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When Blase and I finally had a moment to interact at 10 pm, he had to convince me that it was Nola’s two month birthday. I was shocked and then flooded with a wave of guilt that I’d forgotten it. Oh, the sad plight of the second child. I think she’s already forgiven me for not baking a cake and throwing a party.
She did discover her feet today. Her big eyes brightened and widened at the sight of her own wriggling toes… maybe she doesn’t know they’re hers?
It really is going too fast. I miss her newborn-ness already.
Click below to see a video of Nola in action
Day three of kuntryhouswiferywithtwosmallchildren and I’m tuckered out. Today was full of highs and hairy lows. The morning was rocky – a fierce battle between kuntryhouswife here and a strong and focused 2.25 year old who did not want to be interrupted to leave the house. I offered all sorts of enticements, visiting her best friend Nick and his 3 baby kittens, flying a kite at the beach, hiking in the forest with our friend Tamar and her 165 pound otherworldly Newfoundland, visiting her idol Jackie (our postmaster) at the post office, etc. None of these fabulous ideas were a stronger pull for her than running around pantless, using the potty in between tracks on her new favorite album which is appropriately named, “Toddler Favorites”. She has learned how to skip ahead on the CD by pressing eagerly pressing several buttons and she spent a good chunk of time searching for “Fuzzy Wuzzy”. When the CD ended, I thought my moment for departure had come. I excitedly brought her her beloved frog boots and offered the best time a toddler could hope for, outside of our house. She declined and insisted instead on drawing snakes and sunshines with colored markers. Had I been wise, I would have surrendered and given up my obsession with leaving the house. Selfishly, I chose my own sanity over her contented agenda at home. Today, Blase wouldn’t be home until 9:30 pm so finding an opportunity for a change of venue and the possibility of adult contact was paramount to my ability to be a half decent mommy for the 14 hours of doubleparenting that greeted me when I woke up this morning. Finally, the window of opportunity came. She wanted baby Emma – her baby doll that accompanies her most places. This doll is permanently attired in a formerly white sort of union suit/religious undergarment thing. This suit’s current condition evidences the love and experience she has received under Ossian’s care — Ossian has literally loved her to filth. She may be a disheveled little doll but she is beloved. Manama was so appalled at the doll’s condition that she whipped her up a lovely new smock (in less than 5 minutes, Emma had a custom made dress – true Manama style) so she could be decent at the Cabaret. Anyway, Ossian wanted Emma and that was my moment. “Emma is in the car, sweetie. Let’s put your boots on and go get her”. She excitedly put on her frog boots which had been shoved at her repeatedly without success all morning. Once out the front door, her whole perspective changed and she was open to all of my ideas. Into the car we went.
We embarked on what was intended to be a leisurely hike through the forest at a beautiful house where our friend is staying near Honeydew. Several minutes into the hike, our friend mentioned that she had gotten lost when attempting the same hike yesterday and had come across a rabbit carcass and mountain lion tracks in the process of trying to find the trail home. Oh well, we were having fun and how lost could we get? Ossian rode in the jogging stroller and nola slept in the moby wrap as we huffed and puffed up a steep and sometimes slippery fire access “road”. We were faced with several intersections and at each one, we trusted Potsey, the 16 year old dog that lives on the property, to lead the way. At the 3rd intersection we realized that Potsey could be persuaded to go any direction with just a little encouragement. This meant she probably hadn’t been the reliable navigator we had banked on at all the previous turns in the “road”. We had little more than NO idea about where we were headed but at least Ossian and Nola were both napping, leaving Tamar and I to enjoy a lovely day. It took both of us to muscle the stroller up and down the slopes and through some of the tallest grass. We felt a little burly – and we were, a little. After several miles and hours in the woods, we emerged at gate. This must take us back to the house, we triumphantly assumed. We happily approached the gate to find that it was locked shut. No way around it either. Tamar even scouted around to find that the bushwacking option was to steep and too thick for us to do with the kids. After several failed attempts at squeezing between the wire fence and barbed wire that flanked the gate, we struggled to figure out how we could go over the gate. At 5 plus feet high, the gate posed little challenge to me and Tamar but was a formidable barrier for our 165 pound Newfoundland companion, Baxter. Not to mention, my jogging stroller containing 30 plus pounds of sleeping toddler. Potsey started howling desperately which woke Ossian up. Tamar climbed the fence and I passed Potsey over to her. We then gruntingly bent the gate just enough to squeeze big Baxter through. Next, I passed a groggy and startled Ossian over the fence to Tamar. This got her crying fairly loudly at which point Nola awoke and also began crying. This inspired Potsey to engage in her despairing howl which made Ossian cry louder, Nola, too – etc. We perservered through the noise and I hefted the heavy jogging stroller over the gate and Tamar wrangled it with one hand while holding upset Ossian in the other arm. That left me and the crying baby who was still strapped to my chest. Up and over we went. Phew. Everyone recovered quickly and Tamar and I got to feel even a little more burly after our success with the gate problem. We were rewarded with a view that made us think we’d fallen into the set from the Sound of Music.
Just made it through day two of solo gig as stay-at-home-rural-mom-of-two-young-children. They’re both asleep and I’m still standing – well, sitting at this point, but still relatively sane and intact. What do I have to whine about really? Nothing. Especially if you are depraved enough to watch bad cable tv, specifically, either of the two reality shows featuring two large families. One is a couple who had twins and then went for one more and ended up with quintuplets bringing their grand total to 7 – all under the age of 4. If I’m really feeling overwhelmed, I go to the big guns and watch the show about the family with 16 children, all under the age of 19. Just 15 minutes of that show really straightens me out.
Today, I wanted to challenge myself so we had our 2.5 year old friend Nick over for the morning. I felt a little like Bill Clinton….it wasn’t hard enough just to be president so he had sex with an intern just to challenge himself. Like, hey I’m juggling 5 pizzas – might as well do it while jumping on one foot with one hand tied behind my back, too. So, like Bill, I wanted to prove to myself that I could not only be sane and fun and competent with two little ones, I opted to go for three on day two of our newest chapter, Jen As Stayathomeruralmotheroftwo. It was all fairly smooth and joyous with brief exceptions during a couple of tense moments. One was self-inflicted as a I endeavored for the 4th time to make complicated travel plans with an airline telephone representative. She could hardly hear me over the snorking baby strapped to my chest against the backdrop a sing-along tape blasting “The Wheels on the Bus”, two screaming toddlers, and the washer and dryer going full boar. Why didn’t I just press stop on the CD player? How about turning off the washer and dryer? Perhaps calling the airline right now, AFTER the children are done for the day would have been a better idea? Might ask the same questions of Bill Clinton… might he have selected someone he wasn’t supervising to join him in naughty play? Perhaps he could have just been satisfied with his wife and his demanding job until the term ended and then gone on some juvenile and sordid midlife crisis bender? I think Bill thought he could do it all and still be successful – he’s a smart guy, very charismatic, etc. Back to the topic…. after weathering the cacophony and making 3 separate reservations, spelling each of four passengers’ names 3 times, and asking the phone rep to repeat everything twice, I was poised to receive my precious confirmation numbers when she gasped into the phone, “There was an error. The system has to be restarted and we’ll have to do this again.” Meanwhile, all the children are revving their engines and amping up their screams as they seem to do when a phone call like this one is happening – “You mean you just need me to spell our names again?” I asked desperately. “No,” she said, “I mean everything; travel dates, departure cities, credit cards. The whole thing.” Anyway, like Bill, we made it through – not with grace, necessarily, but with spunk.
Before the airline phone call began, I reminded Ossian for the 3rd time that it was time to go downstairs and have cereal for breakfast. Her answer was, “I don’t eat food, I’m allergic.” I reminded her that she actually isn’t allergic to breakfast and that we need food to survive and she announced, “I don’t need to survive.” It’s kind of the converse of the “why” response to everything that we often hear for many hours each day. The “I don’t need…” response asserts her will and questions my certainty about whatever I’m proposing she do.
The other dicey moment occurred just after lunch when Nola was hungry and had just started nursing. Ossian announced that she needed to poop on the potty – an activity that is widely celebrated around our house these days. So, I had to choose between what would become a very unhappy and crying 7 week old or a toddler soon to be covered in poop if I didn’t help with clothing removal and toilet positioning. The choice was clear but loaded. Nola cried as I pulled her away from the breast in a rush to manage Ossian’s malodorous personal project. After all was done with Ossian, I sat back down to nurse an upset Nola. Nick announced that he doesn’t like it when Nola cries. I asked him how he feels when she cries and he said, ” I feel really, really mad at Nola when she cries.” Can’t please everyone anytime.
I’m doing unexpectedly well with this little transition, but I have to say that Waylon is a basket case ( see photo and excuse dumb joke).
Lovely visit with Manama over memorial day weekend. Lots of grandbaby and grandtoddler love delivered amidst beach walking, forest hiking, garden planting, and out loud book reading.
This was also cabaret weekend. Cabaret is a night of food and performance at the community center. This time they served blackened catfish, a big change from the usual lasagna fare. All week, I looked forward to the opportunity to stay and watch the talent show style performances since mom was going to take Ossian home to bed. When the time came, Blase left to drive mom and Ossian home and I froze. Here I was at a grand social event in Petrolia, on a Saturday night and I didn’t remember how I was supposed to behave without the focus of a toddler to wrangle and follow. I sheepishly went wove my way through the crowd, attempting the childless conversations I had fantasized about all week. I felt rusty… not sure how to do it nor how I ever did it. What did I used to talk about, before kids? Ironically, I wasn’t even totally childless since Nola was asleep on my chest but since having two kids, being with just one feels like none – or maybe some small fraction of one.
We took field trip to Ferndale for the Memorial Day parade and, in great contrast, the Kinetic Sculpture Race finish line festival a couple of hours later. Amazing to see the same stretch of small town street go from somber, red white and blue patriotic reverence and seriousness to frolicking weirdos in wigs and costumes celebrating massive and mobile art projects. It was great. The kinetic sculptures are human driven and amphibious. They travel many miles over the course of two days as part of an annual event.
Today was our last day of Blase’s blessed paternity leave. In preparation for my future as postpartum full-time housewifestayathomemom of two young children, I drove an hour and a half today to “town” with just one child, in search of pants.. among other things. My postpartum physique is neither large enough to warrant maternity clothes nor small enough to accomodate my pre-pregnant clothes. Pants are the real issue.
I walked into a lovely little store and asked if they had any pants in the store that were large enough to fit me. The salesperson paused thoughtfully and replied, “No. I don’t think we have any pants made for a body in transition“. I was thinking the answer must be “no” but wasn’t really anyone to say it out loud. Rather, I imagined she’d load me up with some stretchy pants that were in the double digits of size and explain that these are really flattering to full-figures. they give a lot in the hips, etc. She would insist that I try them on with a nice distracting blouse. I would meekly agree to the charade, knowing full well that all would be indecently tight and ill-fitting. I would waste 45 minutes on the futile pants project and then leave in a cascade of niceties and closing remarks but without a crisp shopping bag containing much needed pants. Instead, I was met with a realistic assessment of my shape matched against her vast knowledge of the store’s available inventory and was spared the futile exercise in the dressing room.
life on the lost coast 