Cousins

We survived the big move last weekend, thanks in large part to extended family who showed up from out of town to help us through it. Now we're exhausted and living among boxes, dealing with a toddler who's a little freaked out about all the upheaval and a 5-month-old who's cutting his first two teeth. (Translation: There's been a lot of whining and carrying on around here lately. And the kids are fussy, too.)

I have very little energy left for anything besides captions, so here are a few pics taken last week when the boys and I spent a couple days with my sister to meet her new baby girl and hang out with her adorable 4-year-old son.


I was absolutely astounded by how much of a difference 5 months can make in the life of a baby. Our little ones were born exactly 5 months apart -- March 10 to August 10 -- and though Evan was actually a few ounces less than his cousin at birth, he looks like a giant next to her. We started snapping photos of these two because we couldn't get over how much bigger Evan's head is. (Granted, the kid's noggin is in the 75th percentile, but still.) This one doesn't even do the size difference justice.


Here's Evan with both of his cousins. (Kostyn was upstairs napping and missed the impromptu photo shoot.)


Here I am with my newest niece. She's so lovely; I can't wait until she and Evan are old enough to toddle around together. (And Oh My God do I really ALWAYS look this tired?!)

*Bonus pic*

His aunt gets a rare smile out of Mr. "Waaaaaaaaah This Teething Business Sucks!" Fussypants

Civil Disobedience

Kostyn threw three tantrums last Sunday at Wal-Mart. I know, how cliche of him to throw a fit in a Wal-Mart, right? But rest assured, these were no ordinary toddler tantrums.

The frustration was created out of a desire to help. When he doesn’t ride in the grocery cart, Kostyn likes to help Mommy shop by putting things in the cart. This includes “approved” items I’ve specifically given him off the shelf that are on our grocery list. This also includes two or three extra boxes of every “approved” item, as well as random pieces of fruit and any can of green beans, box of brownie mix and jar of pimientos (how did he even reach those??) that he can grab on our way up the aisles. He also finds it disconcerting when he sees Mommy putting extremely heavy and/or breakable items, like milk and eggs, into the cart without his assistance. (Aaaaand, he freaks when he catches me stealthily putting unwanted items back on shelves.)

Anyway, it was pushing 3 p.m. and he hadn’t napped yet. Plus I was grocery shopping at Wal-Mart, which I never do, so I didn’t know where the hell anything was and it was taking me forever to fill my measly little list. So the small freakout near the bin of plums primed the pump for what was to come.

In the cereal aisle, he took umbrage at me putting back the box of Kix he’d heaved into the cart. (Kid tossed, mother did not approve.) For an overtired Kostyn, this was the last straw -- the line drawn in the linoleum over sweetened, puffed corn balls. His lip quivered, his eyes became little slits, and he screamed, “Nooooooo!! Mama no! No!”

And then he looked at me in that defiant toddler way and ... carefully sat down in the middle of the aisle. And then he gently, slowly laid his head down on the floor, his arms resting at his sides. That was it; he just lay there looking up at me, stone-faced, turning his ankles in and out so that the toes of his sneakers happily tapped together a few times. It resembled a civil rights sit-in more than a toddler tantrum. I swear if the child could write he probably would have scribbled a protest sign on the back of a Rollback Price card or something.

I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t muster much anger at a child who had made himself into a human chess piece, his whole tiny being silently taunting, “Your move.” So I held back a giggle and said, “Kostyn, the floor is dirty. What are you doing down there?”

I don’t think he knew. He didn’t answer; he just kept looking at me. It was like (in typical guy fashion) he’d started reading the directions for How to Pull Off the Perfect Tantrum, but he’d thrown the manual aside after reading “Step 1: Make sure your body is in the prone position in the middle of a high-traffic area.” He hadn’t bothered to read “Step 2: Flail your limbs wildly as if they are on fire” or “Step 3: Scream as though an invisible gremlin is tearing off your fingernails.”

So there we were, having a standoff/sit-in over a box of Kix. For a brief moment I contemplated allowing him to get the Kix. I like Kix, and it’s not like it’s any worse for him than the Rice Krispies he eats. But of course I couldn’t set such a precedent. (Darn this parenting gig, with all its lessons and consistency and whole grains.) So as people started wheeling their carts around him, smiling, I began to move toward the end of the aisle. “Kostyn, get up. Evan and I are going to keep shopping...” I said, watching him over my shoulder. I got about 10 feet away when he sat up, looking concerned. “Are you coming?” I asked. No verbal response, but his eyes said it all. I walked back, scooped him up without a fight and carried him like a baby into the next aisle, where he wriggled down from my arms and wanted to start “helping” again.

We went through this whole bizarre “tantrum” routine in another aisle over some other meaningless item. This time he ran back to the middle of the aisle before carefully positioning himself on the floor, his body straight as an arrow, taut with defiance. Again I stifled a laugh and pretended to be stern about the fact that he wasn’t going to get his way every time he ... lay down ... so ... quietly.

Parenting a 2-year-old comes with plenty of challenges; I gotta say, though, this one felt more like a reward.

Mmmm...S'mores (minus the marshmallows, graham crackers and campfire)

I should be eating S'mores tonight around a campfire as part of what would have been our third (and finally rain-free!) family camping trip. Alas, we had to cancel the reservations in order to spend the weekend painting and packing and getting ready for next weekend's move.

So instead I'm munching on the giant Special Dark bar I'd bought for said S'mores, and perusing pics of the last time I ate them -- July 4th, at my sister's house after a cookout. It was our last night of vacation, and a perfect way to end our New York trip. A few outtakes....


This photo screams "LAST NIGHT OF VACATION" to me. Could we look any more tired?


My "super" nephew, Zayvius, flexing his super muscles. (You can barely see the cape tied around his neck, but trust me, it's there. It's always there.)


Kostyn and his cousin Cora. They adore each other, if you can't tell.


Self-portrait with my sister's little ones. Oh how I miss those two.


The quintessential photo of my folks. Seriously. The Vietnam Veteran hat, the flowery jean shirt/jacket my mom's rockin', a book on her lap (I'll bet my dad had his book somewhere nearby as well) ... it's just perfect.


Evan with my little sister, The Baby Whisperer. Every time he was fussy she'd wave me over and take him into her arms, depositing him back into my arms several minutes later, peacefully asleep. She should teach a class or something.

A Is For 'Awkward'

(Filed under “At least I’m not as socially awkward as this mother.”)

A mom approaches Kostyn, Evan and I at the playground. Her daughter, who looks to be about Kostyn’s age, is climbing all over the kiddie slides. Instead of engaging me in conversation, she turns to Kostyn, who is wearing a bright green shirt with the alphabet on it.

Crazy Mom: That’s the perfect shirt to have worn to Sesame Street today!
Kostyn: [blank stare] (He’s watched “Sesame Street” a few times, but not enough to recognize the name.)
Crazy Mom: They were looking for the alphabet!
Kostyn: [gives me a look, walks sideways away from her, I motion him back toward the slides]
Crazy Mom: (Turning toward me) Did you watch it this morning?! (The exclamation mark is there because she really did ask me excitedly.)
Me: (doing my best to be social) Nah, not today.
Crazy Mom: Oh!! They were hunting for the alphabet, ya know, A, B, C was over here, and then Big Bird found D and E....
Me: [Nodding, eyebrows raised, small smile]
Crazy Mom: (continuing without taking a breath)....oh it was really cute. And then Elmo came and he was looking for the letters and Zoe.....
Me: [Eyebrows still raised, no longer listening, constructing blog post in my head]
Crazy Mom: ....blah blah blah.... And THEN this detective drives up, Detective ABCDEF....XYZ, ya know, the whole alphabet, and he says.....
Me: [Beginning inner monologue: “Seriously? This woman is giving me a play-by-play of a “Sesame Street” episode? We are adults! Shouldn’t this recap be about “The Real Housewives of ANY CITY THAT DOESN’T INCLUDE MUPPETS” or something??]
Crazy Mom: ....blah blah blah...and then blah blah BLAH...[hahaha]...Ohhh it was so funny.
Me: Wow. Huh.
Crazy Mom: (chuckling) When that detective showed up everyone was so excited. Ya know, his name had all the letters, ABCDEFGH....well you know, all the way to Z, and blah blah...
Me: [Wait. Waaaait, she isn't just recapping, she's explaining this to me, this scenario of what to do if one is ever searching for the letters of the alphabet. One should hire a detective! Preferably one whose name includes all the letters of the alphabet one is looking for. Ohhhhh good God get me out of here....]
Crazy Mom: But then I had to leave the room and I didn’t see how it ended!!!*
Me: [Smile frozen on my face, tilting head back, faking sympathy. Or something.] Oh No!

Then she notices her kid has wandered over to the swings, so she does the same, and I’m left there to glance around in case any other sane parent has overheard this most bizarre exchange. Alas, there are only toddlers (and Evan) nearby. I’m beginning to think maybe that’s for the best.

*When I relayed this entire exchange to Chris over lunch later that day, I got to the part where she says, with waaaay more distress than is called for, “...and I didn’t see how it ended!!” he looked up from his sandwich and deadpanned, “X-Y-Z.” I love him. That is all.

It's a....

...GIRL!! My sister finally, FINALLY went into labor early this morning and delivered her precious little gift to the world less than 5 minutes before landing in her hospital room. It was a whirlwind labor and delivery but everyone is doing great and the whole family couldn't be happier.

I heard the news before 8 a.m. but waited all day to post this because they hadn't named her yet. Then a few hours ago (still without a name to attach to my new niece) I remembered that my sister and her family don't like their names to be publicly broadcast on this (or any other) blog. So I couldn't have told you even if she wasn't continuing to go by "Baby."

Congrats to you, Maestra, as well as Papa Bear and Little Bear. Can't wait to meet her in a couple of days.

And now, Heather's next: She's cozied up in her hospital bed where she and her husband checked in earlier this evening in preparation for her scheduled induction first thing in the morning. Prayers to you girlfriend. Can't wait to find out if it's a boy or a girl you've been baking in there -- and to hear some names for these babies!

Random Acts of Blogness

There are some things happening in my life that I consider to be pretty darn significant, yet I haven’t blogged about them. So I thought I’d at least give a mention to the following developments:

1. Still no baby for either my sister or my friend Heather. (Remember, sis was due July 30; Heather was due Aug. 2. These delays are unacceptable. Unacceptable! Do you hear me, babies?! If you don’t come out THIS INSTANT you will be GROUNDED!)

I talked to my sister this morning and her new tactic was to make plans as if the baby was definitely not on his/her way. She and her husband were hiring a sitter for their 4-year-old and going to see a movie this afternoon. Here’s hoping her water broke before the opening credits. Failing that, here’s hoping she didn’t miss anything critical during her numerous bathroom breaks.

2. My best friend just moved within 2 hours of me!! I cannot stress enough how psyched I am about this. Sheila and I have been best pals since about first grade, with never a cross word between us in all those years. One of the best years of my life was the year after college when we lived together (along with another friend, Jamie, who is one of the quirkiest, funniest cats around) in a tiny apartment on Broadway in Saratoga Spring, NY. Had. A. Blast. (Incidentally, we also worked together -- though on separate shifts -- at a TV listings syndicate in Glens Falls that year, too. Um, that wasn’t so much fun. On the upside, I scored a husband there.)

But then I quit my job and skipped town to follow some guy (a.k.a. Chris, that future husband I scored at TV Data) to Florida, and a few months later Sheil packed up and headed to NYC for grad school. That was 1996, and for the next 12 years we didn’t live closer to each other than about 15 hours by car.

Last fall when Chris got a job in Harrisburg, PA, and we hauled all our stuff back north, Sheila and I were giddy at the prospect of living a mere 6 hours apart, as she was back up in Saratoga by then. And it has been dreamy; we’ve actually seen each other three times in the 10 months I’ve been up here, which is WAY above our annual average.

But now. NOW, she’s dating this great guy who makes his home in Philly and, well, you get the idea. Two. Hours. So pyched. Welcome (back) to the Commonwealth, Sheil! This state just got a whole lot better.

3. We’re moving again. Not buying a house, just moving to a different rental house in a different area, mostly to save money but also to give the kids just a bit more space to play and a better yard for running around. It’s not an ideal situation (is there even such a thing?) and the thought of packing and cleaning and painting and hauling and unpacking and cleaning with a baby and a toddler is so very unappealing. But we’re making the best of it, and we’re excited for the change and looking forward to exploring the little town of Carlisle, where we’ll be by the end of the month.

4. I’m working on revamping my sad, sorry excuse for a “professional” Web site. I threw that thing up almost a year ago and though I’ve been working fairly steadily since then, you’d never know it because I haven’t updated so much as one clip on the darn thing in a year. Plus I want it to link to this blog, among other things. Plus, turns out I just generally hate it. So an overhaul is necessary.

As part of my tinkering, I’ve been tweaking the ol’ blog a bit. (Have you even noticed?) Please let me know if you hate the changes, or if you come across any wrong or broken links, or if you have any ideas about how to make it way, way better than it is now (which wouldn’t take much, I realize). Oh, and thanks for reading!

Pregnancy Swear Words: "41 weeks"

My entire family is anxiously, eagerly, impatiently waiting for the arrival of our newest member, who was due to exit my sister's womb ONE WHOLE EXCRUCIATING WEEK AGO. If you've ever been pregnant for a full 40 weeks, you are groaning with empathy over her having to go one SECOND over her due date, let alone a full week (and counting...).

Those last few weeks of pregnancy suck, there's no other way to put it. You can't move, you can't breathe, you can't eat half of what's on your plate because your belly's too squished and the heartburn's too bad. You spend all your time peeing and sighing and waddling around with one hand on your lower back and the other in a tightly wound fist shaking it at the guy who knocked you up because this level of discomfort suuuucks and you know it's only going to get (much) worse before it gets better.

The worst part about those last few weeks is that everyone tells you that the baby could come ANY TIME NOW. The OB, your husband, your mother, and all your well-meaning Facebook friends will assure you that they all know someone's neighbor's aunt who went into labor a full three weeks early with no complications and you could totally follow in that lucky lady's footsteps because it really does happen. People tell you this so much that you start to believe them. Plus you're so uncomfortable by Week 37 that it actually starts to feel like Week 40, and you start checking the calendar eight times a day, recalculating just in case the OB messed up way back in Week 12 and you really ARE at 40 weeks instead of 37.

But you're not, and days go by and nothing happens. You don't go into labor like that neighbor's aunt's sister's friend, and so you start to try to use reverse psychology on yourself, telling yourself that you quite possibly will NEVER go into labor -- that way when you DO feel that first real contraction (which you still secretly hope will be in the next 5 minutes, even if you've still got 2 weeks til your due date), you'll be pleasantly surprised instead of It's About Damn Time.

But again, for many of us, nada. Those darn Braxton Hicks contractions are just God's little sense of humor poking through the clouds, making you get all excited and nervous and "Hey, wait, what's this? And this? And this? Honey! Is the bag packed?? Because ... I think .... wait....never mind."

So if you're one of those unfortunate souls [**raises two hands**] who actually woke up on your due date STILL PREGNANT, you remember that incredulous "I cannot believe I'm still carrying this child inside of me" feeling.

To add to that fact, she's got a very active 4-year-old (I know, redundant phrasing, right?) that she's been trying to chase after (um, I'm using the term "chase" loosely here...). Just thinking about her situation makes me need a nap.

Sis delivered her firstborn son 10 DAYS after his due date, and for that, she's a freakin' hero in my book. For her sake, let's all pray this one doesn't wait quite that long. Hugs and prayers to ya, sis. Can't wait to meet the little peanut. :)

(Also a big shoutout and fist bump to my pal Heather, who has another baby who didn't get the memo that it was time to come out and play already! She was due Sunday, Aug. 2, and is still hangin' in there. Love you girl...now waddle on back to bed.)

Birthday Blunder (aka Somebody Muzzle This Mom)

On Saturday I took Kostyn to his first non-relative kid’s birthday party. The birthday boy was turning 2, so I knew Kostyn would be around kids his own age and have a fantastic time. I also knew I’d be around parents my own age, and feel as socially awkward as ever.

I don’t know why it’s so difficult for me to chit-chat with other parents. You’d think it would make casual conversation easier, to have that built-in “How old is he/she?” opener that parents everywhere use. The tricky thing about The Parental Opener is you have to be the one to start it. Because if you’re the one to start it, then the conversation’s next topic is completely up to the other person. Observe:

Mom 1: “How old is she?”
Mom 2: “She’s 3. How old is he?”
Mom 1: “He’s 2.”
Mom 2: “Ahh...” See, if Mom 2 doesn’t have anything else in her momversation arsenal, then both parents smile and nod and the conversation sputters and dies before it even really began.

In short: If you’re shy like me, it’s critical to be Mom 1.

I knew this going into the day’s festivities, and I was determined to be social, jovial, perhaps even interesting. I was going to have real conversations that lasted more than 20 seconds. I just had to make sure I was Mom 1.

My first and only attempt didn’t go so well.

Kostyn wanted his face painted, so we headed over to the face painting table and that’s when I saw her: A mother bouncing a baby in her arms while watching a little girl getting her face painted. I figured she’d make for easy conversation since I had a baby at home. Brilliant! A segue into something more than The Opener!

As soon as we arrived she jumped the gun and claimed Mom 1 status.

“How old is he?” she asked, smiling.

“He just turned 2,” I replied, then looked at her daughter, whose face was being painted to the nines by a 7-year-old. “How old is she?”

“She’s 5,” Mom 1 replied.

“And how old is he?” I said, gesturing toward the baby to continue this ridiculous yet standard age game of verbal ping-pong.

“Seven months,” she said, smiling and swaying and looking down at her plump little boy.

“Awww,” I cooed like an idiot at both of them. But wait! I had more to say! “I have an almost-5-month-old,” I added.

I smiled then, proud of myself for this nugget that threw the ball right back in her court. “Oh!” she said, clearly not ready for more volleying.

And then I did something stupid. I kept talking.

“Yeah, I didn’t want to bring him out with us because it’s just so hot today,” I said.

[Shut up, Robyn.]

“Mmm,” she said, not sure where I was going with this.

“Ya know, it’s just too hot for a baby to be outside,” I continued, right before it registered that she was there with her baby. Outside.

[Stop! Talking! What is wrong with me?!]

And with that, I inexplicably insulted the same woman I was trying to befriend.

Her smile faded and she glanced around while I mentally kicked myself repeatedly. The thing is, it wasn’t even totally true. Sure, Evan gets hot quickly, and he gets fussy when he’s hot, and things can get ugly from there. But I’d mostly left Evan home with Chris because I wanted to spend some quality “just Mommy and me” time with Kostyn, which is hard to come by these days. I honestly didn’t mean to admonish her. I am (mostly) a live-and-let-live kind of mom. I didn’t care where she brings her kids or at what temperature. She was just Mom 1 to me.

So, I did the only thing I could do at that point: I blamed Chris.

“I mean, not every baby, but MY SON gets fussy. Abnormally, really. He’s like his father I guess,” I said with a little fake chuckle.

It didn’t work, of course. There’s no way to recover from insinuating that a total stranger is in any way, shape or form a bad parent. She wasn’t overtly pissed, but the conversation definitely faded (once I was able to shut my trap). Luckily the rented Bounce House was opened for business just then, so Kostyn and I left the face painting line and shuffled off in that direction.

I spent the rest of the party talking to Kostyn, who is not easily insulted, and one or two other moms there who I’ve met before. I avoided Mom 1 like The Plague. (For the record, I also spent the rest of the party sweating my butt off. Hello, it was freakin’ hot out there...)

I drove home talking to myself about all of this, which is pretty much what I should stick to until I can carry on a conversation out loud that doesn’t involve stammering and backtracking and fleeing the scene.

I suppose at the end of the day our time at the party was a success: Kostyn fell asleep on the way home clutching his red balloon, face paint smeared across his cheek and cupcake icing all over his chin.* In a 2-year-old’s world, that’s pretty much heaven, and I loved seeing him so happy.

So how old do they have to be before you can drop them off at parties and avoid everything (and everyone) but the “happy ending” part?

*I so wish I could post a photo of this degree of cuteness. Alas, our camera is broken, which is driving me crazy, but not crazy enough to actually put it in the mail and send it back to be fixed. Must get on that......