Friday, February 27

 I've been single mommin' it for a few weeks. Life has been exhausting but in the best way possible. 

The weather has been insane here. One day we are wearing shorts and sandals. The next day winter coats. 

We still don't know where we are going this summer, but we know we're going, so I've new trying to organize and clean. It's become abundantly clear that we own way too much crap.

Here are some other highlights:

Last week, Jared took Clark out to the yard to do yardwork. I went out to join them, only to watch Clark pick up a giant fossilized piece of Bunny poop and start walking across the yard with it, saying "Da Da" before violently throwing it into the pooper scooper and turning around to look for more. He was trying to help. I was trying not to vomit in my mouth. (And yes I stopped him as soon as I could sprint across the yard, and yes, his hands were sanitized.)

Henry currently weighs 15lbs 14oz. I know this because I got on the scale with him today, even though that meant weighing myself in the process, and by the way, I still have six pounds to go, but I ate a donut after dinner tonight probably seven now. 

But Donuts are just round cake so it's an acceptable dessert. 

Also, I can't believe how big Henry is compared to Clark. 

Don't worry, I will not get on social media and declare that my baby is superior because he is fat. Because it's annoying and untrue. Fat babies are just fat. Skinny babies are just skinny. 

But I might get on and declare that Clark is THE BOMB after he successfully identified and actually said five colors today. I swear it's the truth even though he refuses an encore show for my iPhone. He told me today that his shirt is ORANGE. His bracelet is PURPLE. His block is YELLOW. Henry's pants are RED. Mommy's pants are BLACK.

Backtrack! Clark loves bracelets. He has his own purple one that he wears everywhere. The other day I even got him some candy bracelets. Which leads me to my next point....

Don't get your toddler candy bracelets. I looked away for one second and when I looked back, the candy was eaten and the elastic was missing. I looked everywhere and couldn't find it. Panicked. Started comtemplating the possibility of a bowel obstruction and panicked more. Was just getting ready to page the doctor and/or go to hospital for X-rays when I found the elastic. 

Which brings me to another point:

Dog puke is nasty. Also. Dogs can't digest candy bracelet elastic. 

Meanwhile, this was the same day I had to call Poison Control because Clark drank an entire bottle of contact lens solution. And since it was my second time calling, they knew my name. And Clark's name. It's all in our "record".


On a related note, a few weeks ago we had to take Clark to the ER after he climbed up on the stove and put his hand directly on the burner. When we got into a room, the nurse said, "Oh hi again! I was your nurse last time, too!" 


As a results our kitchen is now entirely fenced in with baby gates that Clark knows how to open so that was a complete waste of $150 and the effort it took to make it look so ugly to begin with.

Moving on to happier things. You guys, Clark was such a good natured baby. He never, ever cried and was just so happy. Seriously. And everyone said it would never happen again, except...Henry is happier, if that's even possible. My boy never cries, EVER, unless he's hungry. He smiles at everyone and coos and coos. I don't know why I have such happy little guys but I feel so lucky.

Clark still loves his brother. Sometimes his loves comes out like a smack to the head or a little love nibble that leaves a mark, but mostly he just hugs and kisses him. He helps me change his diapers and helps me bath Henry every night.  He just runs over with his little step stool and puts it next to the sink, rolls up his sleeves, and rubs the soap in his hair. Rinses him off with me and dries him off, powders his bum and lotions his feet. He does it all.  If Henry cries, he runs over and covers him with a blanket and pats his head and sometimes even shares his toys. 

And actually I guess I lied about the crying. Last week I heard a commotion in the living room. I walked out and found Henry crying while Clark was sitting next to him, shoving his Kazoo INTO HIS MOUTH. And as I ran over to remove it, Clark just kept pointing at Henry and talking and talking, and I imagine trying to make him use the dang Kazoo.  My sweet boys. 

I'm in love. 

The End.

Life with Two

Saturday, January 24

Alternate Title: Why it takes forever to go anywhere.

My tiny alarm clock named Henry goes off at 6:00AM.  He is ready for his breakfast, or final meal of the night, depending on how you look at it.  I roll over and pick him up.  Put him next to me in bed and nurse him until we both fall back asleep.  Around 7:00, I start hearing stirrings from the monitor in Clark's room.  By 7:15, he is wide awake and demanding that someone come get him.  I lay Henry back in his co-sleeper, and go get Clark, bring him back to my room, and stick him in my bed.  I then turn a Baby Einstein episode on the iPad, just so that I can lay there and snuggle Clark for a few minutes...enjoy the fact that he isn't in motion.  You know, sniff his head and scratch his back and all that.  I silently think through my day, and decide I will work out later in the afternoon, which means I don't need to shower this morning.  CHECK. About ten minutes into the movie, he decides it's time to sit on top of his still sleeping brother, so that's that. We move into the kitchen.

I turn on the Today Show, which, sadly enough, is now my primary source of news and world events.  I crack two eggs and start scrambling them for Clark while he runs laps around the house.  Literally.  Pumping his arms and running in circles.  I finally put his breakfast on the table, pour my Raisin Bran and coffee, and sit down next to him to eat.  I finish before him and decide to take advantage of the fact that he is still eating, and unload the dishwasher.  No go. Suddenly he doesn't want to eat.  I quickly realize that he will only eat if I continue sitting next to him.

So I spend the next 20 minutes sitting at the table drinking coffee while Clark thoughtfully chews each piece of egg, quietly inspects every single blueberry, and plays a few games with his toast before deciding to actually ingest it.  Finally. He's done and I can unload the dishwasher.  Except now this five minute job just became 15, because Clark wants to help.  And it's so sweet and endearing that I am not going to tell him no. So he unloads everything.  Each and every item, ONE BY ONE. And then I re-organize it all.  He breaks a wine glass.  I clean it up.  I put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher, and he unloads those too.  So I load it again.  Finally, I close the door and re-direct him to the bedroom so I can get him dressed.

I lay him on the bed, and he starts to fight me, as toddlers love to do.   So I use my left arm to pin him to the bed while using my right arm to attempt a diaper change.  I get as far as the diaper and the shirt when I start to lose the power struggle, so I take a break.  Henry is fussing.  I pick him up and nurse him a little more.  Burp him.  Clark helps me get him dressed in real clothes, and we lay him back down.  In the two minutes I turn my back, Clark tips all the laundry baskets over and now there are dirty clothes all over the floor.  I realize that maybe this is a sign that I should do laundry, so I ask Clark to help me, and we head to the laundry room.

On our way there, I notice dog pee on my new dining room carpet and decide to ignore it for the next ten minutes because if I try to clean it, rage will well up inside me and I will yell at the dogs.  Seriously.  WHAT'S THEIR FREAKING PROBLEM?  Once we get to the laundry room, I falter for a minute.  There are clean clothes in the dryer, which means if I start doing laundry right this moment, I will have to put the clean clothes on my bed, and they will stare at me all day until I fold them.  I briefly consider taking the dirty clothes back to my room where they will at least be contained in baskets, but ultimately decide on laundry.  Before we can even get the washer going, Henry is crying.

We go back in the room and I pick Henry up to nurse him again.  Turns out, hunger is not the problem.  He spits up all over both of us.  I silently pat myself on the back for not being dressed yet.  I remove my shirt, and Henry is still crying, so I decide I don't quite have time yet to put a new shirt on.  I change Henry's clothes.  Get him settled.  Suddenly I smell poop.  Clark needs changed.  I silently pat myself on the back that he wasn't wearing pants yet.  I change his diaper.  Wrestle some pants, socks and shoes on him.  Henry is crying again.  He's hungry this time, so I feed him again.  But this time I'm not taking any chances, so I walk around the house with one boob hanging out and still no shirt on, following Clark around.  I watch him cleverly try to push the chair up to the counter four times so that he can eat sugar out of the sugar bin and remove sharp knives from the drawer. Poor Henry has to stop eating every time because, as talented as I may be, I can't keep a baby on the boob while simultaneously picking up a 28 pound toddler from the counter.  I silently remind myself for the millionth time to check our budget and see if we can afford to order those fancy magnetic drawer locks.  Then I reprimand myself because does safety really have a price?  I don't want Clark to get hurt.  I realize there's no time for arbitrary arguments with myself, and forget about it completely.

Henry is now fed.  He's in his swing.  Clark wants a snack.  I give it to him.  He spills applesauce on his shirt and I decide it's not worth the effort to change it quite yet.  I look at the clock.  It's now 9:30.  We are out of bananas and milk, and I need to go to the store.  I need to be there by 10 to avoid any potential meltdowns due to impending nap time.  I look in the mirror.  Realize I still have no shirt on. My eyes drift down to my belly and I decide today is the day that I need to really get serious about losing these last few pounds.  Pull on jeans and a shirt and a pair of flats.  Pull my hair back and tease the roots so that maybe people will think I'm intentionally going for the messy look.  A tiny bit of makeup and then I start the car loading process. First Clark needs a jacket.  CHECK.  Then Henry needs strapped into his seat.  CHECK.  Now Clark has removed his shoes.  CRAP.  Put his shoes back on.  Now Henry is crying.  Give him the paci.  Put a blanket around him.  Tell Clark to bid the dogs goodbye.  I notice the pee on the carpet again but now that we are walking out the door, it's going to have to wait. Again.  

We go to the car.  Clark cries because he wants to drive.  I force him into his seat.  Get Henry in.  Turn the car on, and go back into the house to get my diaper bag.  Come back out and remember that I forgot a snack.  Go back in for a snack.  Come back out.  Realize I forgot my water. Decide to hell with it, we are going to the store now and I don't care what I do or don't have in my diaper bag anymore. 

We get to HEB.  Someone in a two person convertible is parked in the CUSTOMERS WITH CHILDREN Parking.  Say a swear word under my breath, because SERIOUSLY?  I park the car elsewhere. Get a buggy.  Get Henry out.  Go around to the other side, and get Clark out.  Finally we can shop.  Once we get in there, Clark suddenly is dying of thirst and keeps telling me "WA-WA". We make a detour down the water aisle so that I can give him a bottle to drink.  A man gives me a look and I tell him DON'T WORRY I WILL PAY FOR IT.  When I'm in the milk aisle, I discover that in the ten seconds I looked away, Clark opened a banana and ate half of it.  I actually CAN'T pay for something he already ate, since it's charged by weight.  I hold out hope that the cashier has a solution for this dilemma.  As I'm walking by the bakery, I realize they have sour cream donuts.  THEY NEVER HAVE SOUR CREAM DONUTS.  I put three in a bag. I split one with Clark right there in the aisle, because...WHATEVER. 

We pay for the groceries (including our already eaten donut).  I get two scratch offs on my way out, because I'M FEELING LUCKY TODAY! We get home.  It's five trips to get back in the house.  One with Henry.  One with Clark.  One with my diaper bag and miscellaneous sippy cups I find under the seats. And two with groceries.  By now Henry is crying again.  Clark is hungry.  I make Clark a ham sandwich and sit down to feed Henry.  Clark doesn't want his ham sandwich.  He is standing at the counter crying and signing "PLEASE" and pointing at a can of green beans.  I open them and pour some in a bowl.  He eats and eats until he's eaten the entire can of green beans.  I put Henry in his swing.  It's now 11:30.  The groceries aren't going to put themselves away, so I do that.

Clark disappears in the middle of this.  I go to find him.  He's standing at the toilet in the spare bathroom sticking his fingers in the toilet water and licking the water off.  His pants and one sock are now missing.  I decide it's time for nap, so I find him new socks.  I turn up the amp on Henry's swing.  Eat an entire donut in two bites in the kitchen, completely forgetting about my earlier vow to start my diet today, and head back to Clarks room to get him put down.  He's sleepy and he goes down quickly.

I go back.  Get Henry.  Look around my house at the mess and all that needs done.  Calculate how many more days until the cleaning lady comes.  Decide most of the serious cleaning can wait, and walk Henry into my room.  I pull back the covers, and get in bed with him for some snuggling and a nap. It's not even noon and I'm beat.   And as I'm laying there, I start to think about the blessing of my life.  How lucky I am to have it so good.  How much fun I've already had this morning.  I think about what a good boy Clark is.  How sweet and helpful and fun he is to be around.  He is such a complete joy.  And Henry.  He's so sweet and snuggly and smells like delicious baby.  And then I think, TWO UNDER TWO.  It's not so bad.  I remind myself again about how much easier the second baby is than the first.  And it's true.  Henry is a breeze.  I feel more confident with him.  Less stressed. More prepared.  I think I can keep doing this. I'm enjoying every single moment.   

The Story of Henry

Sunday, January 4

It's a boy! Henry Crawford Wilson entered this world at 11:01AM on Monday, December 1, measuring 8lb 10oz and 20 1/2 inches long. Hooray!

And yes, I realize that it's been an entire one month and three days since he was born..that's how old my baby is today.  And while so far, having two kids doesn't feel very hard at all, the fact that it's taken this long to write out Henry's birth story should tell you something about the state of my "free time" these days.  Or, rather, how I choose to spend my free time.  I feel like it was just yesterday that I went into the hospital.  I feel like it was just hours ago that we came home and settled in here.  I felt like the time went fast with Clark, and if that was true, then time is moving at lightening speed with Henry.  And now, because I don't want time to dull the details, here is how it happened. 

On the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, I went in for what would be my last OB appointment.  I was 38 weeks along, and everything looked great. I got on the scale backwards, as usual. Got my blood pressure taken. Everything looked great. Baby's heartrate looked good, and I was measuring about 2.5cm and 60%. Not bad. I was expecting a baby in about a week-ish.  

Also, it should be noted that up until that day, I had been going to the park every day and walking 2.5 miles on a bumpy trail in hopes of dislodging this little love muffin.  On the occasions that Jared came with me, he would make me do squats every quarter mile, which, when you are nine months pregnant, looks a lot like some perverse pregnant twerking. Don't worry. It was my immense pleasure to provide the entertainment for the patrons of my local park. In any case, thus far it had not been working. But I was more than ready.   

The next day, Wednesday, was the day before Thanksgiving.  Clark and I got up and got ready for the day, and then headed to the airport to get my in-laws.  It was around that time that I started having some contractions that felt a little stronger than the Braxton Hicks I had been having since about 15 weeks.  (SERIOUSLY.)  They didn't hurt...but they felt different.  That night, we headed out to dinner, and while we were there, they got strong enough that I had to stop walking through them and just sit.  They were sort-of hurting.  And so we timed them. They were about six minutes apart.  They continued on all evening, but weren't terrible.  Around 10:00, I headed to bed.  I took a Benadryl to help me sleep, and that was that. 

I woke up the next morning and NOTHING.  They stopped, so I figured it was a false alarm. But by the time we ate our Thanksgiving dinner later that day, the contractions had picked up again.  Perhaps my dinner table twerking performance helped? (I'm kidding but let's be honest-I probably would have gladly done it if I knew for sure it would speed things up. Pregnant women are desperate I tell you.) And now, I won't bore you with a play-by-play of each day, but from Thursday until that Sunday, I had contractions constantly.  They were consistently about five minutes apart and a minute long, for FOR FOUR DAYS. Stronger than a Braxton Hicks, but never actually painful.  SO.  That was four days of me constantly asking Jared, "Should I go in?" and him saying, "Yes, probably." and then me saying, "But they don't hurt so they will probably just send me home."  I'm sure my in-laws were sick of hearing us debate the entire issue.

Finally, Sunday night, Jared convinced me to just go in.  It WAS strange to have been contracting that long...right?  Even if it didn't hurt?  So we put Clark to bed, and headed out.  Now, when I had Clark, I refused to get anything to eat on the way to the hospital, convinced we would be back home in an hour or two, and I ended up spending my entire labor STARVING TO DEATH.  I remember laying there with an oxygen mask on my face and nurses holding my legs up in the air, and in between every single push, I kept saying, "I'M SO HUNGRY."  Poor me!  And even though I was convinced we would be headed home in a few hours again this time, I did request to go through the Whataburger drive thru on the way...just in case, because I will NEVER make that mistake again.  A double cheeseburger, large fries and chocolate milkshake later, we were on our way...

We got to the hospital, and I walked in like a completely normal person that's not in labor.  I felt like an idiot as I told the nurse, "Um, well, I think I MIGHT be in labor, so I'm really sorry, but can someone just, um, check me maybe?"  She probably thought I was yet another idiot pregnant woman coming into the hospital way too soon.  BUT! She took me to a bed and hooked me up to the monitors.  Then she checked me, looked at me funny, and announced that I was actually five cm dialated. Which is apparently enough to keep you.  I was shocked, since I was still not in any pain. They then moved me into a room, hooked me up to the monitor again, and the doctor told me that they would just keep me overnight and see what happened.  In the morning, she said she would break my water if I hadn't progressed.

Then they gave me a sleeping pill, and that was it.  I fell into a beautiful sleep. At about 4:30AM, the doctor came in wielding what looked to be a gigantic crochet needle, and announced that she would break my water.  I've heard horror stories about how painful this is, so I braced myself, and felt...nothing.  It didn't hurt at all.  Honestly, it was nothing.  She said she would give it an hour to see if things picked up, and if not, they would start Pitocin.

I never got my pitocin, because at 5:30AM, my contractions started on their own.  Like, the real ones. The kind that hurt.  And hey guys, good news.  It turns out that the steroids my doctor put me on brought my blood numbers up BARELY enough to get an epidural.


So at 5:30AM when the pain started, I paged the nurse and requested my epidural.  While she was in there, I started telling her about my most amazing, life changing experience with the Anesthesiologist I had last year, and I asked if he was working.  She laughed and said NO WAY.  She said there were about 40 doctors in that practice, and it was unlikely he was even working that day. Then she walked out in the hallway to page the doctor on call.  THEN, she walked back in and said, "You'll never believe this, but he IS going to be here at 6:30AM, so you can wait for him if you want."

You guys.  I almost cried with joy.  I LOVE THAT MAN.  He is amazing.  And so, for the next hour, I endured unmedicated labor (don't laugh at me, it was terrible), all in the name of getting the doctor of my dreams.  And he didn't disappoint.  At 6:30 on the dot, he walked in and said he heard someone was waiting for him.  I told him I spent the last year and a half of my life singing his praises and re-living my fabulous experience with him, which is completely true.  And I have no idea if that perhaps made him happy and he gave me even more drugs than strictly neccesary, but I can tell you this: with Clark, I felt basically no pain.  THIS TIME WAS EVEN BETTER.

Within seconds of getting my epidural placed, I had that familiar tingly feeling all down my spine, and within moments the pain was gone.  Oh, and IT WAS MAGICAL!  And then, I fell asleep.  You guys.  I slept, like SERIOUSLY SLEPT, from 6:30AM until 10:30AM.  I woke up occasionally, and only briefly, as the the nurse checked me and rolled me over.  It was amazing.  I didn't feel pressure.  I didn't feel pain.  I felt NOTHING except the sweet sensation of a nap. At 10:30AM, I was awaken by my sweet nurse shaking my shoulder and whispering, "Okay Meghann.  You're ten centimeters now.  It's time to get ready to push."


I roused myself.  The doctor came in.  It was her and one nurse for me, one nurse for the baby.  Everyone was relaxed and happy.  The doctor told me to push and it was very brief, and again, completely painless.  I felt absolutely nothing.  No pressure.  No pain.  NOTHING.  After about five pushes, that was it.  The doctor pulled him out, held him up, and proclaimed, "IT'S A BOY."  And felt good.  Jared and I kept looking at each other and I kept saying, "Can you believe it?!  We have two boys!"  I was overjoyed.  And then the doctor said, "Good grief, he's really big!"  And then the nurse weighed him and she said something similar.  And the comments continued throughout my hospital stay.

Henry Crawford Wilson.  My boy! (His middle name is my Grandma's maiden name.)

She put him on my belly and I got to see him up close right away.  The nurse took him and cleaned him.  Sucked his lungs out, swaddled him up, and gave him back to me. And then I got to nurse him. Like ten minutes after I had him!  And he ate like a champ. Then the nurse casually asked me if I'd like lunch, so I ordered a ham sandwich, and she said it would be up soon.  The doctor finished up her business, and that was it.  They all left us on our own.  I ate and nursed and stared at my new baby. It was so different than when I had Clark.  Jared and I couldn't stop asking each other if this was normal.  Jared kept saying, "This must be what it's like for everyone that has a healthy baby."  It was so surreal.  So easy.  So peaceful.

And so, we got moved into a room and spent the rest of the day staring at sweet baby Henry.  My in-laws brought Clark that night, and everyone got to meet him.  Clark only cared about Henry for a brief moment before he became obsessed with the phone in my room.  But it's okay, because to have both of my boys on my lap together, even momentarily, was one of the happiest moments of my life. (And he really loves his brother now!)

The next day, we went home.  We were in the hospital less 48 hours, which was again, something Jared and I felt so strangely about.  We were in for nine days when I had Clark.  So leaving so soon felt strangely wonderful.  And a little scary.

But now we are home.  We have a healthy baby boy--TWO healthy boys.  And life has been good.  It's been more than good.  This past one month and three days have been some of the happiest of my life.