Half-empty, Half-full

This morning, Westley asked, "Mommy, is there another baby growing inside you?"

"No, honey. Not yet."

His little face melted into a frown, and he started to cry. I tired to get him to tell me what was upsetting him, but he didn't want to - or couldn't - talk about it. It didn't matter. I knew. The adults who had been joyful and busy and liberally peppering their speech with the word "baby" are suddenly quiet and sad.

Today was the first day in several that I've felt really weighed down by sadness. My bleeding has slowed to almost nothing, and I had the strange realization while in the bathroom that I'm actually sad not to be passing clots anymore. Feeling those large pieces of uterine insides stretch my cervix open before slithering down and out was disturbing, and somehow, I miss it. The process of "emptying" is coming to a close.

At the same time that I feel not-quite-empty, I'm struck that I can feel so full of love for Westley. It's practically a physical sensation, a fullness behind my breastbone that feels like anxiety and heartbreak...in a good way.

Westley has curative properties. He's getting a too tall to cuddle easily in a chair with me, but we still manage, and it's magical to hold him. He's so strong and grown-up seeming - in a T-shirt and jeans, he looks like a miniature Rob - but his silky hair, delicate skin, and sweet smell all remind me that he's still very new. It wasn't that long ago that he was the baby growing inside me.

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Thank You

I'm feeling overwhelmed by all the love that has been pouring in over the last 24 hours. Thank you for your unbelievable kindness here and elsewhere. I feel the weight of your messages like arms around me, I really do. I'm so grateful, and I wish I could send each of you a handwritten thank-you note and a batch of cookies.

Today has been a day of comfort food, baths, and heating pads. I think I've only burst into tears four times. I keep losing track of time and my appetite, but right this minute, I feel surprisingly okay. My body seems to be doing exactly what it needs to do. I'm exceedingly thankful for that.

The ER doctor prescribed misoprostol to help me expel the "product" (thank you, sir, and your unfortunate medical terminology for ruining future trips to the salon). I politely declined it. He asked me, ever so sweetly, to please at least take the prescription home so I could fill it later if I changed my mind. I agreed, but noticed immediately that the form that came with my discharge papers also included a prescription for Vicodin. Because, you know, misoprostol can cause "some" cramping.

Yeah. None for me, thanks.

* * *

At the hospital, I told Westley what happened. I didn't want to use the word "miscarriage," but what I said ended up sounding extremely harsh: "Westley, we have some bad news. The baby died. The baby inside Mommy wasn't growing right, and it's not going to grow any more."

His eyes filled with tears, and he said, "I think it will! It will grow more!"

"I wish that too, honey, but it won't." And I did the thing I'd stopped myself from doing for hours: dissolved into sobs in front of my child.

My beautiful, sweet, helpful, healthy child. Who was so, so good the entire day and never had a meltdown even once. Not even a little. My dear, good boy who saved his sobs and screams until we were safely home, on our couch, relaying the day's events to my parents. After dinner, after cookies and ice cream, Westley exploded bigger than I've ever seen. He wailed and thrashed. He roared.

He looked and sounded exactly how I felt.

* * *

I'm surprised at how peaceful I feel, so soon. It's incredible the difference being in my own home surrounded by kind words and thoughts makes. Rob has been incredible. He seems sad, but surprisingly normal. I told him I don't understand his "man emotions."

We're surviving on convenience food, gurney humor - there was a running joke last night after Westley went to bed about smoking while jumping on a trampoline, possibly at a "crack bounce house" - and knowledge that we've been through shit before, together.

There ain't no hill or mountain we can't climb.

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Preschool-Shop 'til You...Co-op

(This will be my last post about preschool for a while, I swear.)

Way back when we were first looking at preschools (ages ago, in January), my online activity became almost entirely focused on searching for information about schools. The Web sites all started to look the same. The curriculum guides, "Parents' Corners," and Comic Sans began to blend together.

One site that stood out - and not just for its lack of godawful fonts - was the homepage for a local co-op preschool. The descriptions of the programs and activities made me wish I could go there. (Oh, wait - it's co-op, so I sort of could.) And the school was definitely in our budget. Moreso than anything else I'd found.

The only problem? The registration deadline was the next day.

I thought briefly about calling the school and trying to schedule a tour that same day, but even if the school could accommodate us on such short notice, first-trimester fatigue was making it hard to hurry off to anywhere. So I debated. I agonized. I called Rob. And then I sent the school and application form and a check, sight unseen.

With so few open spots and a next-day deadline, I figured why not? And then I promptly forgot about it the whole thing. (And shortly afterwards, I decided very deliberately to forget about the whole preschool thing altogether.)

And then the check cleared. And we received a postcard telling us Westley is enrolled for fall. Welcome to Preschool!

* * *

We still haven't visited the school, which seems a little nuts. But then I remember that I applied to college having never visited the campus or spoken to any current students or alumnae, which seems even more nuts. And that worked out spectacularly well. So I'm hoping this will be turn out to be a good thing also. And I guess if it's not, I might actually be able to do something about it. That's what a co-op is all about, right?

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Since He's Not Going to Sleep

...it's a good thing he's too adorable for words.

A very good thing.

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Sleep Isn't For the Week

Apparently, that's what serves for a somewhat clever title today. The truth is I feel like I've had maybe seven hours of sleep in the past week. I'm sure it's really more than that, but perhaps not much more. I have no idea.

The nighttime tossing and turning, inability to get into a comfortable position, and then desperately needing to pee once I find a (semi)comfortable sleeping pose that I remember so well from my pregnancy with Westley has struck again. Four months earlier than last time!

Add to this the fact that Westley now fully rejects naps and all they stand for. When I tried to tempt him with some Mommy-Westley cuddle time this afternoon, he got in bed just long enough to head-butt me. Then the noises started: mostly "psst"-ing at me while I attempted to catnap. (I thought about locking him out of my bedroom, but I was pretty sure he would cry bitterly, or find something pointy upon which to impale himself.) An hour later, I've given up. On ever resting again.

The kicker is that when Westley stopped napping, he started having more trouble sleeping at night. It used to be that he'd toddle in and get in bed with Rob and me around 5:30 AM. This past week, it's been more like 2:00 AM. Or midnight. Or 11:30 PM.

Having the kid in our bed is an issue under normal circumstances. Sharing the covers with a tossy-turny, thrashy, likes-to-sleep-perpendicular-to-the-adults preschooler doesn't make for a restful night. Adding my out-of-whack pregnant body to this scenario makes real sleep seem impossible.

My solution to pregnancy sleep issues the first time around involved many nights alone on an air mattress. It was pretty sweet. I'd consider trying the air mattress experiment again if the thing still inflates the way it should and if I can find a place to set it up (the last time we used it was two homes and much square footage ago). Or I might just try camping out on the couch for the next 30 weeks.

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Oh, Boys

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Nappily Never After

Today is Day 4 of a Westley Oliver "No Nap" streak...and I'm starting to think this might be It. The new Normal. As in, My kid no longer takes a daily nap.

I really want to complain about this. For one thing, I never realize how much I can get done while Westley sleeps until he doesn't. For another, I'm exhausted. I need a daily nap. And for the past few weeks, I've been taking full advantage of Westley's nap time by falling asleep right next to him.

But when I think about it, it's pretty clear that I totally lucked out on the nap front. Westley is well into his fourth year, and he's been a good napper more or less since day one. Three years (and a couple months) of regular nap times is awesome - and nothing to complain about.

Still, I need to figure out what to do about my own newfound napping needs. Today I tired to enforce the "you don't have to sleep, but you do have to be quiet" rule, and it completely failed. Westley thrashed around in bed next to me for a while, and then proceeded to cover me with stuffed animals. I'm fairly confident that I could get him to leave me alone if I put on a movie, but he watches more than enough TV as it is.

So if, over the next few weeks, I seem a little incoherent - or just plain absent - it's because I haven't yet perfected a technique for sleeping while your baby kid doesn't sleep.

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Babies In Broads

On the eve of his third birthday - well before I was pregnant again - Westley suddenly became very extra double-curious about babies inside mommies. Specifically, when he was the baby inside this mommy. And his new favorite question became "how?"

"How did I get inside your belly, Mommy?"

"Daddy put you there."

"How?"

"With his penis."

This got a huge smile. I think Westley thought I was joking. "How did he do that?"

I walked right into that one, didn't I?

Rob and I exchanged looks. "You know," I said to Westley, "I think this would be easier to explain if we had a book. With pictures. Should we look for a book about how babies get inside mommies?"

Westley practically jumped up and down. "Yeah!"

I am on this! I am probably the only person in the world who's excited to talk with her preschooler about sex. But I can't help it. I think reproduction is magical and rad.

So we hit up the library. I came armed with a list call numbers that I'd looked up at home beforehand to minimize Westley's wait time. I glanced quickly through Where Did I Come From? and quickly remembered how skeeved out by it I was as a child. (I'm sure many people find the super-cartoony illustrations tasteful and non-threatening. As a child, I found them ugly and off-putting, and I can't seem to shake that impression.) I settled on It's So Amazing!, and When You Were Inside Mommy.

"How does the baby get out?"

For about six weeks now, we've been talking about the Special Tube called the 'vagina' that's very, very stretchy - stretchy enough to let a baby out. And how babies are small and flexible.

"But how does the baby come out?"

"The muscles in the mommy's uterus squeeze, and the mommy pushes the baby out through the vagina."

This is clearly making sense and making no sense at the same time. Westley can't wrap his mind around it. "But...how?"

I just smile. Because I can't really believe it either.

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Epiblogue: Preschool-Shop 'til You Drop

I have decided to put preschool shopping on the back burner for now. I'm dropping it before I drop.

After contacting a local co-op preschool that works for our budget (though perhaps not for our timeline) and not hearing back, I had a cartoon-lightbulb-over-head realization:

If we can't afford preschool, we can't afford preschool.

It's really very simple. And there's not a reason to worry about it. There are plenty of things that I'd like for my family, my child, myself...but that are out of our price range. There is absolutely zero point in worrying about where I'll find money in the budget when there isn't anything to find!

The more important realization came later, when I'd come to terms with the budget numbers and heaved more than a few sighs of disappointment. It occurred to me that the preschool hunt had been making me anxious to the point of not being a very nice person. And my kid - who was supposed to be benefitting from all of this - was picking up on it like crazy. The more anxious I got, the more anxiety Westley seemed to exhibit.

I have some wonderful memories of my own preschool experience, and I'd still like some sort of (gently) structured pre-school environment for Westley (because I think he'd love it after he got over his distaste for "uh-ver chirren.") But I'm not willing to continue to create a bunch of unnecessary stress for myself and (especially!) him over it.

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Ponytail for You

Westley asked me to put his hair in a ponytail this morning.

I spent the rest of the day trying not to make other people feel like idiots for using female pronouns with him. (I always feel like the bearer of bad news when someone asks, "How old is she?" and I say, "Oh, he just turned three.") But I don't blame them at all.

The ponytail makes him look totally girly (at this age).


Girly or not, Westley thought the ponytail was rad. He kept reminiscing about tickling me with my ponytail while he nursed. (Do your tiny children reminisce? Do you find this as funny as I do?) He truly jumped for joy, as he is wont to do.

Who knew a tiny, clear elastic band could contain so much awesome?

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Preschool-Shop 'til You Drop

All I can think about right now is preschool - where, what kind, how much (holy fuck) - and it's exhausting. Rob, Westley, and I have gone on just two preschool tours so far, and I'm ready to give up the search. Not because we've found the right one so quickly, but because I feel completely overwhelmed and out of my element.

I'm sure all of the Good Mommies out there knew before their children were conceived that preschools have "philosophies." And furthermore, they knew what kind of "philosophy" best fit their life and parenting style. I, on the other hand, thought preschool was all about sitting on colorful rugs, learning to trust a teacher, dress-up corner, blocks...

Not true, it turns out.

Preschool, it turns out, is about things like "academic excellence" and "positive and productive emotional abilities" (huh?), and "increased competency." That seems like an awfully monosyllabic world for my 3-year-old.

Also, preschool costs a hundred million dollars. I was well-aware that any kind of childcare or child-oriented program out there - whether it's school, music lessons, science camp, whatever - would be pricey. But holy mother of God! It's truly a hundred million skillion dollars to send your child to preschool!

"Maybe preschool is designed for the two-income household," Rob speculated.

"But that's way more than I would make if I were working!" I pointed out, blinking at the Tuition page.

I'm also realizing that not only am I not one of the Good Mommies who majored in Preschool Philosophy and who has zillions of dollars sacked away for her child's education, I've also completely dropped the ball on preparing Westley for school. I haven't been drilling him on washing hands or dressing himself, for instance. He has no interest in playing with or even near other children. In fact, he loudly objects to it and will "shoot" peers who try to befriend him.

"That's not how to make friends," I tell him gently when he lashes out at other children.

"I can't pway with uh-ver chirren!" he insists. "I hate uh-ver chirren!"

Oh, yes. I completely dropped the ball on that one. I've gotten so lost in the care-and-feeding part of this job that I have completely neglected the "socializing" part. (Which might also explain why I have zero local friends.) Of course, preschool will presumably help with that.

You know, if we can rustle up a million dollars to pay for it.

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A Hello to Arms

I'm tired of being shot at.

I've been saying no to gun toys practically since before Westley was born, but it doesn't matter. The kid - who is, at this moment, sweetly asleep while gently cuddling his stuffed Cat in the Hat doll - is currently obsessed with guns and shooting things. I've been shot with robots, drumsticks, ex-tree-branch sticks. If there's not a suitable gun-object around, Westley will shoot me with his arm.

After spending a day with my parents recently, Westley came home with a transforming Batmobile monstrosity that includes, among other gadgets, a gun. He brought the toy with him everywhere for a week, and we ended up having this conversation while driving to the grocery store:

Westley: I'm fine with this toy.

Me: [Clearly, this is a bid to get me to have a conversation about it. I'm not biting.]

Westley: Are you fine with this toy?

Me: No, not really.

Westley: Because it has a gun?

Me: That's right. I don't like guns.

Westley: Well, I do wike guns.

I suppose that's what I get for teaching him that it's all right that everyone likes different things. But I was thinking more along the lines of, "Mommy likes asparagus and Daddy doesn't and that's cool."

Westley has learned that I object to weapons, but obviously that hasn't swayed his opinion of them one bit. Of course, it doesn't help my "no gun" cause that Rob has a large and varied collection of tabletop miniature wargames, and that he likes to show the figures to Westley. For Rob, guns and swords aren't a concern if they're magic and/or operated by monsters or Jedi, and appear in the context of fantasy worlds. I tried to explain to him that Westley is three, and can't always tell the difference between something he thought about and something that really happened! A fantasy backdrop means absolutely nothing at this point! And calling the rocket launcher a "leaf blower" doesn't soften the blow (pun so intended) when I'm getting "leaf-blown" to death.

Rob blew all of this off like I was overreacting. (And maybe I am, just a little.) Like many fathers, Rob's major source of parental joy is sharing his hobbies and interests with his kid. I know there's no way those miniature warlords from another dimension are going away any time soon.

I'm still not going to start playing guns with Westley, however, and I'm certainly not going to buy him any gun toys. But I can't stop him from being attracted to them. Though I have to admit, this is one of those instances when I really, really wish I had more control over what Westley likes and doesn't like.

Since I can't stop my son from pretending, I'll just have to keep my fingers crossed that this phase passes before he starts asking for a BB gun for Christmas.

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"Where are the girls?"

Westley was the definition of gleeful as he pulled his new Yo Gabba Gabba underwear from the package. Then he stopped, puzzled.

"Where are the girls?"

I looked. One pair of underwear featured a large image of Brobee, another was Plex-themed. The third pair was printed with tiny pictures of Brobee, Plex, Muno...and that was it. Where were the girls?

"It looks like they only put the boys on this underwear," I said as calmly as I could manage. "That's pretty silly, isn't it?"

But it's more than silly. It's completely fucking insane.

I get that no one makes princess-themed boxer briefs. It's stupid that no one does, but I understand a little better why it's the case. But gender-segregating the cast of Yo Gabba Gabba? Really!?

Okay, so Foofa is pink and flowery and Muno is a giant phallus, but the show doesn't really point up the characters' genders. It certainly doesn't make a bunch of declarations about what is "for girls" and what is "for boys." The characters play, learn, and make mistakes equally. And they function best - and have the most fun - when they're all together as a group. Boy creatures, girl creatures, and magic robots, together in perfect harmony!

But when it comes to underwear (and sleepwear, and clothing, and so on) they don't put the girl characters on boys' stuff and vice versa. Because that would be...wrong? Does this mean that my son "shouldn't" like Toodee - the awesome blue-and-white dinosaur-kitty thing - because she's a female character?

I don't need to spend any more time pointing out how completely ridiculous this is, do I?

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Love Lessons

Whenever I bring out the camera, Westley gets excited. Taking pictures together is a great way to fill that lazy time in the afternoon before Rob gets home, especially if it also happens to be too cold and rainy outside to hit up the park.

Westley knows that having a digital camera means the instant gratification of immediately getting to check out what you just snapped. He's never anything but delighted to see pictures of himself. And he especially likes it when I'm also in the shot: "I wanna see you an' me in the camera!"

I wish I could share his delight. My first thought when I saw the first picture from our most recent impromptu photo shoot was, "What a perfectly adorable picture of Westley! Too bad I'm in it, screwing it up."


I'm good at screwing up photos. I'm awkward in front of the camera, even (especially?) when it's me doing the photographing. Even in the least formal of settings, when a camera comes out, I get tense about not taking a good picture...which of course contributes to my not taking a good picture.



No matter how ridiculous or unflattering the facial expressions, however, Westley loves our pictures. "It's you!" he shrieks every time he sees a picture of me (or not), and then literally jumps for joy.

This morning I was watching Toy Story 2 with Westley, a movie I've seen half a dozen times but only really paid attention to once (because I think it's not nearly as good as the original Toy Story). I stopped mentally planning my day and tuned in to the dialog just in time to hear Buzz tell Woody, "life's only worth living if you're being loved by a kid." My mind stopped for a moment, and the line just echoed.

Life's only worth living if you're being loved by a kid.

It's a philosophy that I think applies better to toys than it does to people, and yet, I was momentarily awestruck as I (re-)realized that this kid of mine loves me. He really loves me. He doesn't see photos of the two of us and frown; he rejoices! If he had confetti, he'd throw it (and not just because he's really into throwing things right now).


Westley is nicer to me than I am. And as much as I love Westley, I think he understands loving better than I do.


* * *
Speaking of love, and especially self-love, I have some exciting news! A post I wrote in lieu of a list of New Year's resolutions is now syndicated on BlogHer. "Future Love" has become part of the fantastic Own Your Beauty movement. The project is brand new, and it's already amazing and truly inspiring! So please show my little post some love in its new home, and definitely check out the rest of the conversation so far. (I especially love Marzipan's Thoughts on Being a 'Pretty Fat Girl' and JL's January Diet? Nope, I Bought Bigger Clothes.)

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Don't Call Him Daughter

Lately I can't take Westley anywhere without someone referring to "her" or "she." People seem to think my son looks (or behaves?) like a girl. And I'm surprised to realize that it's starting to bother me.

The first time anyone mistook Westley for a girl, he was three days old. And swaddled in a bright pink flannel blanket. With skulls on it.

"You don't usually see a boy in a pink blanket," the nurse explained when I corrected her pronoun usage.

"I know," I said. "I just really liked the blanket."

Which was true. I'd purchased the pink-with-skulls swaddling blanket along with a few other, more "gender-neutral" options a few weeks before Westley's birth. I was fairly sure that the little passenger I was carrying was a boy. But a pink-with-skulls swaddling blanket was too good to pass up. Besides, Rob wears pink all the time (and looks quite dashing in it, I think), and he's definitely male. I've checked.

The pink blanket causing confusion I get. But now that Westley is three - and firmly planted in the "Little Boys" department, size-wise - the color options have been narrowed down to: black, brown, gray, white, khaki, navy, medium blue, red, kelly green, and bright orange. (I find the last one kind of funny. Not one of the adult men in my life ever wears bright orange. Of course, none of the adult men in my life is a hunter or a sports fan, so there's that.) Westley wears a lot of denim, stripes, and things with a dinosaur motif. Because if you don't want your son decked out in cars, trucks, or sports, you're left with dinosaurs. Because, apparently, dinosaurs are for boys now.

To me, it's obvious that Westley is a boy. (Probably because I know he is.) So I'm always surprised when I take my neutral-and-dinosaur-clad preschooler out in the world and someone asks, "How old is she?" And what's even more surprising is that I mind when it happens!

I really don't care about - or for - the "this is for girls, that is for boys" school of thought. I really believe it doesn't matter what you wear, or what you like, or who you like, and one sex doesn't certainly doesn't "own" a particular set of colors or styles.

And still, I recently hesitated before buying Westley a purple jacket at the thrift shop. "Is this too girly?" I asked my mom.

"I don't think so. Your brother wore purple all the time."

(Never mind that he was wearing my hand-me-downs.)

And still, I'm bothered when someone mistakes Westley for a girl. Not that there's anything wrong with being a girl! It's just that...he's, uh, not.

The thing is, it certainly doesn't bother Westley in the slightest. I'm not even sure he notices what adults who aren't part of his family say. He just goes right on with his life, happily playing, enjoying his day, delighted with himself and his abilities.

Clearly, I could stand to learn a thing or two from my son.

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Happy Day

It was far from perfect, but this was - far and away - my best birthday so far. I have some thoughts about turning 28, but they'll have to wait until tomorrow Monday. Right now, I'm too busy taking down the Christmas decorations, sipping canned sparkling wine, and crushing on my sweet family.

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Three Days of 3

The Night Before


Rob and I wrapped presents and baked (my version of) Mrs. Bean's Nutmeg Ginger Apple Snaps. We stayed up way too late giggling and getting excited on Westley's behalf.

The Day Of: A.M.

That's right, cookies for breakfast.

(And give it up for the 3-year-old belly cast on in the background!)

The Day Of: P.M.

While Rob was at work and Westley was having some extra-double-bonus birthday fun at my parents', I did a little decorating.

There were even more presents...

...and ice cream cake!

(I felt like a total badass making this thing myself.)

The Day After

That's right, cake for breakfast.

It's good to be 3.

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Westmas Eve

I'm up late, wrapping presents. There's a batch of (my interpretation of) Mrs. Bean's Famous Nutmeg-Ginger Apple Snaps cooling on the kitchen counter. Westley is turning three, and yes, we're going to eat cookies for breakfast.

When Westley turned two, I kind of couldn't believe it. This year, I believe it. He just seems so...like a three-year-old. Like an awesome three-year-old.

On Westley's first and second birthdays, I found myself thinking often about his birth - looking back at my terrible, horrible no good very bad labor. This year, I'm more excited about the day. I can't wait to watch him open his presents, eat his breakfast, and get started on this new year.

I can't wait to see where he goes from here.

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Snow Night/Snow Day

Snow had been falling all day, and the more it accumulated on the front lawn, the more excited he got. By dinner time, he was actually jumping up and down.

"I wanna go play inna SNOW!"

It was all we could do to keep him from bolting out the door with bare feet.

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