Momming Around

Party Pooper

Posted on by Beth Hull

No, this isn’t about how Maverick’s diaper blew out all over my lap during the church baby shower. That’s probably a better story to go with the title.

Instead, this is a story about Z.

And a birthday party.

Imagine being almost-four-years-old. And you’re minding your own business (jumping on the couch or writing your name backwards on the chalkboard easel) when your mommy comes up to you and says, “Would you like to put on a fancy dress? We’re going to a birthday party!”

You give a happy squeal. This birthday party came out of nowhere! (In truth, your mommy wasn’t telling you about it because she has a little tiny baby and even at the last minute she wasn’t entirely sure she was going to get things enough together to go.) So you get Mommy’s help and put on an adorable dress. You make a card for the birthday girl, even getting out some special stickers to decorate it.

The whole family piles into the car. “This party isn’t at the old house our friends lived in,” Mommy says. “They moved, so we’re going to a new house in a nearby city. Don’t worry though, it’ll only take about half an hour.”

Before you know it, your baby brother is asleep, and so are you.

You sleep and sleep and sleep.

When you wake up, though, you aren’t at your friend’s birthday party.

No. You’re on your own street. Where you live.

Daddy says, “We have bad news.”

You lift your sleepy head from the side of your carseat.

Mommy says, “We couldn’t find the party.”

You start crying. Mommy starts crying.

They looked and looked and looked, they say. They followed the directions, but the directions didn’t work. They called your friend’s mommy, but she was busy with the other guests, and didn’t hear her phone. They explored. They drove around for a long, long time and could not find the party.

You cry and cry.

“Let’s get a cake,” Mommy and Daddy say. “And we’ll celebrate on our own.” Mommy also promises to call your friend’s mommy and arrange a playdate.

You and Daddy go to buy a cake. You con him into the biggest, the fanciest, the most expensive cake there is. And you even get your name on it.

I know it’s not the same as going to the birthday party, but, historically, especially within your immediate family (i.e. your mommy), cake can help heal wounds.

Sleeps Like a Baby

Posted on by Beth Hull

A very quick post.

1) How is it that when I stick Maverick in his crib and I lie down in my bed, every tiny little snort and gurgle keeps me awake?

2) And how is it that I just put him down for a nap to the lullaby of jackhammers in the street outside our house?

3) Why do I make Z tiptoe around the house when he’s asleep?

4) Will I ever exercise again?

5) Will I ever sit down and work on a novel again?

6) Will my house ever be if not clean, then moderately less filthy again?

IDK for 1-3. YES for 4 and 5. HAHAHAHAHA NO for 6.

The Summer Gift Fairy

Posted on by Beth Hull

It’s 8:56 a.m. and the Summer Gift Fairy has struck again.

She left a little prezzie for Z on the front step, this one in a purple-paisley-embossed box with a sparkly note attached, reading,

Dear Z,

Do you believe in fairies yet?

I hope you’re having a good summer!

Love,

The Summer Gift Fairy

P.S. I live in a tree!

Her last missive’s postscript revealed that she has blue and silver wings.

Every time she hits our doorstep, I get to watch Z’s excitement. Every time I say, “Oh, that prezzie could be for Maverick,” but every time Z shakes her head. She knows the prezzie’s for her. Her joy is my joy.

What’s striking to me is that each gift gifted by the Summer Gift Fairy can be used in some way. I’m not saying the Summer Gift Fairy’s all about work, and projects, and KEEPING AN ACTIVE ALMOST-FOUR-YEAR-OLD BUSY WHILE HER MOM SLOWLY LOSES HER MIND, but the possibility’s there. Today’s gift was three new shapes to be used with perler beads. If that isn’t quiet, busy work, I don’t know what is.

I love that Summer Gift Fairy.

I also love that she doesn’t have any pattern. Each day has the possibility of a gift, but Z isn’t expecting gifts. She’s just delighted when they happen to arrive.

Now if only the Summer Gift Fairy would gift me with some good sleep and quiet time.

Postpartum Barbie

Posted on by Beth Hull

My little Maverick is one month old.

I can’t help but compare him to Z when she was an infant. And it isn’t fair to either of them. But briefly:

THIS IS A WHOLE LOT EASIER.

It’s harder in many ways. Juggling two little people instead of one. Trying to get Maverick to sleep when Z’s running around the house. Making Mom-and-Z time so Z doesn’t feel left out.

But this baby actually sleeps on his own, and when he cries he doesn’t sound pissed off like Z did.

Summer will be a whole other animal – Z won’t be in school and I’ll have them both. Together. All. Day. Long. But I have a couple more weeks of just me and my little dude during the day, and I plan to enjoy them.

Fortune Cookie, 3:40 a.m.

Posted on by Beth Hull

As many people in my online writing circles already know, I gave birth to Maverick (that’s his code name, not his real name) early Thursday morning. My water broke a little after midnight, and four hours later I had a new baby! (Like it’s that easy. And didn’t involve lots of shouting and disillusionment and internal requests for a cesarean section and/or lots of drugs. But I didn’t say those out loud. Mostly I said, “Get it OUT!” and “I’m never doing this again!”) (God bless patient nurses.) (Who are probably investing in ear plugs, if they haven’t already lost their hearing.)

Z is doing great with Maverick, she just LOVES him, wants to pet and kiss him all the time. And poke his little eyes – I don’t know what that’s about. (Actually, I have a few guesses. It’s hard sharing Mommy and Daddy.)

For some reason, his cry doesn’t bother me as much as Z’s did. Maybe because it’s a different pitch (he sounds like a baby pterodactyl, or, as Homes said, a Swainson’s Hawk). Or because his scrunchy little face looks so funny when he does it. I feel kinda bad, because sometimes I laugh when he cries.

He’s still learning the difference between nocturnal beings (creatures that are awake at night, i.e. NOT US) and diurnal beings (creatures that are awake in the day and sleep at night, i.e. US), so I’ve been awake a lot at night. Once, on a trip through the kitchen for ibuprofin, I spotted a bag of fortune cookies. And thought. 3:40 a.m. Not a bad time for a fortune cookie. I wish I could say the fortune was something illuminating and dreamy and perfect for my situation, but I think it was actually about riches coming my way next month.

And that’s okay. Because not everything is illuminating, or dreamy, or perfect. Sometimes things scream, and don’t sleep when (or where) they’re supposed to. We love them anyway.