Me 'n' My Boyz

Soren: 27 Months

Dear Soren,

Oy.

This has been quite a month for us. Quite a month. The introduction of a new baby into the family acted as a catalyst for your sudden burst into what some might term "The Terrible Twos," others might more optimistically call "The Terrific Twos," and which I think I will simply refer to as "Hell." Our family expansion has been a rough transition for the both of us: in bringing home a new baby I lost my first one, only to have him be replaced by a jumbo-sized two-year-old with a bad attitude and a lusty appetite for attention. I had always thought you were a gifted tantrum thrower, but during the first week or two that we had Liam at home you were able to aptly demonstrate that I had hithertofore known very little about tantrums. After you stopped throwing tantrums you became clingy, finding yourself incapable of playing independently and begging for "help" every time you got out your blocks. I cried every night for a week, heartbroken because this change in our lives had affected you so much and so negatively.

My little boy.

What has been amusing for me to watch, however, is your reaction to the baby. Shortly after we brought him home you launched a campaign to convince us that we didn't really want to keep him. You would point out various body parts on Liam and remark, "Ewww." "Ewww," look at this little hand. "Ewww," look at this tiny foot. "Ewwwwwwww," look-- it made poop. When Operation Yucky Baby proved ineffectual, you gave it up and moved on to Plan B, which has primarily consisted of crawling all over me while I try to nurse your new little brother.

You put on my white tank top one morning like it was a dress. I thought you looked smashing. It was difficult to take a picture, though, because you kept grabbing at the camera, asking to see pictures of "Soneen."

I think you really do love the little guy, though. When he cries, you become concerned and say, "Baby sad. Baby sad." You often help me change Liam's "boppers." And you give him lots of hugs and kisses. You also periodically give him hurts, but I suspect that has less to do with your feelings towards him and more to do with you desire to incite a lively reaction from Mom or Dad.

You went through a brief tie phase earlier this month. You wanted to wear a tie with everything. I love the way your hair looks in these pictures. So characteristically disheveled.

You have also learned two of the three major toddler words/phrases this month: "no" and "I do it." (The third is "mine," which I suspect you will begin to feverishly grasp when Liam gets old enough to get into your toys.) The answer to every question is "no" and you are allergic to the word "yes." We frequently have conversations that go like this:

Mom: Soren, would you like a banana?
Soren: No.
Mom: Okay.
Soren: Nana! Nana! Nana!
Mom: Oh. Did you want a banana?
Soren: No.
Mom: Okay.
Soren: (Crying and getting upset.) Nana! Nana! Nana!

or

Stranger: Do you like your new little brother?
Soren: No.
Stranger: Are you your mommy's big helper?
Soren: No.
Mom: Soren, are you the sweetest little boy in all the world?
Soren: No.

You will occasionally empty your dresser drawers and attempt to don as many of your clothing at once as is possible. I view this as good self-dressing practice.

One Sunday afternoon your father spent a considerable amount of time attempting to get you to use the word "yes."

Dad: Soren, do you want a cookie?
Soren: Cookie!
Dad: Uh huh. Do you want it?
Soren: Cookie!
Dad: Do you want to eat a cookie?
Soren: Cookie!
Dad: Is that a cookie?
Soren: Cookie!

(The closest we can ever get from you for an affirmative reply is "Uhkay.")

"Do it" is a result of your transition into Erikson's "Autonomy vs Self-doubt" phase of development. You've been making a wild grab at power, which means that we have daily battles about diaper changes, getting dressed, getting undressed, going places, leaving places, taking baths, going to bed, etc, etc. I've found that a good conflict-free way to get you to do things is to ask, "Do you want to pick out your outfit for today/throw away your diaper/get in your carseat/brush your teeth or do you want Mommy to do it?" You'll then pipe up with "Do it!" and (often) run off to perform the task. Earlier this month I was reorganizing the pantry in such a way that would allow me to allow you unsupervised access to it. You saw what I was doing and pitched right in: picking up gallon-sized containers of water and walking several feet with them to put them where they belonged, on the floor in a corner. You then proceeded to put away every single canned item on the bottom shelf. You enjoyed this so much I had to take some cans out so you could put them away again. You're even into punishing yourself: one day you bit Grandma, ran away to your bedroom, and came out in a few minutes, saying, "Don't bite!"

You're very gifted with the legos. This creation was made with a few blocks from a very very old lego-imitation set that I played with as a kid. We keep meaning to buy you a nice set of duplos. Maybe for your half-birthday this summer.

Another new development in your world has been your introduction to a toddler bed. This was a shockingly smooth transition. I took you to WalMart one afternoon-- just Mommy and Soren--and let you pick out your own bedding for your new bed. It came down to a choice between a Sponge Bob Square Pants comforter set and an Elmo comforter set. You would hold the Sponge Bob package in your hand and contemplate out loud: "Bob? Bob? Bob?," then hand it to me and pick up the other one, pondering: "Elmo? Elmo? Elmo?" You ultimately decided on Elmo and held it close to you all the way home. You spent that night in your Elmo bed and haven't spent a night away since. (The baby still sleeps in his Moses Basket in Mom and Dad's room, but we wanted to get you accustomed to sleeping in a Big Boy Bed before he took over the crib.)

We came in to wake you up after a nap one afternoon and here you were, sound asleep with your eyes wide open.

One of your life's greatest joys is spending time with your older cousins, the Smith kids. Nothing makes you happier than waking up in the morning and hearing, "Guess what Soren? We get to go to Tessa's house today!" You run around getting ready, repeating, "Tessa's? Tessa's? Tessa's?" It's fun to watch you play with the big kids, who treat you like a little prince. Right now, for example, I'm sitting on the Smith's computer while you play outside. Little Marty (whom you call "Mommer"), 8, and Calysta ("Kista"), 10, helped you put on your coat, shoes, hat, and mittens. They're pushing you in the swing and you're laughing and laughing. When we arrived here this morning, Tessa, 6, was ready and waiting for you. The two of you immediately started racing around the front room, spinning circles and giggling. When we see other older children in public places you approach them as though you expect the same adulation you're used to receiving from your cousins. I'm very gratfeul for their kindness and generosity with you. They're good kids.

Pondering what sort of creation might be made next with your wooden blocks.

You and I also spend a goodly amount of time on YouTube every day, watching children's music videos. I limit this activity to five or so songs a day (for my own sanity's sake, in all honesty) but you spend a lot of time begging for more. The children's music section on YouTube seems to have been colonized by Great Britain, so I spend a lot of time afterwards singing things like, "If yo' 'appy and you know it, clap yo-'ands!", "'ead, shouldas, knees an' toes-- knees an' toes!", and "The baby on th' bus goes 'Wah wah wah'...awwl day looong."

Roughhousing with Uncle Sue.

On the language development front, you've taken to using multiple word-phrases and even sentences recently, your favorite being "I want mommy!" One day you picked up the phone and said "Hi. Daddy? This is Soneen. Bye!" Sometimes when Liam coos you'll smile and say, "A coot sound."

But anyway, I feel like I should apologize for the way things have been this month. Before this big transition in our lives, I took pride in the fact that I had never yelled at you. Let's just say that I have been shorn of this pride. This month-- especially at the beginning-- I haven't been as kind and as patient as I should have and I'm sorry. I've spent some time kneeling by your bedside while you sleep at night, looking at your smooth sweet face and hoping that I can be the mom that you deserve, praying that God will compensate for my weaknesses.

I love you, sweetie. You are still my little sunshine.

Mommy

Liam: 1 Month

Dear Liam,

Your father and I used to amuse ourselves at BYU by examining people and picking out the animals we thought they resembled. We were acquainted with a badger who had married a Siamese cat and a groundhog wedded to a basset hound. One of my good friends looked like a koala. Another resembled a gazelle. I think that your dad looks like an eagle. Not everyone lends themselves readily to an animal familiar, but I've decided that you are most certainly a cat-- perhaps more in deed than in looks, but the image of you as a kitten comes to my mind again and again. Like all cats, you are a lover of creature comforts. You'll curl up on a big person's chest like a kitty in a sunbeam and assume a pose of perfect relaxation. At night you fuss if I put you in your moses basket, so you spend a lot of time snuggled up next to Mommy or Daddy, a warm little ball of sweet milkiness. And you're always willing to eat. Soren was an infant who ate for business- every three hours he would set to the task of eating and gulp down his meal as quickly as possible; you, on the other hand, feel that you must eat every two hours and would eat more often if I provided the opportunity. You linger over your meals. And after you've nursed you'll burp largely and spit up a lot, then lean back a little, your eyes half-open, arms hanging limp, and look absolutely satiated.

Sweet Repose. Liam napping on Grandma Hanson.

You are remarkably smiley for such a young little ducky. When we took you to the doctor for your 2 week check-up, you sat with us in the exam room and smiled and smiled. At that particular checkup we found that you had beefed up considerably: when born you weighed 7 pounds, 5 ounces; at two weeks of age you weighed 8 pounds, 8 ounces. And you've continued to gain. You were so skinny when we first met you I thought you looked like a refugee; now you resemble the chubby Buddha and even your fingers are plump. You are also remarkably strong. You started rolling over (from your belly to your back) at 10 days old.

Fat and happy.

Fat and...glum?

I can't believe it's already been a whole month. When I talk about you and look at you, one word repeatedly comes to mind: sweet. You are so very sweet. I keep telling your daddy: "there's something very special about this kid."

Daddy is attempting to soothe Liam by gently bouncing him on the yellow massage ball. It wasn't as effective as it looks here.

Trying out the new tongue device.

I love you!

Mommy

Quiet alert.

I took this picture because it reminded me of Sam, a toddler in a delightful series of children's books that Grandma Skousen sent to Soren. Sam has very skinny legs and a round belly.

The Rest of Loriann's Rant

This is the entirety of Loriann's breastfeeding-in-public rant, published with her permission. It makes me laugh, so I thought I'd share. She did want me to note here that her work environment at the time was a bit stressful and that she doesn't swear so very much any more. :)

Sacred Boobies

an angry e-mail by Loriann

Okay, the breastfeeding articles got me a little riled up early in this morning. I would not, let me repeat, NOT fared well at BYU. I think I would have constantly been tasering people and breaking the honor code by flipping people off and having swearing fits due to the horrendoes nature of their ignorance. WHAT IS WRONG WITH THESE IDIOTS.

First up is the poor stupid man who is obviously in love with sacred boobs:

men are not permitted to look at or touch that exceptionally sacred part of a woman's body until we are married to her in the temple. That is why a woman should not expose that part of her even if it is just to feed her child unless absolutely necessary, unless there truly is no other option - Secret Addiction to Porn

ALSO... his BRILLIANT idea for these women with sacred boobs to go nurse in the freaking toilets of places like... burger king, the mall or the chevron. I don't know if the men's bathrooms are different than the ladies, but they are disgusting. I'm not going to squat over a nasty filthy toilet with my beautiful baby and attempt to nurse in a shit stained stink hole while some crazy person bangs on the door yelling, 'are you done yet?" My sacred boobs can sit wherever they would like to and FEED my child. You nasty nasty perv.

You should NOT expose your boobs unless absolutley necessary. Are we living in Afganistan and we should start wearing veils over ourselves. What other parts of ourselves should NEVER be exposed. This guy is insane. But I can give him a little bit of slack, because he is a man, and therefore he is stupid.

The following person however is a woman, and should have some sort of insight into women's rights, and the need to feed a hungry child. But she is however a stupid bitch. Here are my favorite exerpts from her word vomit.

The first of these questions really should be why do women want to breast-feed in public in the first place? - Yes, women love breast feeding in public. They prefer it actually. Instead of the comfort and privacy of their own homes when little junior pipes up with a hungry cry, they hop into the old minivan and drive to the busiest place in town rip their shirts off and let him suck away at their sacred boobies. Its just something that happens to a woman's brain after she has given birth... they become mad with indecency. You silly twit! A woman still has a life to tend to, she has to go grocery shopping, and clothes shopping for her other children that she might have... especially if she's a mormon since we seem to be fond of having 10 kids. When you have 10 bloody children you are busy taking them places like soccer practice and piano recitals, and tae freaking kwon doe. So in between all that junior needs to eat EVERY TWO HOURS. Chances are Mom is gonna have to feed him IN PUBLIC at some point.

(most pediatricians will back me up here) - I'm so glad that the whole of the medical community is on your side. Good job. Glad to know that pediatricians, doctors... really everyone agrees that breastfeeding is good for your baby. Welcome to the 21st century. Now why are you still living in the 18th century where you seem to be afraid of a titty?

What about having children is convenient? If you want convenience, get a cat. Geary stated that she didn't want to nurse in the restaurant bathroom because it was just "plain gross." Others consider nursing in public "plain gross." That viewpoint deserves the same level of sensitivity that publicly breast-feeding mothers ask for. - I have a question for you. When you go to the bathroom in a Burger King do you SIT on the toilet, or do you hover? Cause I've encountered a lot of hoverers who are afraid of actually letting their bare butt cheeks touching the seat of a public resrooms because they are "plain gross". And you know what happens then. You pee on the freaking seat! And that is "plain gross". Also why is it that in public restrooms EVERYTHING is WET. EVERYTHING. It looks like a DAMN hurricane just blew threw there. And very often there are DOORS MISSING FROM THE STALLS. Was someone in such a hurry to take a piss that they had to kick the door in? So even THERE you can't find PRIVACY. Even in the dirty, disgusting, soaking wet, door missing, "plain gross" bathroom, I'm sure someone would have found a way to pick on Catherine Geary and make her feel like a whorish monster.

Some things that I find others do in public as plain gross... picking their nose.... picking their butt. Chewing with their mouths open. Letting their children behave like monsters. Coughing a lung up and not covering their mouths. Making out with toungue rings. Snorgling their own snot. Sniffing your armpits. Smoking. Shitting in your own pants and then leaving your diaper in MY restroom for me to clean up. However I have NEVER been offended by a breastfeeding mother... strange.

Public breast-feeding used to be considered ill-mannered, gauche and even vulgar. - We also found it to be ill mannered to leave the house without long skirts and bonnets. It used to vulgar for women to vote or speak in public. It once was gauche for women to own land. My goodness, we have come along way you brainless twit!

Your breasts are still breasts. - My yes, our breasts are still breasts. By breastfeeding we are using them for their FUNCTIONAL purpose. I don't know what you use your breasts for, but if you haven't fed a child with them, they really are just decoration, or like party favors. Maybe you need to travel outside of america to learn the real value of FOOD.

Women used to go out of their way to plan their schedules in order to avoid the indignity of baring themselves in public, which seems like a wise solution. - The indignity? Wise solution? I am confused by these terms. Women used to not leave the house because they were housewives. They stayed with the house and cleaned for it and cooked for it. And then they realized, a house doesn't need a wife any more than a house needs a husband. I think I'll leave the bloody house and do some other things like take my child to the park, or have a part time job, OR a full time job. Or I'll be an activist for something, or I'll do anything I damn well please because once the seventies got here we all decided to be indignant and take off our bras and BURN THEM. Then we bared ourselves in public and danced around a the bra fire with glee. And that was a wise solution.... THE END.

Dearest Rachel... how did you survive with these ninnies for so long. They are absolutley horrible. I hate them so. The whole thing has got me in an uproar this morning.

A Clarification

I nursed Soren for thirteen months and there were occasions when, in public places, I'd have to bring out my boobs and my nursing blanket and and let him have a nip. And no one ever said anything unkind. And during my four long weeks of breastfeeding Liam, I have also yet to encounter any overt negativity about my breastfeeding him either.

I'm paranoid, however, because of a big public controversy from my BYU days that centered around breastfeeding in public. I think it was triggered by an incident that occurred at an Orem Burger King, where an employee approached a fully covered breastfeeding mom and asked her to take her business to the bathroom, because she was making people uncomfortable. The woman was understandably outraged and the story made it into all the local papers. There was then a flurry of activity in the Letters to the Editor section of The Daily Universe, BYU's campus newspaper. There were some individuals who wrote in defense of public breastfeeding, but many others who wrote in to express their discomfort with the idea. I tried to dig through the editorial archives to provide a link for you all to peruse at your leisure, but the archives apparently don't go back that far. It's a shame, really, because there were some real gems. Men and women alike wrote in to say things like, "men are not permitted to look at or touch that exceptionally sacred part of a woman's body until we are married to her in the temple. That is why a woman should not expose that part of her even if it is just to feed her child unless absolutely necessary, unless there truly is no other option"* and "why do women want to breastfeed in public in the first place?"**

And there was another similar controversy that occurred in the Woodville 1st Ward during my formative years. Some uptight (female) member of the congregation complained to the bishop about a woman who breastfed her baby during sacrament meeting, spurring a debate about the appropriateness of such behavior. Even though my mother fought bravely and vocally on the side of the breastfeeding mom, and I knew that she was right, as an adult I've never been able to shake the image of someone frowning at me for reminding the world that I have breasts and know how to use them. And so, even though I would occasionally like to stay and listen to my church meetings, I scuttle off to the mother's lounge to sit in seclusion and shamefully provide my child with the best possible nutrition available.

- - - - -

*"Secret addiction to porn," diagnosed my friend Loriann

**The answer to that question was delightfully provided again by Loriann, who later wrote me in an e-mail: "Yes, women love breast feeding in public. They prefer it actually. Instead of the comfort and privacy of their own homes, when little junior pipes up with a hungry cry, they hop into the old minivan and drive to the busiest place in town, rip their shirts off and let him suck away at their sacred boobies. Its just something that happens to a woman's brain after she has given birth... they become mad with indecency. You silly twit! A woman still has a life to tend to, she has to go grocery shopping, and clothes shopping for her other children that she might have... especially if she's a mormon since we seem to be fond of having 10 kids. When you have 10 bloody children you are busy taking them places like soccer practice and piano recitals, and tae freaking kwon doe. So in between all that junior needs to eat EVERY TWO HOURS. Chances are Mom is gonna have to feed him IN PUBLIC at some point."

You Know You're a Mother When...

You find yourself kneeling on the bathroom floor holding a wailing infant while your husband brushes your teeth in an attempt to demonstrate to your screaming toddler that there are worse things in life than oral hygiene.

A Call to Arms

It seems that something so simple should be...well, simple. But it seems that there's no right way to feed your baby in our culture. Bottle-feeding moms are criticized for bottle feeding because "breast is best"-- but breast-feeding moms are sent to hide themselves behind blankets in little closets to nourish their infants in shame.

Honestly, people, formula is a fine way to nourish a growing infant. I see plenty of healthy, intelligent, emotionally functional children skipping around after having been bottle-fed. And seriously, people, boobs exist. I'm sorry if mine make you uncomfortable. But I have them and they exist for the very purpose of feeding my young. I'm tired of being sequestered away as though I were a menstruating woman in a primitive culture.

Breastfeeding and Bottle-feeding Moms, unite! Let us cross the La Leche League chasm that has hithertofore separated us! Let us stand side by side and boldly whip out our bottles and our boobies, and do it without shame! It is time for all of us, everywhere, to feed our babies with pride!

It's time for some book reviews.

I have actually read some books (and started several others) during the past six months. Here's the rundown:

Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe
Fannie Flagg

This book contains a section of recipes in the back, so it is clearly a delight. That's a universal rule, right? Books containing actual recipes = delightful. I vaguely remember something about that from my Physical Science 100 days. BcAR=D. (Like Water for Chocolate is another example of this Delight Phenomenon.)

It's not the most fantastic book of all time, but it's a warm read and decently written. In addition to the recipes in the back, each chapter starts out with a newsletter written by the postmaster's wife in the town of Whistle Stop. The book is worth reading just for the newsletters.

My only recommendation would be to read the novel and watch the movie based on the novel. They fill in characterization and plot gaps for each other.

A Slipping Down Life
Anne Tyler

This wasn't my favorite Anne Tyler novel. Nothing really wrong with it, but nothing really right, either.






A Place Where the Sea Remembers
Sandra Benitez
Beautifully written. Poignant. Heart-breaking. And unremarkable. Sort of like it came out of the Beautifully Written and Poignant Novels factory.








The Practice of Rational Emotive Behavior Therapy
Albert Ellis and Windy Dryden

My therapist at BYU, Lars Nielsen, was mentored by Albert Ellis, who founded this particular branch of Behavior Therapy. I really loved Lars' counseling style--it was practical, humorous, intelligent, and terminal--so when I saw this book in one of my co-workers offices, I decided to look at this therapeutic approach from the other side of the couch.

This was a good read, but pretty textbook-y. (I guess that's what one should expect from a textbook).

If you're interested in curing yourself of all your emotional ills using this excellent approach, I would recommend one of these self-help books.

Positive Discipline for Working Parents
Jane Nelson and Lisa Larsen

I love the Positive Discipline series. It offers a viable alternative to traditional punishment/reward methods of parenting, incorporating valuable research about child development into its theories and teaching parents how to respectfully set limits for their children and teach them how to make good decisions.

You know you're a mother when...

You wake up every forty five minutes in the middle of the night with a wee infant, all the while trying to stop the Sesame Street song, "Do De Rubber Duck", from playing incessantly in your head.

Baby Abe

1978

Brothers

Abraham has a knack for taking pictures of our newborns when they're pulling the most fabulous faces. I like these two shots because they truly illustrate how (phenotypically) similar our children are.

Soren, aged 15 days, January 2007.

Liam, aged 5 days, February 2009.

Interventionalizin' Those Babies

Most of you, dear Readers, seemed quite interested in my earlier post about Hypnobabies, so I thought I'd check in and let you know how the whole beaaautiful birthing experience went down.

The natural childbirth people talk about what they call "birth interventions"-- things like induction, continuous fetal monitoring, pain medication, and episiotomies-- as though they were one of the seven plagues of Egypt. Everyone from the Bradley people to Ricky Lake have put their index fingers in an "x" and hissed at an IV bag full of Pitocin. The idea is that medical intervention should be avoided at all costs, as interventions can often lead to complications. Generally I agree with this attitude, which is why God struck me with my transverse baby.

When I went to see both my midwife, Susan Binegar-Rider, and obstetrician, Margaret Huggins, almost a week after my due date and little Liam had still not permanently turned into a head-down position, it became clear that at least a little intervening was inevitable. The "wait-and-see" policy I had previously adopted was beginning to seem less safe-- if I waited to see if Liam turned head down until I went into labor, I would risk uterine rupture or an umbilical cord prolapse. It took me a little while to adjust my thinking, but we ultimately decided that it would be best to schedule a version and, if the version was successful, induce labor while he still had his head down-- and if it wasn't successful, go ahead with a C-Section.

So Wednesday morning started out with a "version," performed--since my own Obstetrician was away on an emergency call--by Dr. Barbara Nelson of the Rosemark Women's Center. The nurses all told me that she was the best baby turner they'd ever seen, so I felt that it was serendipity that she was the one who was available to do the procedure. She was accompanied by an adorable male ultrasound technician who looked like he was perhaps from Pakistan, smelled deliciously foreign, and referred to me as "my friend." Anyway, after a few minutes of discomfort, Liam was turned into a more appropriate birthing position. High fives were exchanged all around, a nurse stabbed me with an IV (which thing made Abraham quite faint), and I was trotted down to a birthing room in a stylish moon-and-stars hospital gown.

After Lisa, the attending nurse, got us all hooked up with the Pitocin (intervention) and strapped me to a continuous fetal monitor (intervention), and Dr. Nelson had broken my water (uncomfortable intervention), Abe got out his book of fairy tales and read to me for a while. Lisa would occasionally come in and ask, "How are you feeling?" and when I said, "Great!" She'd say, "OK. Let's crank up that Pitocin a little." She seemed a little bit like a torturer : "Still feeling comfortable, hmm? Well, let's see how you do when I turn up your contractions to a 7!" So I sat there through several hours of increasingly strong contractions, focusing on relaxing through each one, and visuallizing the sensation as a warm yellow light moving through my back and abdomen. This worked very well-- so well, in fact, that after we put on a Hypnobabies CD, Abe even fell asleep while I labored. Loriann came in to visit during her lunch break and we had a nice chat between contractions, which were then about a minute long and a minute apart.

Shortly after Loriann left, however, the contractions started feeling less like a warm glowing light and more like a sharp searing burn. I decided I didn't really feel like suffering, so we called in the anesthesiologist (intervention), who injected me with a lovely formula of liquid sunshine while humming a happy ditty to himself. At that point, I was only dilated to a five, but within an hour, I could feel Liam moving into the birth canal. Things progressed pretty quickly from there. Because Liam's heart rate was dropping, I was hooked up to an internal fetal monitor (intervention) and injected with fake amniotic fluid (intervention). And at 3:52 PM, after three minutes of pushing, Mr. William James was born. With all those interventions, I reduced my birthing time from 45 hours (with Soren) to 6 1/2 (with Liam). It was glorious. "Night and day," said Dr. Huggins, of my two births. "Night and day."

And I'm not at all sorry that I spent all the time and money that I did on Hypnobabies. Well, actually, now that I write that, I realize that maybe I am a little sorry. That was a lot of time invested. But I do feel that the techniques I learned helped me through the first several hours of my labor in comfort, so it wasn't a complete waste. And I also genuinely believe that, had I been able to move around freely (I couldn't because of my IVs and continuous monitoring), I would have made it all the way without an epidural. Also, the relaxation techniques have helped me since having the baby, allowing me to fall asleep quickly when I have the opportunity (I'm generally not very good at falling asleep). And I did have a positive birthing experience, though I imagine it's not anything the Hypnobabies people would want to post with their testimonials.

So, in conclusion: I interventionalized this birth. And it was a good birth. But maybe next time I can go back to hypnotizin' that birth process. We'll see.

Liam: Welcome Letter

Dear Liam,

You're lying on a blanket in your carseat and I'm sitting right next to you with the computer on my lap, watching you sleep and listening to the little creaks and squeaks you make as you dream. Soren and Daddy are at Grandma's house, which means that you and I have a few rare moments to be alone. You don't seem to notice or care, however. You just want to sleep.

The pajamas you wear drown your tiny little body and your face is tanned with jaundice. You hold your little arms in a praying mantis position and your long thin fingers hang down. You just woke up and stretched long enough to noisily fill your diaper, then drifted back into sleep. The nurses at the hospital were worried that your jaundice would make you too sleepy to remember to eat, but that hasn't been a problem at all. The moment your eyes open you're ready for food, a desire you aren't afraid to express loudly.

When Soren was a newborn I read a book called Chocolat, picked up and savored during the long hours I spent nursing and rocking him. The mother in the book referred to her child as "My Little Stranger." I remember thinking it was an apt description then for my little Soren, and I find myself using it now, for you, as I look into your dark almond-shaped eyes and sense that inside your tiny little body is a whole human being, unique, beautiful, already whole, just waiting to unfold. Thus far, you have been a very serene baby, content to sleep and eat and occasionally open your eyes and calmly look around. (Around here that makes you both strange and a stranger.)
Your Daddy fell in love with you the moment he laid eyes on you. You should see the way he lights up when you're in his arms, the gentle cheery voice he uses when you open your eyes. He has a hard time putting you down and can't look at you without making a remark like, "What a handsome little boy!" Soren is a little more dubious. He gives you hugs and kisses and watches with great concern whenever you cry, but he's also wondering where he fits in to this newly shaped family, and has begun fighting naps and bedtimes, afraid, perhaps that when he awakes you will have replaced him completely. But here we are, now, joyfully irrevocable, the four of us: Daddy, Mommy, Soren, and Liam. Your family.

Welcome Home, Little Stranger.

Love,

Mama

Portrait of the first few days with a newborn (in which I cry a great deal).

-Abraham came to visit and bring us home Thursday afternoon. While we waited for my lunch to arrive, he climbed into the hospital bed with me and Liam. The three of us cuddled while huge snowflakes swirled around outside our window.

-When we arrived at Grandma's to pick up Soren, I came in first and found him in a high chair eating supper. "Mommy!" he said cheerfully. "Mommy, mommy, mommy!" I gave him kisses. Then Daddy brought in the new baby and we talked about him for a while, explaining again to Soren how this was his baby, his new little brother. Soren seemed intrigued by this idea. And then the baby started to cry. So I picked him up, explaining that I needed to feed the new baby. Soren immediately began to scream, his eyes welled up with tears, he threw his bowl and spoon on the floor, and between sobs he said, "Hug? Hug? Hug?" I, being the mature adult, burst into tears as well.

-Soren's hands seemed so small to me just a few days ago. Now they seem enormous. I sat in a rocking chair with Liam last night and cried and cried, thinking about how hard I've tried to remember everything about Soren's babyhood, and how I don't, and how he's grown so big so fast. I cried, too, because it's hard to split my time between those two little angels of mine.

-Liam is so tiny. He weighed 7 pounds 5 ounces at birth and is 21 inches long. His little legs and little arms are thin enough that Grandma says she thinks he looks like a little refugee baby. They are long and narrow and covered with loose jaundiced skin. His skin is very soft and I love his sweet tiny little smell. I can't get over how narrow and little his rib cage is, how long and thin his fingers are.

-Our first night home we decided Liam was starving to death. He nursed and nursed and nursed and never seemed to get enough. We decided to give him a little formula to tide him over until my milk came in. Digging around in our cupboards, we discovered that while we had bottles, we had no nipples. So after each nursing session we would feed him formula with a dropper. At about four AM, after a three hour nursing session, we had him eating from a dropper again. It struck me that he looked like an orphaned kitten and I cried and cried and cried. (My milk supply has since increased and the little one has been eating and pooping like, well, a newborn.)

-Liam is a good nurser. He latches on without trouble and eats very gently. Soren thinks this nursing thing is very weird. When he and his daddy were looking at a book together. Soren pointed at a picture of a glue bottle on one page and said, "Boobie. Ewww." Forgetting, apparently, about the first 13 months of his own life, when boobies didn't seem so gross.

-Liam currently alternates his nights with me and Abe: the first few hours he sleeps on Daddy while they watch movies. Then he nurses for like three hours. Then he and Abe sleep on the couch or rocker recliner. I get up with Soren at around 7 and we have some baby-free time together. We'll all be sad when Daddy goes back to work.

Happy Birthday to Liam!

William James Skousen was born on February 25, 2009 at 3:52 pm.

Still pregnant.

Not dilated.
Transverse-turned-vertex baby has turned back to being transverse.
Scheduled to attempt a "version" (turning) of the baby tomorrow morning, followed by an induction.
If version is unsuccessful, we're cutting this baby out.

I am the egg (wo)man. I am the walrus. Coo coo ca choo.

Still pregnant.

Not dilated.

But the good news is that our once-transverse baby has decided to turn vertex. So hopefully we'll be able to hypnotize him into this world yet.

(These pictures were taken on Valentine's day, right before Abe and I took ourselves on a hot date to Sportsman's Warehouse, BestBuy, and Toys R Us.)

A Quick Update on the Adults in the Family

-Abe started his Master's program last month. He's pursuing a degree in Library Science, which suits him perfectly in every way. All the coursework is done through the University of North Texas, which means that the majority of what he'll be doing is online. However, at the end of January he spent a week in Houston attending an introductory seminar.

-A bonus to this was that my brother Scott and his wife, Amanda, live in Houston. So Abe was able to stay with them and do a little touring on the side. They took him to a beach in Galveston, the Natural Science Museum, and the Houston Space Center. They also kept him fed and sheltered (thank you, Scott and Mandy!)

-While Abe was away it snowed six inches and I had to shovel out the driveway, sidewalk, and steps by myself. At 8 months pregnant. With a bundled up toddler growing more cold and miserable by the minute. I felt very tough and feel that I should brag about this at every turn.

-Also while Abe was away I cooked ten dinners and froze them. In one (very long) day.

-I am apparently incapable of being alone, however, as I never did spend an entire evening by myself in Abe's absence Either Nick or Loriann would come over-- or I would go to my Mom's or Collette's.

-This is becoming increasingly more about me and less about Abe. Oh well.

-I started a new job this month. I'm now working at the Harbor House (an inpatient drug-and-alcohol rehabilitation program for adolescents--the same place Abe works) as the administrative assistant. It's about six to eight more hours a week than I was doing before, but the work is about the same, the co-worker camaraderie is about the same, and the pay is much much better. At the DVIC I was going in twice a week for six hours at a go; now I go in every day for about four hours. I've actually been enjoying leaving the house every day and don't feel that Soren has been at all neglected. I just hope I'll be able to keep up this pace after Liam comes!

Newsletter: 25 1/2 Months

Dear Soren,

Daddy applied for a job with the county this month. He didn't get it, but that's not important. What's important is that when you and I were waiting for him to fill out his application, you met someone very important.

We were standing just inside the double doors of the main entrance when up the stone steps of the courthouse strode a tall, confident man with shoulder-length blond hair and a well-groomed beard. I thought I recognized him as a reporter from the Idaho Falls Post Register, but you knew better. You took my hand and very softly and very reverently said, "Cici?" The man quickly reached the top of the steps and burst through the double doors. He was obviously in a hurry, but when he saw you he stopped briefly, looked down into your upturned face, and said in a deep voice, "Hello, little Dude." He then brushed past us and began removing his watch so he could pass through the metal detector.

I wonder if this is something you will remember in the future. "I met Jesus when I was very young," you'll say one day. "Maybe it was a dream. I don't know. But he called me a 'little Dude' and seemed like a pretty hip guy--wore a Rolex even-- so I've really been into Christianity ever since."

Soren has discovered the joy of bubble beards. He says it makes him look like a snowman. (At least, that's what I get out of him smearing bubbles on his chin and then saying, "Nonny! Nonny!") Neither Abe nor I showed him this. We're wonder if it's an instinctive thing, that all children are born knowing that bubbles are best as beards.

Also this month you appear to have developed an early-onset Oedipal Complex. You seem to feel that you and your daddy are engaged in a to-the-death competition for my love. Classic example: One Saturday morning Daddy and I were snuggling on the couch. You asked to join us (Your exact words were, "Up? Hug?"), so I hauled you up onto the sofa with us. First you cuddled up against me. Then, with your free hand, you bopped your dad in the face. So I placed you back on the floor with an admonition to be gentle. You came back in a minute and repeated your request: "Up? Hug?" So we decided to give you another chance. Again, you loved up to me and then pulled Daddy's hair. You were again placed on the floor, again reminded to touch nicely. When you came back a third time, you laid down on my enormous round belly and, more cautiously now, slowly began torturing your dad: an "accidental" whack on the chest with your enormous cranium; a "gentle" hair-rubbing session turned rough, a position change that involved grabbing Daddy's neck skin and pulling hard. Needless to say, you weren't allowed back on the couch for the duration of the morning, a blow you took to be hard. But I promise you, son: one day you won't want to marry me and you'll be very glad that your dad is alive. Oh, and also, you'll realize that there's no limit to the amount of love someone can give.

Soren practices going to the potty. No actual peepee or poopoo were involved in the making of this photo.

For Christmas we gave you a single container of Playdough. It was blue. And you loved it. You carried it around the house. You slept with it. You brought it to Grandma's. You took it to Auntie Collette's. You screamed when it got taken away. You sat at the table for hours and shaped it into snakes (you call them "neeks.") You followed me around and requested that I make you playdough balls. It was a sad day when we realized the blue playdough was completely dessicated. So when Nana (your Great Grandma Forbes) mailed you some birthday money, we knew just what to do with it: we bought you some more. FOUR containers this time, all of which have since dried up and been thrown away. We replaced all of that, too, but your interest seems to have waned, at least temporarily. But anyway, you spent the bulk of this month in the kitchen with your playdough. Perhaps you'll grow up to be a sculptor?

You've started developing a mild attachment to things that are comfortable to you. You have a few favorite stuffed animals (Monkey, Bear, and Bunny). You have a favorite blanket (called "BobBob"-- it's a Spongebob print). You have a favorite lullaby: "Horses" (All the Pretty Little Horses.) When you're tired or in pain, you'll request these items: "Bear!" "Bob!" "Horses!"

And you say the following words adorably:

Fork = "Hort"
Dinosaur = "Naur"
Monkey = "Muneet"
Button (as in the garage door button) = "Muneet"

So these are my thoughts and memories of you this month.

Your daddy and I love and love you. We're so glad you're ours.

Love,

Mommy

My Little Miracle

When I started skidding on the ice on the middle of a busy highway, my choice immediately became clear: ram the expensive-looking SUV in front of me or swerve into the driveway of the nearest parking lot. I swerved, skidded some more, and plowed into the middle of the snow-filled lawn of an empty office building. "Shit, Damn," I whispered. Then, remembering I was on the phone, and that it was my poor mother listening on the other end, added, "Mom? You still there? I just ran off the road. I've got to go."

Soren sat calmly in the backseat, utterly unfazed by either the accident or his mother's vulgar language, and continued to lick the peanut butter and honey off his sandwich. Traffic continued to pass by on the highway, business as usual.

I hung up and tried desperately to maneuver out of the spot; I succeeded only in burning a lot of oil and digging myself much, much deeper into the snow bank. So I killed the engine, said a little prayer for help, and tried to think of someone to call. Abe was out of town. Daddy was at his job in the middle of the desert. I wondered if I should call the police. Or a tow truck. I tried phoning my brother-in-law: his work cell phone, his personal cell phone, and his home phone all yielded to voice mail. I turned the engine back on and spun my wheels some more.

And then, wonder of wonders, a white pickup truck pulled into the parking lot. Out stepped two long-haired twenty-something men with scruffy facial hair. I got out of my car and said hello.

"We were going to push you out," said the one with curly hair "But now we can see you're way too stuck for that."

"You've got to be pulled out," added the one with a beanie, "But we don't have a rope."

"I think Mark has a rope," said Curly.

"And he might be working today," said Beanie.

"Or maybe Carl. Seems like he had a rope."

The two made a couple of phone calls, conferred among themselves, then said to me, "We're going down to Auto to get a rope. We'll be right back."

So these two complete stranger drove to a nearby auto parts store, purchased a rope, drove back, and hauled me out of my predicament.

"Thank you so much," I said, leaning out my window as I prepared to drive away. "How much do I owe you?"

But Beanie, who was guiding Curly's driving, just looked disgusted and waved a hand at me.

"Thank you so much," I repeated. "I don't know what I would have done without you."

He nodded and I drove away. In the rearview mirror I could see him climbing back into the white pickup truck, an angel wearing a Marlboro jacket.