My son's bedroom is no longer pink. Hope the fetus appreciates it.
Hey, how do you guys feel about tipping painters? For? Against? If for, how much?
Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you, that you be my poem, I whisper with my lips close to your ear.
- Walt Whitman
I want to get a pet duck and keep it in the bathtub.
I am addicted to chap stick
and altoids. I am freakishly flexible.
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My son's bedroom is no longer pink. Hope the fetus appreciates it.
Hey, how do you guys feel about tipping painters? For? Against? If for, how much?
Hey, you know where I am today? Paris? No. A fabulous spa? No. Trapped in Cinderella's castle with no hope of escape until I retract every horrible thing I've ever said about Disney? Slightly more likely, but still no. Indeed, I am stuck in my windowless basement with a two year old while every square inch of my house that is not part of said basement is painted something other than cheap, boring and peeling white or retina-burning pink. With a two year old.
By 10:00 we had blown through all the snacks, read all her books, built an elaborate train track complete with eight tunnels, played with all the other toys, and looked at every picture of a cow to be had on Flickr. I was considering reading to her from the 2001 Almanac, but then Mia discovered a set of kids cds that she hadn't seen in a while and also discovered that I had brought her (pink, Barbie, it was a gift and she loves it) cd player down from her room and she pretty much entertained herself until lunch by putting a cd in, hitting play, listening to five seconds of music, and then switching to a new cd.
And now, because I have the most fabulous, amazing, beautiful and truly impressive child on the planet, she is actually racked out and snoring on her old crib mattress on the floor in the other room. (Not the storeroom, the other other room. Sheesh, what kind of mother do you think I am?)
The painters will be here until at least 7:00, but if the universe loves me Chris will be home by the time Mia wakes up and we can blow this pop stand in favor of a trip to the most perfect place in all the world, Target. The painters will be back bright and early tomorrow, but Chris is working from home so hey, who wants to have me over? I'll be there at 10:00.
Mia is into Christmas carols these days - mainly "Jingle Bells," but sometimes she demands that I branch out. The other night I searched my vast repertoire of partial carols for one to which I knew something more than the chorus and then launched into a rousing rendition of "O Come, All Ye Faithful." As I worked my way toward the chorus, however, I realized it was a bit more than I had bargained for. Which is how I ended up singing "Oh come let us adore him, oh come let us adore him, oh come let us adore him, Santa Claus."
Hey, come for the bitching, stay for the blasphemy, you know?
Chris's birthday is next Wednesday (which, be sure to stop by then, because I have a fun birthday game planned), and it's one of those that is divisible by 5 and therefore requires a slightly better than normal gift. At least to my mind. I've had the gift in mind for months, and two weeks ago I scheduled a meeting for yesterday that just happened to be near a store where I could acquire said gift, so I had it all worked out. Go to my meeting, go birthday shopping, make it home in plenty of time to hide the evidence, forget to wrap it until three minutes before he gets home on his birthday. But, as I was explaining this plan to Mia at dinner on Sunday night, I realized it had a fatal flaw. I was taking Mia with me. Mia is a snitch.
I mean, she's 2, right? She can't help it. But when it was my birthday, Chris took her (and me, whatever) to Target to let her pick out the decorations and he told her not to tell me and it took all of four minutes for her to let it slip that she had chosen Elmo plates. And it is at least partly our fault. At dinner every night, we ask Mia to tell Chris what we did that day. She used to just stare blankly at him and then demand more grapes, but these days she is pretty good at it. She can tell him that we went to storytime and what the stories were about and who we saw there. Sure, sometimes she tells him what we did three days ago, but she's more or less accurate. I couldn't see any way out of it. I had to take Mia with me, there were at least even odds that she would recognize what I bought, and if she did there was about a 90% chance that she would tell Daddy all about it at dinner. I decided there was really nothing I could do other than warn Chris that if she told, he would be receiving his gift a week and a half early. There are worse things, I suppose, but I have been planning this one for quite a while and I was a little bummed about it.
But, she hasn't told him. At least, not yet. Possibly that's because I was diabolically clever and forced the sales guy to use a code word ("puppy") rather than ever mentioning the item by name. And maybe it's because I told Mia we were buying Daddy a puppy, which I admit is slightly cruel to the child, but looking for the puppy did serve as a good distraction from what was really going on. I suspect, however, that the kid is just smarter than we think. Not smart enough to keep a secret, which she just doesn't have the ability to do at this point. Just smart enough to understand that sure, Daddy gave her $5 to tell him what we bought, but Mommy gave her $10 to keep it quiet. She certainly no stranger to the concept of bribery - we used to pay her to sleep through through the night - but hush money was a new one. She's discovered a whole new source of income.
I'm thankful for getting up at 2 AM to spend three hours comforting a screaming toddler and cajoling her back to sleep. I'm thankful for temper tantrums, diaper blow-outs and drive-by snottings. I'm thankful for four solid days of refusing to eat anything other than waffles. I'm thankful for never ending laundry, an overflowing dishwasher, and the pile of cracker bits and half-eaten grapes under my coffee table. I'm thankful for every kick to my ribs and karate chop to my bladder. I'm thankful for already outgrowing my maternity clothes. I'm thankful for tossing and turning and leg cramps and being woken up by snores once I do finally get to sleep.
I'm thankful for "NO MOMMY!" and "Mia says no!" and defiance and pouting. I'm thankful for having to reload the dishwasher every time my husband does it and for having to dump every diaper he changes into the actual diaper pail when I find it sitting in the top instead. I'm thankful for never quite enough time and never quite enough money and collapsing into bed too exhausted to even shower after three straight days without a single moment to myself. I'm thankful for bad hair and no makeup and ratty old clothes.
I'm thankful for every boring hour of library story time, every repetition of the same old books and the same old songs. I'm thankful for every battle about wearing shoes or a jacket or buckling the car seat straps. I'm thankful for out of control weeds that it now seems easier to leave for the frost than even consider getting a chance to pull. I'm thankful for turning my life and body back over to another infant, for endless nights of breastfeeding to come, for vomit in my hair and a sad, flabby belly.
I'm thankful for my imperfect, challenging, frustrating life. I'm thankful for every minute of it.
Thank you all for your righteous indignation regarding my being shit-canned, I appreciate it. Although I probably should have mentioned that we were all shit-canned because the website is going kaput. Your instincts to boycott are therefore very generous, but unnecessary. And I'm not that upset about it for various reasons that I will explain over there later, including the fact that I have earned nearly as much in the past three days from a corporate freelance job as I usually earn in an entire month as a compensated mommy blogger. Although sweet jeebus that means I worked a hell of a lot in three days, much of the time trying to do it while running up and down two flights of stairs trying to get the toddler settled and asleep already.
In other news, I have decreed that we are going to spend tomorrow morning making gingerbread men from actual, homemade gingerbread. I got a recipe off the internet, of course, but if anybody has the best gingerbread recipe of all time and wants to share it with me I would be much obliged. However, please be sure it only contains ingredients which I have on hand as I have already been to two grocery stores today and I am not going again.
And hey, have I ever told you that I'm sort of a mole-y girl? I mean, not, like, carpeted in them, or anything, but not hurting for a lack of them either. There's the one on my nose which you will already know as Chris continuously refuses to Photoshop it out of pictures he posts, which is what I always do, and then I am forced to withhold sex because I think I have the right to dictate exposure to my own nose mole. And there's one on the back of my head and one on my knee and a little one on my right forearm. Not big gross hairy things, mind you, just wee little brown dots. Oh, and then there's one in my armpit. And one in my other armpit. I'm all symmetrical and shit, which rocks. Mia is obsessed with my armpit moles and is constantly forcing me to hike up my shirt so she can use her little doctor kit to check their heartbeats and give them shots, which I understand is entirely adorable, provided you aren't the owner of the armpits in question. When they are your armpits, it gets a little annoying after the 67th daily repetition.
I mention all of this because, and here is where you really get more information about me than you ever wanted, as if the mole discussion wasn't enough, I seem to have an ingrown hair in close proximity to old Lefty, and Mia loves and adores it and wants to spend all of her time poking it and I am beginning to think it is preparing me to feel that labor is no big deal because let me tell you that having an energetic toddler constantly poking an ingrown hair in your armpit hurts pretty much like a motherfucker and I cannot recommend that you try it.
Yeah, that's enough. You are so over me now, aren't you? Go eat some gravy for me, ok? Because the real suckfest thing about being a vegetarian isn't the bacon and it isn't the hamburgers it's the honest to goodness carcass drippings version of Thanksgiving gravy dumped on a pile of mashed potatoes as big as your head. It's enough to make a girl wish for just one day of amnesty, but instead I will live vicariously through your gravy. And pain-free armpits.
(Oh leave me alone, I'm working too much.)
My friend Laura has demanded a birthday recap, and since it already seems like a month ago I figured I'd better get on it while I still remember a few details. Let's see, it was last Wednesday, right? Mia and I got up to find that Chris had adorned the kitchen table with balloons and streamers. This thrilled Mia's little soul to absolute bits and I have to say that having my two year old spend most of the day bringing me balloons and saying "Happy Birthday, Mommy" made for the most fabulous birthday I've had in a long time. Once I dragged her away from the decorations, Mia and I went about our normal business. We went out for a while, came home for lunch, she took her nap while I cleaned up and did some laundry and emptied the dishwasher and balanced the checkbook. Thrilling, I know. Then Chris got home and I got presents (spa gift card from Chris, Olivia book from Mia, cleaning service gift card from my parents, spa gift card from my in-laws, these people really know how to shop) and then I went out to pick up sushi. We ate, did the bedtime routine, tucked Mia into bed, and then I spent the next three hours trying to get her to stop screaming and go to sleep.
So then on Saturday, I took Chris out to dinner to celebrate me birthday. (What? I made all the arrangements, what else would you call it?) We left Mia with my parents, went to an Indian place that we like ok but that is still nowhere close to our dearly departed all-time favorite which was knocked down two years ago to make room for a parking lot. Then we had a lengthy debate about whether we could just go get Mia rather than leaving her at my parents' all night as planned, decided we couldn't, headed to a mall with the idea of maybe seeing a movie, decided we didn't want to see a movie so just peed and got coffee instead, headed home and watched TiVo while waiting for my parents to call with the news that Mia was asleep. Which didn't happen until 11:00 because they let her stay up and watch Animal Planet and now Mia wants to live with Nana and Papa.
In other news, I've managed to lose the list of paint colors that we need to send to the painters who are coming next week to paint our entire house, which is bad. Also, I've been fired from this gig and am considering getting a new job as a pregnant stripper. What do you think? I think it would be great, except that I can't deal with the heels right now. Could I be a stripper in sensible shoes? Maybe crocs? And finally, I am dying for a sugar fix and willing to pitch that whole "trying to be good" bullshit straight out the window but am just too lazy to put on real pants and go to the store, so will just have to power through it, and I hate powering through it.
Hey, I just choked on nothing. I rock.
I thought Chris had taken a pile of fabulous pictures of Mia feeding her brother "soup" with a tiny little pot and a honking big wooden spoon, but when I went to pull them off the camera I found three shots of our amazing, wonderful child doing something truly adorable and 25 shots of a lamp and Chris's closet and some random furniture. (And no, Mia did not take those other 25 pictures.) So, here are the three shots, and you can blame my husband that they aren't better.
I've taught Mia to say that I have a great big melon head. I figure she may as well know the truth now, it isn't like I can hide it.
Q: What's hotter than hot?
A: Maternity tights.
Mia and I spent yesterday morning with three other moms and their five kids. This is not that unusual.
I didn't meet them online.
That is unusual.
One of them picked me up at the library and invited me to get together with them. (It seems to be basically a playgroup, except that they just do it whenever instead of a set day and time.) We traded numbers, she called me, we set a date, and then I put aside all my usual misgivings and trepidation and actually went.
And had a really good time.
And they invited me back.
And yes, all of these things need to be their own paragraphs, and if you know me at all you understand why.
I think I definitely need to get out more, because it was really strange hanging out with people who don't read my blog. People for whom I have no context. People who ask me basic questions rather than just relying on whatever I have already written and they have already read. And don't get me wrong, I have great bloggy friends who I adore, but it's nice to spend time with people who haven't already read all your best stories, and much funnier versions than the ones you can muster in real life at that.
Hey, maybe the "real world" is the Next Big Thing?
* The new version of gmail.
* People who take their five-year-old to two-year-old storytime. I mean, not that they bring the kids, which is fine, but that they seemingly don't anticipate that a five-year-old is going to be really bored in a program designed for two-year-olds and then let the five-year-olds take over such that the two-year-olds who are the intended audience are not only totally shut out but also sometimes terrorized to the point of tears. Can we all just agree that we are each responsible for controlling our own children to the absolute best of our abilities, and that this goes double for when we have by far the oldest and biggest child in the room?
* See above except substitute "storytime" for "the toddler play area at the mall" and substitute "five-year-olds" for "ten-year-olds." Again, of course the ten-year-olds are bored and want to compensate by body slamming each other and whatever teetering, brand new walker happens to be in the way. I dunno, maybe I'll feel differently when I have the older kids begging to be allowed to go play, but somehow I just don't think so.
* That the mailman hides all my real mail (ok, just bills, who gets real mail anymore?) inside my junk mail so I have to dig through every piece of everything every day to make sure I haven't missed anything. Not that missing a bill would ruin my day, but sometimes there are checks in there and I do like to have those.
* That I don't have a bullets feature on my blog and am too lazy to code one so have to just use the asterisks. Although I like the word "asterisks," so that is some compensation.
* That I do half my blogging in Movable Type and half in Typepad and that I get confused. They are by the same company, couldn't we have some similar functionality here? I mean similar in ways other than including all the bullshit Typepad coding in the standard MT templates thereby forcing those of us who do not enjoy digging through thousands of lines of useless code to find the bit that underlines the sidebar titles pull it all out.
And just so I'm not exclusively complaining (although I am on day one million of a sinus headache and can't take any good drugs, so that's really all I want to do), I am thrilled that I found a way to get to the mall, my bank, the good grocery store and
Ooh! This will be fun! What's annoying you?
I am not spamming you, really I'm not. Well, ok, I suppose I sort of am in that I didn't have the thingamajig in my DNS that should have been there to prevent the spamming, so blame where blame is due, but I am not sending the spam, just sitting here cursing the spammers and hoping their testicles rot and fall off and land in their soup and they don't notice until they have already eaten one and a half of them.
So, you know, if you get an email from me promising to improve the size of your penis (why is 98% of the spam I receive about improving the size of my penis? Are men really that desperate? And stupid?), I assure you, it isn't really from me. Well, most of the time, anyway.
Love and tongue kisses,
P.S. Hey, I'm 33. I find being 33 somehow reassuring. I've always rather liked threes what with the swoopy bit up top and then another swoopy bit down below, or how you have the option to make the top bit a little angular thingy and then add a swoopy flourish down below and make it sort of like a mullet except instead of "business up front, party in the back" it's more like "acute angles up front, free-form curlicue in the back." And also, I've always been rather fond of repetition, like I enjoy words with repeating letters or sounds or syllables (my last name has three instances of this and may be one of the leading reasons that I married Chris) and I enjoy numbers with repeating... um... numbers, and so being 33 feeds nicely into that totally reasonable and healthy little compulsion of mine. It also looks strangely appealing when written out as thirty-three. Thirty-three. See? Nice. So anyway, welcome to 33. Or, you know, welcome to me being 33, so glad you could join us.
I am on the horns of a dilemma. I've gained a lot of weight with this pregnancy. I mean, a whole lot of weight. So much that I am not even going to tell you how much, and it takes a lot for me to not be willing to discuss something as meaningless as this. I haven't even told Chris, and he'd better know well enough to not ask me and also to not attend another OB appointment for this entire pregnancy because then he might find out and I would have to kill him.
It's entirely my fault, I accept that, but I just haven't been able to stay away from the sugar. Ordinarily I have no sweet tooth, I don't even eat most fruit because it is too sweet for me. But I had a sugar craving with Mia and an unquenchable sugar beast this time around. But, I also have a vested interest in this kid not getting entirely too huge and I'm not a very good dieter so would rather not come out of this with 60 pounds to lose and so I have been trying lately (by which I mean the last three days or so) to stay away from the sugar. It sucks.
As I mentioned, last Friday I had my glucose test to check for gestational diabetes, and after seeing my massive weight gain I was a little concerned. They called with the results yesterday. Everything was fine. In fact, everything was so fine that both of the people I talked to (yeah, I got two calls, they are kissing my ass after last week's fuck-up) expressed awe and wonder at how low my levels of whatever it is were. Basically, even while pregnant and gaining weight like mad my body is wicked good at processing sugar.
So on the one hand, there's the whole health and well being thing telling me to step away from the brownies, and on the other hand is what I feel is a responsibility to pregnant women everywhere to take advantage of my good fortune and dive into a pint of Ben & Jerry's.
It's a tough call, it really is.
I think it is a sign that Chris and I are really maturing as parents that we are very nearly able to avoid laughing when Mia starts demanding that we get her a "poon."
(What? Don't look at me like that. You know I'm only telling you this because it is 2 AM and I'm half sick and can't sleep.)
Mia started whining at around 2 AM this morning, and after waiting a while to see if she was going to whine herself back to sleep, I dragged myself out of bed to go curl up with her for a while. She's done this once or twice lately and having me in bed with her has proven enough comfort to get her back to sleep. It worked last night too, she calmed right down and dropped off. And then, she decided that 2:30 in the morning was prime time to throw a tantrum, so she did. It was enough to get Chris out of bed, and he never gets up. We spent at least half an hour trying to talk her down, trying to get her to tell us what might be wrong, and she just cried and screamed "no" at every word we said. I finally decided that half an hour of screaming in the middle of the night warranted a full toddler-check, so I turned on the lights, pulled off her pajamas and diaper, and then spent a while rocking and talking to a stark naked but totally calm kid. Go figure. We brought her back to bed with us a little after three, and she finally decided to go back to sleep a little after 5:00. Naturally, she was up and raring to go at her usual time. Sleeping in wouldn't have been a good thing anyway since we had somewhere to be at 9:30, but I was willing to skip it in the name of getting more than four hours sleep.
Seriously though, temper tantrums in the middle of the night? Does this happen to you guys too? Because I'm not going to lie, that sucked my ass.
Then I had my Glucose Challenge Test, which involves chugging some sugar water and then getting blood drawn and makes you feel like utter hell on no sleep. While there, I discovered yet another issue with my OB which, in itself, is a significant but not critical matter, but which may just be the final straw with these people. There's been a lot of turn-over starting right before I got pregnant and I am no longer convinced I want these people delivering my baby. Would I be absolutely insane to change OBs at 30 weeks pregnant? My issues are more with the office staff than with the doctors, although there is one of them that I will be very disappointed to see on the other end of the stirrups, so I'm really torn. And even the doctor I don't really like is so incredibly sweet to Mia that I feel I have to give her credit for that, and since I am ambivalent towards her but don't dislike her that credit goes a long way.
Hey, look! I'm babbling. You see, on top of no sleep and crazy sugar crashes and having gained nearly as much already as the total amount I gained with Mia, I think I'm getting sick. The pestilence hasn't totally committed to taking over my body yet, and there is still the chance that I will wake up in a day or two and feel as great as you can feel at 26 weeks pregnant, but there is also the chance that I will wake up in a day or two feeling like reheated hell and wishing someone would smash me in the head with a cinder block just so I didn't have to deal with consciousness.
So, let's try to remember my point here, shall we. Oh, yes, there it is.
Point #1: Random middle of the night temper tantrums - fluke that will never happen again or my fate for the next nine months.
Point #2: Advisability of a third-trimester OB switch based on lack or warm fuzzy feelings toward one doctor, scheduling hassles, and inexcusable office screw-up (the first for this pregnancy, but there was an inexcusable office screw-up when I was pregnant with Mia, too).
Y'all are so sweet about my belly, thank you. Yeah, I know I'm not freakishly huge for 26 weeks or anything, but I'm a lot bigger than I was with Mia at this point so I feel like the belly is just getting out of control way too soon. Of course, it doesn't help that when I observe to some people that I feel like I am roughly the size of a neutron star and that I can no longer tie my own shoes without nearly passing out because bending over that far causes the Monster Fetus to smash into my lungs thereby cutting off my air supply, well, at those times some people tend to just say "yeah, you are getting pretty big" which, while technically accurate, is not exactly what someone as increasingly rotund as myself is dying to hear. Why can't people just learn to lie? Lying is an underrated virtue, I tell you. I mean, an appropriate reply to that observation would be "No, my darling, not in the least. Why, if I didn't know for a fact I wouldn't be entirely sure that you even were pregnant. Additionally, it is only the fact that you are currently cradling your beloved and innocent daughter in your svelte and toned arms that is preventing me from coming over there and ravishing you right now." I mean really, would that be so hard?
On an unrelated note, if you are ever so foolish as to casually observe to your husband that, with a few stretches notable exception, your kid has been basically sleeping like a champ for six months now, you should be prepared to be up all night with a whining toddler. Make a note of it.
People, because I love you and also because I am just fabulous and wonderful I used nearly two minutes of my limited free time to locate a pen and paper and go down to the basement storeroom to peruse the can of leftover paint from Mia's room left by the previous owners so that I would be able to tell you that the color featured in yesterday's pictures is Disney's "Pretty as a Princess." Which, gag, kill me now. And I hated it when we first saw it, but it has started to grow on me. Two of the walls are that pink and the other two are green and now I think I like it and want to keep it, at least until Mia can express a solid preference. Chris, however, wants to paint Mia's room when we do the rest of the house.
Hey, you guys like to vote. Here:
Moving on, I was hoping to finally realize my life-long dream of doing the "I Voted" stickers on the nipples shot, but a) the stickers this year are of the small oval variety and frankly insufficient to the task unless we want to turn this into an entirely different kind of website, which I don't think we do, and b) Mia refuses to loan me her sticker. Toddlers can be so selfish. So, you will have to settle for this, and really I assume that most of you are grateful and those of you who aren't honestly should be.
I know, I know, I make this look hott. Get in line, people, I'm beating them off with sticks lately.
(And that's Chris's closet in the background. Mia likes to take the hangers he leaves in the bathroom and hang them on his shoe rack, which suits me fine because I do have to look at the bathroom but almost never at his closet. Hey, I finally found a practical application for the toddler!)
Inappropriate things to say to your toddler while helping her zip her footie pajamas:
"Here honey, let me get it up for you. I'll be your fluffer."
Mia and I are taking a class that was scheduled to end in two weeks, but for various and sundry reasons the last session has been bumped to early December. As the instructor was making this announcement in the last class, one of the other moms (who also happens to be pregnant) turned to me, cast a worried look at my burgeoning belly, and asked "Are you going to make it to December?"
Um, yeah. Mid-February. Also, ouch.
This post is all about poop. If you do not currently have a toddler and therefore the accompanying worrying obsession with poop, I highly recommend that you skip this post in it's entirety. Here, go look at this nice picture instead. (Although, ew. The only thing I find more distasteful on a man than chest hair is a necklace. And then again, I saw a picture of someone or other with chest hair recently and found myself thinking hey, that isn't so bad, so I might be coming around on that. I'm giving no ground on the necklace though.) Or, if you have a penis and/or happen to swing that way, you can go admire this picture. (My husband thinks she's hot, but I dunno. I think she would look a lot better if she had some snacks.)
Now, let's talk poop. And I wasn't planning to go into this in the least, but I've gotten a whole pile of emails from people asking me about it so I figured what the hell. When Mia is being a petulant teenager someday I can tell her I told the entire internet about her poop issues and give her something to really hate me for, which I am sure she will appreciate as it will save her the trouble of coming up with reasons on her own.
Let's see.... several weeks ago, Mia got a little constipated. She was obviously uncomfortable with the whole pooping process and in order to do it needed to be clinging to my neck with a death grip and moaning quietly. Applying the inimitable logic of two-year-olds, Mia decided that she would just solve this problem by refusing to poop in the future. Apparently, this is a common thought-process among the toddler set. The flaw in Mia's plan was that as a living organism she is required by biology to excrete sooner or later and by doing everything in her power to make sure it was always later she was making the problem much worse.
I made her drink so much liquid that she had a three gallon diaper every couple of hours. I pushed fiber. I tried to make her eat prunes and peaches and anything else that might possibly help. I tried everything listed in my baby books and everything I could find on the internet and let me tell you, my kid has one stubborn sphincter because nothing worked. She would spend two days dancing around the house grabbing at her cute little bottom telling me she was not, no way, no how, going to poop and then finally succumb to the forces of nature. This began to involve crying, then screaming, and then early this week two instances of gagging such that I really believed she was going to make herself throw up.
We went to the doctor. I'd been avoiding it because I don't like to medicate Mia when it is not absolutely necessary, but I decided that stopping my baby from being in pain made it absolutely necessary. The Hotty Pediatrician put her on Miralax (which is over the counter, but dudes, so do not give it to your kid without at least calling your doctor, you know?). He said to do three days of two doses a day and then a week of one dose a day. The idea was that it would first of all get her pooping and clear out anything that is backed up in there making it hard to poop, and second of all make the poop stop hurting so that she would decide pooping was an ok thing to do after all and stop causing herself problems.
We started on Wednesday afternoon. It's a powder that you just mix in their juice or water. I've been telling Mia when I am giving it to her and explaining that it is medicine to make the poop stop hurting her bottom. It kicked in this morning. And if you want to know what I mean by "kicked in," I refer you back to the title of this post. I'll just say that on top of the diaper changes I've had to change her entire outfit three times and my own once.
It has not been a pleasant day for me, to be sure. Mia however, while a bit disconcerted that she keeps pooping, is very, very happy that it does not hurt. She even explained to me quite carefully that her bottom didn't hurt anymore and that it made her smile. And that, I hope, will be pretty much the end of this particular poop saga. And also I hope that by this point she's shot her wad and we are done for the day, because I only have but so many pairs of maternity pants and I don't know how many more blow-outs I can survive before I run out entirely.
And I fully expect to get at least one comment on this post about how I am a stupid waste of space mommyblogger and that nobody in the whole damned world cares about my kid's poop and I should just shut the hell up already and stop polluting the world with the contents of my head. (Hurry! If you act now, maybe you can be first!) But the fact is that there really are people who want to hear about this because they are having the same problem themselves and it's one of those things that isn't cut and dry. Should you do X? Should you do Y? Should you just go get yourself another bottle of wine and worry about it tomorrow? (That last thing is a definite yes.) So yeah, I'll talk about poop. You may never have had to worry about it, but I'm willing to bet that your mom did.
Mia adored Halloween. She loved it so much, that after the first five or six houses she even agreed to walk herself rather than making Mommy carry her.
There were a number of important lessons learned last night. Mia learned that if you are the cutest two-year-old in the neighborhood and say "trick or treat" in this sweet, high, shy little voice, people will drop huge heaping handfuls of candy into your pumpkin bucket. I learned that you should not keep a two-year-old up an hour past bedtime, give her a bag of M&Ms and then a bag of Reese's Pieces and expect anything other than a full-scale nuclear meltdown. All good tips for next year, don't you think?