A letter to Phookie on her 2nd birthday

Dear Phook,

Wait. Let me get this straight. I have a two-year-old? Now, I've never met a parent who said, "Geez, those first two years just dragged on forever," but I cannot believe that you, dear Phookie, are two today. They tell me that a two-year-old is not a baby. Which means that you must be a kid. Hmm. No matter how often this point is hammered home for me, I still feel like I have whiplash as I look back at these two years.

This past year was not all ushy-gushy me drooling over the fact that you existed. This year required some harder times and some actual work. This past winter, this long, long winter, well, it was kinda rough. I've gotta be honest. All of a sudden you seemed to be able to get angry and even a little naughty. And I had to learn how to parent you with something other than kisses. This was hard for me. I wanted to stay in the kisses-only stage a little longer. But it turns out that kids, which you apparently are, have a lot to learn. And it has become my job to teach you, even as I learn right alongside you.

This year, I have tried very hard to teach you to manage that ball of fury that lives inside you, all those emotions of disappointment and frustration that you have to learn how to get under control when you started out with a language that consisted only of wails. It has been, at times, hard for both of us. I have given you every ounce of patience I could find, and yet still sometimes I have failed and shown that even as I approach age 30, I am still learning how to manage my own ball of fury. When that has happened, I have paid a visit to your crib in the night, stroked your hair, and told you that I would try to be a better momma tomorrow. I am always trying to be a better momma tomorrow.

But even as this year has shown me more about the real work of parenting, it has shown me the real rewards. You are a wonderful little person. You are funny. Your giggle, to this day, makes the entirety of my person seemingly effervesce every time I hear it. You have turned out to be a little shy, something I wouldn't have expected a year ago. "Slow to warm up," your dad says, just like him. You are so aware of the order of your surroundings, it can almost scare me. If any object in our entire home is out of place, you notice instantly. You are making connections between things based on your day-to-day experiences that show me just how much you are learning, like when I told you a chirping squirrel must be angry, and you asked, "Peanut?" [well, "pee-yo" in Phookspeak] because you always feed the squirrels peanuts with your grandpa...and you seemed to surmise that the angry squirrel was hungry.

But just as you are learning about your world, and making all these connections, you are teaching me lessons too. You, dear Phookie, have been slow to talk. The doctor says you are coming along just fine, and I believe her. You can say so many words, even if many of them are in Phookspeak; I can no longer even begin to count them. And you are just starting to put them together, like the other night when I put you to bed and you said, "Bye Mama," or the other day when the phone rang and you said, "Dada, phone!" But you are not the prodigious talking child who speaks in paragraphs. And this is something I have had to come to terms with for myself. There were times over the past year when I felt a jab every time someone asked about your speech, or times that I heard one of your peers say something that seemed light years ahead of you. And I knew that to feel that jab was wrong, and that it was about me rather than a reflection of you. I wanted a wildly verbal child that impressed people with her advanced speech. And you are not that child, not for now at least. Mourning that, and getting over my own ego, was a process I quietly put myself through during this year. It has been put to rest. I have learned to let you be you, and to love you all the more for it, even when you aren't blowing the doors off of a developmental milestone. I cannot attach you to my own lifelong quest for besting and beating. Because you are you, your own person. Not an accessory to me. And it is my job to encourage you to be you, to do things at your own pace and in your own time. You are your own light, and you shine so brightly just as you are. This year I have learned that it is my job to support and teach and love my Phook, no matter what that Phook may do or be. When you say a new word for the first time, you will continue to get all the excitement this momma can throw at you, even if that word is three letters long. Your pace, your time. I am your momma and I am here to cheer you on without reservation or hesitation.

The best thing about this year with you in all of your personhood is that there are so many things you specifically like to do. Tagging along with you on Phook joyrides is pretty much the most fun I've ever had. Even when those joyrides don't even take us off the porch. Like how you ask for "pop-pop and cars" (pop-pop being popcorn in Phookspeak) and we go and sit on the front porch and discuss all important traffic-related matters, because if there was ever a kid who delighted in watching vehicles, it is you. So, yes, sitting on the front porch in the middle of nowhere we call home, slamming pop-pop and yelping when we see the jewel in the traffic crown that is a cop car, well, that right there is the cat's meow. There is nothing more fun than watching you have fun, because it is so pure and wild and deep. I love whatever you love, kid. A couple years ago, I wasn't having much of anything resembling fun. And now just hitting a rumble strip when we're driving is fun, because you're pretty sure that the road is farting, and that's just the funniest thing ever. Really, I just like hanging out with you. You're funny. You're fun. You like so many things. You remind me what is good when everything in the big nasty world seems so bad right now. I wish I could sprinkle Phook dust over the globe. All would be well.

So, Phook, there you have it. You went and turned two. And you've got me on the edge of my seat. I can't wait to see what you're going to do, what you're going to say, and what you're going to learn this year. You may be the one opening presents today, but I'm the one who is getting the real gift. I get to spend my time hanging out with you, big two-year-old you. I didn't think I could love you more than I did last year. But, of course, I do. Oh, Phook, I'm so glad I'm sharing that bowl of pop-pop on the porch with you. Nothing has ever tasted better.

Love,
Mom

Pay no attention to the aircraft resting on your fence

A couple of weeks ago (or maybe it was months ago...I wouldn't know, as I've lost my grip on the passage of time almost entirely), I noticed that the fence in the far reaches of my backyard was mid-collapse. Now, it's an old, ugly fence that came with the house, and my eyes rarely even wander out to where this fence is located. Even though we live in town, our backyard is very woodsy, with a couple of gigantic pine trees and a couple of walnut trees and whatever. It's like a deep woods bug-o-rama out there in the summer, so we don't even use this portion of the yard. So when I saw the fence, I thought, "Oh shit, I'll have to remember to mention that to Big K and maybe start bugging him about it in a couple years." Anyhow, this is the view of the collapsing fence from my side of the property:


A little while after noticing the fence, one of my cats escaped. In searching for the cat, I happened to wander to the other side of said fence. And I happened to notice that my neighbor had the wings of his hobby aircraft resting up against the fence. Apparently this is an ultralight plane, so it is theoretically ultralight. But I'm still kind of guessing that the weight of aircraft wings may have had something to do with the compromise of my fence. I think most people would agree that that is a reasonable assumption. Upon seeing this, I thought, "Well, shiz, that explains that. My fence is collapsing because my neighbor placed an aircraft wing on it. I'll have to remember to mention that to Big K and maybe start bugging him about it in a couple years." Here is the other side of the fence, complete with aircraft wing:


I eventually did mention this to Big K. And then he remembered that he had forgotten to tell me something re: the fence situation as well. He reported that said aircraft enthusiast neighbor called him over there one day. Big K went. Aircraft enthusiast neighbor then said something along these lines: "Yeah, um, Big K, you need to fix your fence. It's broken. It's not because I rested my aircraft wing upon it. I have a post-hole digger you can borrow if you need it." At this point, I kind of started shrieking with laughter. Not because my shitteous fence, which is actually shitty enough it probably decreases my property value, was compromised, but because our neighbor had the stones to call Big K over there and point out that he needed to fix our fence, while the man's own airplane wing was resting on it! I mean, if I had put my aircraft component on someone's property and it collapsed, I'd probably at least hide the offending item before calling the guy over there to tell him to fix his fence. But, hey, at least he offered the post-hole digger. I just think that's comedy gold.

Seriously. I'm not mad or looking for comments saying we should sue him. The fence is shitty and the wing is light. I just think it is so choice that the dude views the world through this lens where you tell someone to fix their fence while your airplane is leaning on it. I can't make this shit up! Big K and I have a humorous collection of stories involving this guy anyhow, which ranges from the smell of weed wafting over that very same fence about 8 minutes after we closed on this house and were sitting in the yard enjoying our first nanoseconds of home ownership (of course we can't confirm the origins of the scent, but we like to imagine him welcoming us to the neighborhood by letting the fumes of his funny cigarette waft into our yard) to the time we were eating dinner one summer evening and this guy comes running through our backyard screaming, "Big K! Big K! I need your hose! Mine's too short and the brush pile I'm burning is getting out of hand!!!" Seriously. I can't make this shit up. I love it.

Dude probably reads my blog. If so, oh well. I heart the guy, and this post was written in love.

Speaking of which, check out these two:

Some things are unexpectedly much better in twos.

And that concludes today's chapter of Life in The Woods.

Phook got involved with some brownies last night

Friends, I am sorry I have not been wild with the updates lately. We're trying to slurp every ounce of loveliness out of the tremendous fall weather we are having, since fall is so short and is followed so quickly by the season that is Christmas, which is followed so quickly by the season that is Major Depression. And beyond that, the main thing I want to blog about these days is my ferocious collection of thoughts re: politics. I'm trying really hard not to scratch that itch, because I'll definitely say things that are more offensive than just my usual smattering of tactless profanity, and I'd probably even go so far as to make gross, disrespectful overgeneralizations about entire segments of the population, not excluding some of my own friends and family members. So in lieu of that, I'm just going to say that Phook likes brownie batter...to the point that she can't stop screaming with excitement while she eats it. Check it out.




Man I love that kid.

Here, have some random K Family

Tonite, I put my children in the tub. A big, orange storage tub, but whatever. Phook has clearly mastered the art of gently holding her brother:

Heh.

And this photo, taken after Snuffy started to suck his thumb, and Phook decided she should suck it instead:

Poor kid. He's already getting his ass kicked and his stuff stolen.

And also, this evening Big K was singing some Johnny Cash to his retirement plan (that would be his NFL-bound son), and I found myself thinking that against the backdrop of his daddy, old Snuffle Pig doesn't look so big.

A giant man singing to a baby. Makes even salty old Big W feel a little swoony.

And on a bright note, I went to the dentist (for a filling, no less) and the grocery store this afternoon all by myself, and that time away from needy little humans was enough to lift my spirits out of the crapper. Clearly my standards for personal time are at an all-time low, but that's okay for now. When people get thirsty enough, they drink their own urine. I'm essentially rocking the stay-at-home-motherhood version of that scenario. What can I say?

I have the shakes

Today was a day. My children gave me the business. Sent me through the wringer. Generally, they yelled a lot. Phook in particular was just pushing me to the brink, particularly from the pre-dinner hour on through bedtime, which was just moments ago.

My husband is at Monday Night Football at Lambeau Field. With my father. I could have gone, but I told Big K to go instead. I'm too tired to pump the milk it would require for me to leave...there isn't much in the way of leftovers when you're feeding a kid of this caliber, and it would have really pissed me off to have to pump that much. That's a sad commentary, but that's not even where I'm going with this post. My basic point is that I've been solo parenting all day today, which is not unlike many, many other days lately. My husband has a lot of meetings, works late a fair amount these days, and teaches a class one evening per week. Generally I'm piloting this crazyplane full of insane, screaming passengers with no copilot several days per week. And it is hard. Single parents, I laud you. Seriously.

So today was hard. I've been alone with the kids a ton lately. But what I am really, really lonely for is pop. Soda. Sodapop. Friends, I know that I have referenced my love of pop several times throughout the life of this blog. Carbonation is my favorite food. I'm not kidding. I love pop. So imagine my horror, when doing a little investigating into the matter of reflux babies, that carbonation is a bigass agitator of pukey little baby stomachs. Apparently it's right up there with the big reflux no-no that is dairy products, which I consume very little of anyhow and which I don't give much of a shit about. Basically, I pretended it was a crackpot theory and ignored it. And then one day (August 16, actually), I accidentally didn't have any pop. And Snuffle Pig's mood magically became about 800% more personable. Now, that coincides roughly with his 6-week birthday, which is apparently when colic/crying/baby mayhem peaks and begins to drop off, so maybe it's just a coincidence. But I have to say I was pretty convinced. It certainly didn't cure his spitting up, but he just seemed better.

So like any good breastfeeder (which in my case pretty much just means a mother who cannot afford formula), I threw myself onto the tracks to save my child. I resolved to give up pop. August 15 was my last pop. (Okay, fine, I relapsed and had a single fountain soda at a fast food restaurant on September 2 to celebrate the obscene size of Snuffle Pig.) They say that a habit is broken after 21 days. Whoever "they" are can kiss my arse. My wild jonesing for pop has not waned even in the least.

I think about pop at least 329 times per day. I am always thinking about pop. We walk to our local convenience store for something or other almost every day on account of them selling bananas, onions, and potatoes for 39 cents per pound and having a little card you get punched for each gallon of milk you buy, and every time I walk in that place I stand by the pop cooler and stare. Sometimes I get myself a nice juice or a nice little diet tea product in the hopes that it will lift my mood or scratch the itch, but it does not. I want Dr. Pepper. I want Cherry Coke. I want a ginger ale. I want fizz in my throat. I am not okay without pop.

It's not a caffeine thing. My pop doesn't need caffeine to satisfy and I am not a coffee drinker. It's the fizz. Oh, I love it. But Snuffle Pig does not. I weep. People, I don't know if you've caught onto this, but I lead a pretty lame life. I consume about 9 alcoholic beverages per calendar year, and my husband has been fully and completely on the wagon for exactly 7 years...so you could say that we don't exactly party. I don't smoke pot, although I have to admit that it occurs to me that I want to fairly often. I don't have the means to recklessly blow cash on bullshit anymore. I don't go out and do wild things. My idea of excitement is very pathetically 1950s-centric. I mean, if I'm feeling expansive I bake a pie, and if I'm feeling stressed out I just scrub harder. So while I know that drinking soda rather than water is a bad health decision, I'm not lying when I say it's my only vice. I am that lame. So I feel really pitiful and sorry for myself over this whole thing. Pathetic.

So bringing this back around to my introduction, today sucked. And I feel like I seriously got a glimpse into why it is so hard to break addictions, as harmful as they might be. I was trying to nurse the Pig and get him relaxed for bed, and Phook was pottering around and losing her shit because her pant legs on her new winter pajamas are slightly too long and it was infuriating her. And she was simultaneously defying me on the matter of putting some puzzle pieces that she had dumped onto my bed (and Snuffy's head) back into a bag. So I'm pinned to the bed with an agitated Snuffle Pig on the boob with Phook wrecking shop in one of the final chapters of a shop-wrecking afternoon, and I'm seriously losing it. I want to scream at Phook. I try really hard not to lose my shit with her, but I was very close to going over the edge and actually screaming obscenities at her. (Perhaps it's not cool to admit that, but here at Momma Says, I admit things.) I was in fact screaming obscenities at her in my head, while somehow managing to just sternly say, "If you do not put these puzzle letters back in the bag, I will put you in your bed right now." This miraculously resulted in a speedy pick-up, but until it did, I was seriously on the verge. And all I could think about, other than the choice phrases I wanted to thunder at my kid, was pop. It was like the background noise to the crazy voices in my head, just the thump of the thought, "I want pop - I want pop - I want pop."

Is that not insane? I didn't wish my husband was home, I didn't wish I could magically be whisked away to an exotic deserted island, I didn't wish for the day to be done. I just wished for pop. I truly do not mean to offend any persons who may have struggled with a real addiction to a real substance when I make this comparison, but I seriously felt like I might possibly understand why drug users relapse in times of stress. If I had had any pop in this house, I would have slammed it. I might have actually shotgunned a can. If Big K would have been here, I might have demanded he run out and fetch me some. That 21 day thing just has to be bullshit...either that or I blew it with the fountain soda on day 18 and that reset the clock...either that or I have a hopeless addiction. Because I am not really doing so well. That's right, I'm losing my shit over pop.

So, I don't know. My doctor specifically said she feels terrible for breastfeeding moms with fussy babies because they overanalyze every single thing they eat and beat themselves up every time their kid has a bad day. She even said she doesn't specifically advise breastfeeding moms to give up anything...she said I could "try to cut out dairy if I felt like it," but she didn't even seem to buy into that idea very wholeheartedly. So the medical professional of record for the K Family would not look down upon me for doing a keg stand on a soda fountain right this minute. But I feel like it does make a difference for him...which makes a difference to me...and for me. So I guess I'm staying off the sauce for now. But it ain't gonna be pretty.

And that is all for now. I have to go. I have some crying to do.

Someone is two months old today...

...and he's awfully charming.



That is all.

The Hog Report

I'm just going to cut right to it. My son weighs 14 lbs. 10 oz.

DUDES!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I think I've previously mentioned that he is sizable. And the fact that he's most comfortable in size 6-9 month onesies should have also been a clue. But when I saw that number pop up on the scale today at his two-month well baby checkup, I just about dropped a deuce. For the record, that is the 97th percentile. Oof. This kid is 100% breast fed. I'm not giving him double strength formula spiked with cereal or some shit. No. This is straight up from the mom cow. I didn't even know that was possible. The child has gained almost exactly 6 pounds since his two-week visit. That means he has gained 6 pounds in 6 weeks. How can that be possible?

It's no wonder I spend my nights roaming the countryside tearing the heads off of live chickens and eating them raw, feathers and all. Seriously, friends, I can't even describe how hungry I am. I could tuck into a dozen eggs scrambled and a loaf of toast and then be carousing around the fridge 10 minutes later. I have the munchies. And now I officially know why. If you see me in public, please just hand over your half-eaten muffin...because if you don't, I'll just take it from you.

The thing is, the kid's a little stumpy. He refuses to have his legs fully straightened, so I think that's knocking him down at least half an inch, but he is officially 23 inches long, which puts him in only the 50th percentile for height. Um, yup, my kid is short and fat. To be honest with you, Snuffy's father is probably in the 97th percentile for weight and the 50th for height to this very day, so I think we may have Big K Part Deux on our hands. I'm gonna be cruising the "husky" department for deals on fat kid jeans before you know it. I can't wait until he has a baby mullet to go with his Shar Pei back fat.

In other news, Pukey McPukerson was prescribed some meds for his reflux today. They had better work, otherwise I will be putting a very fat baby up on craigslist. I jest. Kind of. He also had his first round of immunizations and I am sad to report that seeing your second child vaccinated for the first time is not nearly as horrible as seeing your first child vaccinated for the first time. Heck, I was so traumatized by that experience, I even blogged about it. I mean, I felt bad for the little dude, and I immediately snatched him up to smother him in love, but I wasn't sobbing and wishing I'd just pass out to end my own misery. I don't know if it's simply the realities of the second kid or the horror of gender biases rearing its ugly head despite my attempts to give my baby boy the same amount of babying I gave my baby girl. Sweet. Another thing to beat myself up about.

Anywho, Phook also had her appointment today - her two-year checkup a little early. Poor little hambone only weighed 27 pounds, which, despite my inability to do basic math, does seem to indicate that her two-month-old brother weighs more than half of what she does. This puts her right at the 50th percentile for weight. She was 34.5 inches tall, putting her at the 75th percentile for height. So she's a tad tall and a tad scrawny. Everything else checked out well for her developmentally and whatnot and it appears we are going to be sliding into her 2nd birthday having never seen the doctor for anything other than well-baby checkups. Does that happen? Clearly, Snuffle Pig is going to be allergic to every substance on the earth, prone to motion sickness, and will have me hauling his ass to the doctor nine times per year for ear infections until he's 17. Maybe he'll do it up really swell and go and fracture his skull at 10 months like his Daddy did. Regardless of what actual maladies continue to manifest themselves in the Snuffle Pig, I simply suspect that Phook's general good health and good demeanor do not repeat themselves within a family. Ah well, you win some, you lose some. When Snuffy's in the NFL and buys his momma an oceanfront condo it will all even out.

And that concludes today's hog report. I dunno. If you need me, I'll just be sitting here slackjawed wondering what he'd weigh if he didn't spit up half of what he ate...