just the transition it is.  Hard to do that when your brain is mush and you are filled with envy for everyone else and their "regular lives."  Ugh, have to control this negativity.  I took almost a thousand steps and still ended up feeling depressed.  Must conquer this bad attitude in order to sort out life goals.

1000.  Sleep wins!  Both of us to bed.  There will be a thousand more steps tomorrow and a hundred more questions.  And maybe, just maybe, an answer or two.

FAQ

I'm working on writing out Theo's birth story, but lest anyone think we fell off the planet, here are some tidbits:

How are you?
I'm as fine as you can be when sleeping two hours together feels like a lot.

How's the recovery going?
Way, way better than I expected and more slowly than I'd like.  I'm still not supposed to pick up much more than the baby, so my toddler is frustrated and so am I.  But I was off the heavy painkillers within a week and off the ibuprofin within two.  Every so often I grab an Advil, but otherwise I'm in pretty good shape as far as the pain goes.  Still have trouble bending over and finding a comfortable sleeping position, but pregnancy got me used to that!

What does Sebastian think of Theo?
At this point, not too much.  Theo eats and sleeps a lot, which isn't all that interesting.  He likes him best when he's alert, at which point he wants to hug and kiss him and hold his hand.  It's very sweet.

Sebastian's still getting lots of attention with so many adults in the house, so he hasn't been jealous much.  He doesn't like being asked to be quiet when anyone is sleeping, so that's probably his number one complaint.  Our chief complaint is that he likes to scream when he doesn't get his way, which is irritating regardless of whether anyone is sleeping!  We're working on it, but I sense some time-outs in our near future...

What's it like having a newborn again?
It's both wonderful and terrible, as anyone who's had one knows.  We are exhausted, thrilled, remembering our way, and charting new territory all at the same time.

Theo is a fabulous sleeper except around 2 a.m., and ate his way to an impressive one pound gain over his birth weight within his first 11 days of life!  Haven't weighed him since then, but it's a relief that so far the eating and sleeping are going so much better than they did the first time around.  He cries mostly when he gets his diaper changed, and wakes up grunting and squeaking to tell me he's hungry, rather than wailing.

Speaking of which, there's my little squeaker now...

What's in a name?

Well, I'm finally returning to the land of the living after a week and a half.  Many people have asked about the c-section experience (compared to the first), how my recovery is going, what it's like having a newborn again, how Sebastian is handling it all, etc.  Sounds like I need to do a FAQ post next.  But the name thing is what's on my mind today, so that's what I'm going to write about.

First, about the easy parts of the names.  People have asked me how we chose the boys' names, if they have any significance, etc.  So the answer is yes and no.  We just liked Sebastian and Theodore.  They felt right and were not ridiculously common (I hated being "Jessica F." all through school, even though I loved my name), but are traditional enough to not be confusing to people or often misspelled or mispronounced.

As for middle names, we took Sebastian's middle name - Paul - from many members of our family.  Most notably, that is my grandfather's first name and my brother's middle name.  It is also the name or middle name of several uncles and a cousin.

Theo's middle name - Nathan - came from taking off the first two letters off Jonathan's name.  We contemplated using Nathan as a first name, but it's just crazy common and didn't seem to fit this little person. My husband also thinks it's cool that Theodore has the same name meaning as Jonathan, which is "gift of God."

So that's it for the first two names.  Now for the last two...

If  you know us in real life or have read on the blog, you know that "Rasler" is not the official last name of any member of my family.  It is a blend of my last name and my husband's that we use as a kind of unifier when it's helpful to refer to ourselves collectively.  In my experience, this is the main reason why so many people (women, mostly) change their names when they get married - to feel like they are part of one family unit.

For lots of reasons that I will write about passionately at some other time, I didn't change my name when I got married, but I still craved that sense of family unity, and it only intensified when we started talking about having kids.  What would their last name be??

As a teacher, I've bumped into many families in which the children had a different last name from one or both parents.  Usually this was due to the fact that one parent was a step-parent or that the mom kept her own name upon getting married.  Never once in all of my experience with different schools, states, and families had I ever met a child who had his or her mother's last name and not the father's if they weren't the same.
Never once.
Not even when the child lived with only the mother.

I find this bothersome.  Extremely.  Especially in those cases in which the child's father was barely or not at all in the picture.

(Note:  There are instances - now even with one of my cousins! - in which this isn't the case.  It just was the fact two+ years ago when my husband and I were debating this.)

Anyway.  So whose last name should the child get in our family??  My husband and I knew that we needed and wanted both our last names represented in the child's full name, particularly so that there would never be an issue crossing the border to visit relatives in Canada and having a border guard not believe that a child belonged to one of us due to the different names.  So we decided to give all of our children four names - one first, two middle, one last.  This would solve the passport and doctor problems should there be any concern, but leave things simple enough for school and everyday use so that we would avoid the dreaded hyphenated last name!

So whose last name would be last??  We decided to let the sex of the first baby be the coin toss.  If we had a boy, his last name would be my husband's.  If a girl, my last name.  The second child would be the opposite regardless of sex so that no one parent would be the odd one out should we have all girls or all boys.

And so.  Sebastian has my name as his second middle name, and his father's name as his last.  Which means Theo has my name last.

In a short time this has already brought up a bunch of questions.  Here are my answers.

Do you think it will be confusing to the boys to have different last names?
Probably not much.  They will see each other as brothers first and know that they each have both names in their full names.  Sebastian doesn't seem at all confused about the fact that his parents have different last names because kids don't come preprogrammed with that cultural knowledge.  For all he knows now, all parents are like that.  And when he's old enough to ask questions, we have plenty of answers about why we made the choices we did.  It will be the same about why they have their names in opposite order.

Do you worry that they won't think they're brothers?
Not in the slightest.  If anything, they may thank us someday for allowing them some breathing room in school from always being compared to each other right away.

Will other people be confused?
From only 12 days of Theo's existence, I can already say that the answer to this will be yes.  People will assume that Theo is mine but not Jonathan's, which will be confusing to them since we're still married and Sebastian has his last name.  They will ask questions like whether Theo is his natural son or whether the boys are related (yes, I have already gotten both questions from the health professionals we've seen in the past week and a half).  They may think we are odd or overly PC or that I have some sort of commitment issue to my marriage (yes, I've had people make comments and jokes about that many times in the six years of married life).

I don't care.  It made me beyond happy today to not have to specify that Theo's last name was different than mine when I took him to his first official doctor's appointment.  And I'm sure it makes my husband happy that Sebastian has his name.  And it makes us both happy that when you say their full names, they are both little Raslers - a wonderful combination of us and the people who gave us our names in the first place.

So what's in a name?  In the case of our boys, a lot of thought and love and family ties, and just enough confusion to make people stop and think.

Introducing

...the newest little Rasler!

This is Theodore Nathan.

Baby Theo arrived at 1:39 p.m. on July 10th.  He was 6 lbs. 13 oz. and 18.5 inches tall.

His story - so different from his brother's - will be posted at some point, but right now there is sleep to be had.

Our story

Two years ago.

It seems like it could have been yesterday.  Or something more like ten years.

I was sitting in the rocking chair in Sebastian's room.  It was about 10:30 p.m. on July 7th.  I had told Jonathan that I was going to sit up and read until this round of contractions had passed because I couldn't sleep through them.  "Just go to sleep," I told him.  "I'm sure it's nothing."  I promised to wake him if I needed anything.

I loved the rocking chair in the nursery.  Loved sitting there, imagining.  Whenever I was too uncomfortable to sleep, I ended up in there: reading, rocking, wondering.  I was working my way through the Anne of Green Gables series that I had loved as a child.  I think I was somewhere around the fourth book, but I couldn't really focus.

By midnight, I was gently tapping his shoulder.  "I'm sure it's just a false alarm," I told his sleepy face, "but the contractions have now been regular for over an hour."  Without a word, he sat up and followed me into the nursery, handy pregnancy planner in tow so he could do the one job everyone unequivocally hands to the "support person" - time the contractions.

For a few hours he sat on the floor as I rocked in the chair, signaling the beginning and end of each one. By now I could tell this was the real deal, but I didn't want him to call the hospital.  I was sure I would end up being one of those people who gets sent home at least twice before finally being admitted, and every book about natural childbirth says that the sooner you get to the hospital the less comfortable you will be.  So I kept rocking.

Once we passed the official 4-1-1 (four minutes apart, about one minute long, for over one hour) that told us we should call, I agreed at least to let him wake up my mom.  She came upstairs and sat with us as we continued to rock and time.  I still felt like I could handle things at home, but we were getting to the point of having the contractions under 3 minutes apart when the two of them decided it was at least a good idea to call the hospital.

"You need to get her in here now," the labor and delivery nurse admonished.  End of discussion.  I was still sure they were going to send me back home, so I went reluctantly to get our bags and head out the door.  As we drove to Overlake, my contractions predictably slowed.  I groaned.  "See?" I told Jonathan.  "We'll see," he replied.

I arrived just after 5 a.m., checked in, and was told by the nurse who checked my progress that I was staying there.  Five cm, she said.  Halfway there! I thought.  Yeah, not so much.

My sister was hurrying with our three-month old nephew to try to make it in time since it seemed like my labor was progressing quickly.  She needn't have.  Our little one wouldn't arrive for over twelve hours later.

Most of those twelve hours are a blur to me.  I remember getting to the point pretty quickly in which I wanted quiet and only Jonathan with me.  I can picture different places in the labor room that were supposed to help me stay comfortable: the tub/shower, the birthing ball, the rocking chair.  None of them worked.  I preferred sitting in bed, doing my focus and relaxation exercises.

I got to 7 cm, then 9 fairly quickly.  Then nothing.  For hours.  Move around, they told me.  I tried, but nothing happened.  Another check and I was told that I was really more like 7.  Yeah, you are NOT supposed to go backwards here!  The nurse who had told me 9 apologized for her mistake.  More trying, some tears, discussion of options.

I finally agreed to let the doctor break my water and then everything seemed to me to happen all at once. In just under an hour, I was ready to push.  At what point my cheerleading section arrived is unclear to me, but by now my mom and sister were there, and we were ready for the finale.

The clock told me I pushed for about 50 minutes, but it felt a lot more like four pushes to me.  I credit this to the fact that I had so many people there encouraging me, counting with me, telling me what a great job I was doing and to keep it up.

Then came the "ring of fire" the books all promised.  The experts had told me to sit back and wait when I felt this.  The doctor said, "One more push and you're done."  Forget the experts.  One more push!  She was right.  At 7:49 p.m., it was over.

"It's a boy," I heard close to my ear.  I looked up at my husband.  "Really?"  I asked him.  "Yes," he assured me, "a boy."

And then there he was.  He was so pink and round and solid, I could hardly believe it.  Shouldn't he look more tiny, wrinkly, and fragile?  (Later I looked back on the pictures and realized that yes, he was all of those things, but my new mother's eyes didn't see them in that moment.)

After a few moments of holding him, they took him to the NICU because one of his lungs wouldn't inflate properly.  They assured me that it happened often and was just a precaution, but it was one of the longest half hours of my life waiting for my guys to come back.

In the meantime, that final push had cost me a third-degree tear, because the experts had been right.  The doctor called in another who had more experience and they began the part that turned out to be the most painful, but provided the only funny story (in retrospect) of the entire day.  After 21 hours of medication-free labor, they gave me a local anesthetic and went to work.  I shouted at the doctor - yes, shouted, after being relatively quiet through everything else - that he had to STOP.  RIGHT.  NOW.  Which was ridiculous, of course.

The delivering doctor at my side spoke calmly.  "Just breathe through it," she told me. I looked at her and said with clenched teeth and rays of death coming out of my eyes, "I. am. DONE. breathing. through. it."  She wisely avoided speaking to me after that until it was over.

Then my baby was back in my arms with the thumbs up on his health.  Jonathan and I conferred briefly to be sure we had the name that suited this tiny person, and we introduced him to the room, which now included his Gramma, Grampa, Auntie Gina, cousin X, Uncle Bill & Aunt Jen on the phone in Chicago, and his Nagymami and Grandpa Marv in Toronto.

This is Sebastian Paul.

I felt exhausted and proud as I held my son and stared at his perfect tiny features.  We did it, I whispered to him.  I fell asleep within an hour of moving to the recovery room, while Jonathan typed an email to send our friends and family who had been holding their breath all day waiting for the news.

What I had been imagining and yet still couldn't quite foresee was that this tiny baby would, two years later, already be this beautiful, smart, funny little boy:

Two years?  Already?  Sebastian tells me that he is NOT "one, two years old."  He is THREE.  Why three?  Because to him three is big, and when he is big, he can cross our street by himself.

Not yet, I tell him.  Just two years old.
And still my little boy, for now.

Happy birthday, sweetheart.  You will always be my favorite Sebastian.