When Enough is Enough is Enough

So I was rifling through the closet today -- looking for my lost glove, of all things -- when...what's this thing? A...toddler? Oh RIGHT! My other kid. I completely forgot.

Noah's doing just fine, thank you for vaguely maybe thinking of asking. The hellacious tantrums of a few weeks back turned out to be, like many of you said, the precursor to a lovely developmental spurt. He went to bed one night saying, "Bye Dada" and woke up the next morning saying, "Bye-bye Dada go work ALL GONE!" Complete with a little hand-wringing and the perfect touch of woe during the "ALL GONE!" part, like "Yes, Dada is all gone. We are fresh out of Dadas and do not expect our next shipment for at least six to eight weeks and it just breaks my heart to have to tell you this, ma'am."

Don't get me wrong -- he can still be a willful little shit if he wants to, but 99.9999999% of the time I just adore the hell out of him.

In a couple weeks we begin "transitional testing" -- basically we start the assessment process all over again to see what (if any) services Noah will qualify for after he turns three. It can range from "nothing, there is the door and I said GOOD DAY SIR" to continued therapy to free daily preschool, courtesy of our tax dollars.

I believe I've mentioned that I already enrolled Noah in a preschool for this fall -- the assessment process is fairly maddening, as we won't find out what we qualify for until Noah actually turns three. We may have an idea, but we won't know for sure until well after the deadlines for preschool enrollment and well after all the four-digit deposits are due. (Early Intervention at least seems to know the system sucks, and promised to write a letter begging for our deposits back if it turns out that if Noah DOES qualify for the preschool program. Am hoping this would be enough, considering our chosen preschool already has a waitlist 50 families deep, so it's doubtful they will be incredibly crushed over missing the chance to educate our special little snowflake.)

I honestly don't know where we'll end up. I once felt very sure that Noah's third birthday would mark the end of our EI journey, but now? Eh?  Verbally, Noah is clearly near the top of the pack in his class-slash-therapy group, but...that's not really the best comparison for basing a decision to go mainstream on. The group isn't exactly chock-full of "typical" talkers.

Behavior-wise, again, I don't know. He's had a few really good weeks. He's definitely more comfortable with circle time and the singing and transitioning from one activity to the next, provided he gets a little extra warning time. He plays beautifully with other children. But then try to slip on a plastic-y vinyl art smock or get glue on his fingers and hoo boy. Just...hooooo. Fucking. Boy.

Today I eavesdropped on another mother discussing the results of her son's testing. He qualified for four days a week of district-sponsored preschool. I was shocked, honestly -- her son's verbal abilities seemed pretty good. She was a little shocked as well, but said the decision was made more for his sensory and behavioral problems. What behavioral problems? Well, resistance to transitions and trouble staying with group activities. Huh.

For some reason I assumed the school district's bar for free services would be set much higher. And I also assumed that my kid was going to be some kind of valedictorian of Early Intervention, because come on. Look at THAT kid. And THAT one.

But then we hang out with non-EI kids and I can't deny that Noah isn't there yet, speech-wise. Socially, he's fantastic -- he shares pretty well, he's never aggressive, he's almost painfully aware of other children's moods and feelings. But the holes and gaps are definitely there. I just don't know how important they are anymore, at least in the school district's eyes.

While Noah attended his class today, EI had the mothers meet with a parent educator/child behavioral specialist/I'm not really sure of her title. Basically a support group where everybody can talk about different challenges and problems related to speech delays and sensory problems and typical toddler drama bullshit. (I know, right? It's like, start a damn blog already, people. That's what the Internet's there for.)

She spoke to us about the transition testing process, and warned us that it will most likely be even more draining and difficult than our initial intake assessment -- simply because of the bubble Early Intervention unwittingly puts you in. During the initial assessment -- you're scared. You've just started to come to grips with the idea that there's something "wrong" with your child (or "different!" as the parent educator would cheerfully correct me). You want help. You need help. These people are here to help. They give you a plan and goals and a promise that they can help. Okay. It's going to be okay.

After months and months in the program, you see progress! Glorious progress! You see how bad it could have been and you see how far you've come. Noah had six words in August, now listen to him! Bye-bye Dada go work all gone! Look at him walk! No tippy-toes! He loves slides! He'll play in the dirt! PRAISE JEBUS, HE'S CURED!

And then people swoop back into your home with clipboards and checklists and measure that progress and tell you that hey, yeah, that's great. It's still not enough. There's still a delay, a problem, a difference. He's still not ready.

And that might not happen. And if it does, well...jeez, I can certainly think of other things I would LOVE to spend that preschool tuition on this fall. And if it doesn't, well...I'll send him to preschool with a cotton art smock and hope that it's enough. That it was all enough.

Because What I Really Need Is Another Outlet For All My Whining

The past few days have been a cavalcade of smack-you-in-the-face headaches. They start around noon, showing up just in time to kill my appetite for lunch (Noah ate cereal out of the box and several Kraft Singles for lunch on Monday, and I will not apologize) and then build into a full-on migraine within a few hours, meaning I spend the afternoon either in bed or in the bathroom with my temples pressed against the cool floor tile while I fight the stomach-churning dry heaves.

Poor HeatherB showed up on Monday in the thick of it, in an unfortunate clusterfuckery miscommunicated visit, and I literally sat there and mouth-breathed on her for 10 minutes before finally admitting that I needed to go back to bed before my skull cracked in two.

Then everyday Jason gets home and asks if I've taken anything, and I meekly reply that I tried some pregnancy-approved Tylenol, and then he rolls his eyes and chucks the bottle of Excedrin at my aching head, which actually makes it feel better, probably because of the precious non-pregnancy-approved aspirin and caffeine granules coating the bottle. Mmmm, osmosis.

Dear Quasimobryo: Mama doesn't WANT to pickle you and make you all wimpy and small, but you really need to knock this shit off.

HOWEVER. I MAY ALSO ACTUALLY BE SUPERWOMAN.

Because! Despite being 100% out of commission for the majority of the day, I am proud as punch to unveil SIX GODDAMN WEEKS' WORTH of content over at my newest venture over at Alpha Mom: Zero To Forty, a weekly pregnancy calendar. It's really meant to be one of those week-by-week newsletter things, only...not (as?) boring and full of warnings about how two doses of Excedrin are ALL IT TAKES to produce a child with webbed toes and a propensity for fire-breathing.

As the disclaimer in the sidebar reminds you, however: "The column is well-researched but not written by a health care professional.  Consider it your internet BFF pregnancy guide."

This is what well-researched looks like, by the way:

(Look at the crib leg! LOOK AT THE CRIB LEG! The crib! In the room! Where it will one day be reassembled once I remember where I put all the screws! And then I will put a BABY in there!)

New installments will be published every Wednesday, with occasional other pregnancy-related articles and diatribes going up...uh...occasionally. Because that's just the sort of profeshunal writer I are.  In the meantime, you can start with the first entry here, and read up until Week Six. 

(Please also to ooh and aah over the kickass banner and illustrations by Secret Agent Josephine, who I swear to God, whipped the entire thing together in less time than it takes me to draw a stick figure during a game of Pictionary.)

(It's 11:51 and I do not yet have a headache. Do I dream? Should I brush my teeth? Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach and maybe a pepperoni pizza?)

thump thump thump thump thump

And more thump thump thump thump thump.

Translation: we saw the heartbeat. Um, whew? Yes. Whew. We even got to see it in 3D. It was...lumpy.

Everything looks fine, if a little on the petite side.  Quasimobryo measured at only 5w6d. Which...is exactly how far along we thought I was LAST Monday. An entire week of progress, gone! It's like crossing off every time on your to-do list, only to flip it over and discover it's a two-sided list. Or waking up, showering and getting dressed...and then waking up and realizing it was all a dream and you have to get out of bed AGAIN.

So my due date got pushed back ANOTHER week, to October 22nd. Ish. If this keeps up I will be pregnant until 2009.

Now if you'll excuse me, I am going out back to go all Office Space on that fancy fertility monitor with a baseball bat. Oh, I'm kidding. You know I'm just going to go take a nap.

The Hunger

Okay so I am emerging again from my near-narcoleptic state to post another damn run-on sentence entry and you know what I think I posted a lot of run-on sentence entries when I was pregnant before so I wonder if I should go ahead and make "punctuation aversions" an official pregnancy symptom on my still-to-come, just-hammering-out-a-few-final-details pregnancy calendar blog over at AlphaMom, because hey! It's my pregnancy guide and I CAN INVENT WHATEVER SYMPTOMS I WANT. FARTING. THAT'S A SYMPTOM. ALSO EXCESS EAR WAX, WHILE WE'RE AT IT.

What the fuck was I talking about? I got thrown off by all that punctuation. Oh, right, differing pregnancy symptoms between this one and my first, like the complete lack of puking (I really do believe I did have a stomach bug two weeks ago, although I'm sure the rising pregnancy hormones didn't help things any) and only the barest waves of post-prenatal-vitamin queasiness, which I cannot lie is freaking me out a little because last time I was so unbelievably miserable I lost over 10 pounds the first trimester, while this time I am eating us out of house and home and THIN MINTS THIN MINTS THIN MINTS! Followed by NACHOS! And then I want some PEPPERONI SLICES! And then more 85% off clearance rack Valentine's Day candy! And then I am STILL HUNGRY NOM NOM NOM I think I shall make some cauliflower and broccoli gratin (with ham!) and then eat the entire thing straight out of the casserole dish while sitting on the kitchen floor and eying the box of Tagalongs, because YOU ARE NEXT, MOTHERFUCKERS.

And yet I am still really very nervous about Monday's ultrasound, because I am unsure where the line between "crazy pregnant lady" and "fat whore pig who was just waiting for an excuse" lies. I am more comfortable with puking than with gnawing on the refrigerator handle, is all.

So if anyone has any experience with different pregnancies = different symptoms, particularly of the morning sickness variety, I sure would like to hear about it. My boobs would also appreciate it, since they are tired of me mashing on them to make sure they are still vaguely sore because otherwise I have nothing to BELIEVE IN ANYMORE. EXCEPT FOR THE DOUBLE-STUFF OREOS.

(Oh! And while I do like to imagine that my readers are the sort-of types who always have fabulous parties to attend on Oscar night -- perhaps parties where you dress up as obscure indie-film characters and everybody wears elbow-length gloves on principle -- but if you ARE going to be watching them at home this weekend, we're throwing a virtual Oscars party over at Mamapop [virtual = a swinging sexy time for the social anxiety disorder set!] and I would love it if y'all would stop by and join me, Sweetney, Mrs. Kennedy, Her Bad Mother, JenB and a slew of other hilarious people, either for just the red carpet fashion snarkfest at 7 pm or for the awards at 8 pm or both or just to hear the running list of Foods Amy Consumes During the Telecast and Then Cries About Because Now They Are Gone and She Can't Eat Them Anymore.)

Sapling

Wow, so I feel like I need to apologize for the sporadic posting this week but I should probably spend the time it would take to type an apology to actually post something worthwhile but there's this thing that keeps happening every afternoon, right when Noah goes down for his nap which is finally my time to write something worthwhile...I get on the couch...with my laptop...and...yawwwn...oh...wait...

fuckkldrzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

First Look

I am thinking of changing my default publishing settings here on the ol' weblog. "Publish Now" should really mean "Publish in Five Hours, When Amy Will Inevitably Need to Eat a Few of Her Words."

After mentioning how ever-so-calllllm I was on Friday about the lack of a doctor's appointment in my immediate future and blah blah cramping tra la laaaaaa, I was on the phone with my doctor's office several hours later procuring myself a first-thing-Monday-morning ultrasound because of the constant, painful cramping.

Carry toddler upstairs to bed? That's a cramping.

Go 10 minutes without a big swig from the water bottle? That's a cramping.

Bake yet another batch of brownies while standing upright? You better believe that's a cramping, fat ass.

He mentioned stuff I already knew: drink lots of water, lie down and rest as much as possible, is probably completely normal as long as there's no bleeding. But he also felt that it was worth getting a look in there as soon as possible, just to be sure.

I almost canceled the appointment several times over the weekend since the math suggested that it was way too soon to see anything useful, like a heartbeat or some tiny jazz hands. But in the end, I went, because CANCELING A FREE ULTRASOUND? Who the fuck does that? Sensible people, maybe.

And...yeah. It was way too soon to see very much at all, although we were able to confirm the existence of a single (whew) beanish and lumpy-headed embryo, right where it is supposed to be (double whew). Quasimobryo appeared to be about 5w6d old, just a day or two shy of the visible heartbeat stage. I go back next Monday.

For today's entry the role of Quasimobryo will be played by some random image Amy found on Google.

Checking the angles for a resemblance.

Content with his continued status as "the cute one without a tail."

Knocked Up and Over

So. I take it y'all read the news?

Yeah. When I wrote Monday's post, I was already pregnant. When I preemptively snapped at anyone who DARED to make the puking = pregnant connection last week, I was already pregnant. I just didn't KNOW that I was already pregnant. Really! I would have told you, Internet. Honest. You know there's no secrets between us, baby. Shh. Don't be like that.

I really did take a test last week -- the very last test stick in the house, which somehow managed to survive last month's two-week rampage of peesticking and disappointment. I tested after our fall that nearly caused my nine-months-pregnant friend to spontaneously deliver on our sidewalk out of sheer terror, and after a lunch out with her where every smell in the place caused my stomach to flip and flop and bleh. It was negative, and possibly gave me the finger, because it was one of those fancy digital ones. NOT PREGNANT, it said. ALSO FUCK YOU! I enjoy paying extra for the attitude.

Then I went and threw up. And then threw up again. Then I felt better. Then I threw up again on Friday morning. Heartburn kept me up all night. I ran out of Tums.

"Do you think...maybe I should take another test?" I asked Jason over the weekend. He rolled his eyes.

"Noooo, come on," he said.

See, here's the thing: that blasted fertility monitor told me I didn't even ovulate this month. And I believed it. I've been falling into an every-other-month pattern for awhile now -- blocked tube? bum ovary? Who knows. Call the DOCTOR, ALREADY. We've been trying in earnest since Noah's first birthday, but this month we -- oh my God, the concept -- only had sex when we felt like it. I mean, come on. No chance. I convince myself I'm pregnant every damn month, and even I've had enough of being such an asshole.

I wrote Monday's post and hit the publish button, then bundled Noah up and went out in search of heartburn medication, lest I die of it right there. I picked up some Zantac and turned around to face the family planning section. My boobs...well, they did feel a little sore that day. I grabbed a three-pack of CVS-brand tests and called myself an asshole again.

I continued to berate myself the entire drive home, reminding myself of all the other reasons for the symptoms I was experiencing. Remnants of the stomach flu. Old age. PMS. Late stage alcoholism, I don't know.

We got home and I put Noah to bed and entered the bathroom.

The second line showed up within seconds. I started laughing out loud at the test. I ran around my bedroom yelling HA! HA! HA! over and over. For an old married woman who has been having carefully timed and orchestrated sex for over two years now, I just went and got myself knocked up.

And suddenly...I was pregnant. And I knew it, and I knew it without those other two tests and without a beta and I snapped a picture of the test and emailed it to Jason, with "Hey! Guess what?" as the subject line.

He emailed back:

what am I looking at here? is that second band actually filled in? That means it's positive right? Holy crap!

And then again, a few minutes later:

on my way home.

The other two tests confirmed what my nausea, heartburn, bloated round belly and painful tenderized boobs had been trying to tell me.

October 14th is my best guess at a due date since I don't know when I ovulated exactly. The negative test last week (on cycle day 28) suggests a longer cycle, maybe, so...mid-October-ish, right after Noah turns three. I'm a few days shy of six weeks along right now. Ish.

Since I've been bumped out of the Infertile File at my doctor's office, my first prenatal appointment isn't until MARCH, when I will be around nine or 10 weeks along. This would have wigged me the fuck out last time, but I'm strangely calm about it.

The nausea and heartburn have been incredibly manageable (to almost nonexistent) since Monday, when I (obviously) cut out coffee and red wine. Those turned out to be the biggest culprits. (Biology! It's like it knows shit, and stuff.) My boobs are killing me. Goddamn killing me for real and serious. Spicy food is not my friend. Indian food (which sustained both me and Noah for nine solid months) hurts me. Deep. Salt makes my stomach pooch out to five-months-along territory, although I will suffer the bloat in the Pursuit of Pickles. I want chocolate all the damn time and OH YEAH, maybe that's why I decided to randomly make an entire tray of brownies last weekend, taste them, declare them terrible and then proceed to eat every last one.

We obviously aren't talking to Noah about anything yet, other than asking him what he'd think of a baby brother or sister. You know, just as a general concept. He nodded enthusiastically, but later conversations suggest that he actually think he's getting a Wonderpet.

And then there are days where I think this is all a mistake. The tests were faulty and it's all in my head. Or the lack of nausea some days is an ominous sign (even though I didn't get sick until much farther along with Noah). I started having some light cramping yesterday afternoon and evening, but I'm fairly sure it was normal uterine-expanding/embryo-settling-in-and-trashing-the-joint cramping, exacerbated by some dehydration and possibly my c-section scar. Taking care of myself and the pregnancy is...uh...challenging, to say the least, since Noah does not care that macaroni and cheese is now the devil's handiwork and Mama needs to drink eight glasses of water a day and pee 127,834,209 fricking fucking times a day.

Aaaaaand...that's where we are. Sorry for the all-over-the-place kitchen-sinkness of this entry. I've had almost a week to collect my thoughts and my thoughts are still running very ZOMG PREGNATE SJDLIP HHJWEY GIMME OLIVES THX.

Oh, and one last thing, which I hope will be pretty cool -- ages and ages ago Isabel and I were talking about pregnancy and pregnancy blogging and I mentioned that second pregnancies tend to get the short end of the stick, journaling-wise, and how I hoped I'd be able to keep as detailed a record of my hypothetical second pregnancy as I did with my first. Her solution was to slap me with some deadlines and pay me to write one of those week-by-week pregnancy guides for the AlphaMom website. (Ha ha, little embryo! Mama done SOLD YOU OUT.)

We're scrambling to get everything set up right now since I finally was able to give it the official go sign on Tuesday, but just in case you find I don't yak on nearly enough about pregnancy over here (or if you are someone who commented yesterday with a remarkably similar due date), I'll be publishing weekly installments of everything pregnancy over there. But instead of reading about how oh, this week your baby is just the most preshusest little chickpea ever and now let's talk about toxoplasmosis and ectopic pregnancy and scare the ever-loving shit out of you, it will be...well, probably a lot less informative and possibly compare your embryo to a Viagra tablet.

Holy mother of God, people. I just might get myself another little baby out of this.

One Dozen Long-Stemmed Years

On our very first Valentine's Day together, I sat across the table from a tall dark-haired boy and looked into his eyes and decided that he was the one. It was probably our fifth or sixth date, and I refuse to give my 19-year-old self any credit for this decision -- she was an idiot who didn't know anything, but sure as hell thought she did. I suppose I could try to see it as some kind of fate or higher power leading my idiot self in the right direction, or maybe deep down in my rebellious, flightly little soul was a flicker of wisdom beyond my years, but mostly: I was an idiot who got incredibly damned lucky.

On another Valentine's Day together, we went up to visit his brother in Boston. We sat across the table from each other at an Indian restaurant he'd chosen and looked into each other's eyes in a panic because what the hell was this shit? Couldn't we go get some pizza instead? Then we each took a few bites and looked at each other again and realized we loved this and wordlessly pledged to each other that we would spend the rest of our lives seeking out everything new and exciting, to see what else our identical vanilla suburban upbringings had held out on us. We would live in the city and we would eat and we would travel. And we did all that for awhile, and we were incredibly damned lucky.

And then there was another Valentine's Day together, when we held hands in a small exam room while an ultrasound technician pointed at our baby on the TV screen. He was a tiny grain of rice. His heartbeat filled the room and our hearts and I cried because I was just so incredibly damned lucky.

Today is our 12th Valentine's Day together. A dozen of them, some more memorable than others. Gifts and cards and dinners out and lately we always talk about the One Where We Saw Noah For the First Time. It's hard to beat that one, I admit.

I'm not sure we're officially beating that one this year, at least not on February 14th proper. Our excitement is more about another date, eight months from now.

October 14th. My due date for our second child.

We are so, so incredibly damned lucky, I can hardly even stand it.

Drama, Thy Name is Toddler

Or Toddler, Thy Name is Drama. I don't really know. The point is: I am five minutes away from FedExing my child to China.

Noah has been, no lie and no exaggeration, throwing one solid tantrum since early yesterday, with only the occasional breathing break.

THINGS THAT HAVE MADE NOAH FALL TO THE FLOOR AND WEEP BIG FAT TEARS INCONSOLABLY IN THE PAST 24 HOURS:

1) Asking for more Cheerios, being reminded of the gigantic pile of Cheerios directly in front of him.

2) Asking for more milk, being reminded of the very full cup of milk directly in front of him.

3) Climbing out the back of a chair and getting stuck because he refuses to take the sippy cup out of his mouth.

4) The 30 seconds it takes to microwave his dinner.

5) Asking for a cookie, getting said cookie, discovering that he actually really wanted some cake.

6) Blue's Clues, because Steve is wasting precious seconds looking for a clue that is RIGHT FUCKING THERE IN FRONT OF HIM ZOMG.

7) His new Thomas the Tank Engine jammies, because they need to be ON HIS BODY instead of carried around like a blankie.

8) Deliberately hitting his head against the floor while tantrumming; suddenly realizing that deliberately hitting your head against the floor actually kind of hurts.

9) THE DOG IS LOOKING AT ME MAKE THE DOG STOP LOOKING AT ME AAAAHHHHHHHHHHH

10) Touching the oven, getting caught touching the oven, STOP LOOKING AT ME TOUCHING THE OVEN AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

11) Asking to fingerpaint, HELP HELP THERE'S PAINT ON MY FINGERS AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH

12) The stroller, the carseat, being carried, walking on his own feet, not being allowed to roll around on the floor in Target.

13) Putting sidewalk chalk in mouth against all advice and reason, suddenly discovering that sidewalk chalk tastes like ass.

14) Being asked any sort of question whatsoever, including, in all seriousness, Noah, do you want some candy?

15) The three seconds of Little Bear opening credits our Tivo records at the end of Blue's Clues episodes, because even though he has never sat through an episode of Little Bear ever so we don't TiVo them, we should totally know that those three seconds of opening credits are the GREATEST THING EVER and he now wants to watch Little Bear more than ANYTHING IN THE WORLD and WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU CANNOT MAKE LITTLE BEAR MATERIALIZE RIGHT THIS SECOND I WILL DESTROOOOOOOY YOOOOOOOOOOOOU.

Shall I go on or do you have the general idea?

My god, I don't know who this kid is and what his problem(ssssss) is(arrrre). I thought maybe a short nap was to blame so I put him to bed early last night, only to have him wake up screaming this morning because...I don't know. Something about the Thomas jammies again, like because the shirt was on his body he couldn't LOOK at it, but then when I took it off he screamed AND KICKED ME IN THE STOMACH.

(I should also point out that in the past few days, I have become the Only Acceptable Parent, which is breaking Jason's heart and bugging the crap out of me, since he seems to demand my constant presence for the sole purpose of abusing it.)

I am...worn out. I have never, ever witnessed anything like this from him and have "If That OT Could See Me Now" (as sung by Kathie Lee Gifford) stuck in my head. Is he sick? Teething? Growth-spurting? Opening wormholes into some sort of evil Doppelgangerland from Planet Toddler?

I spent Friday afternoon in the maternity ward, holding someone else's mewling little newborn. That was very Suck, especially since after this past week several people I know have now successfully conceived, gestated and birthed children in less time than we've been trying for a second.

A very boring insurance kerfluffle sidetracked our plan to see the doctor last month and I have yet to pick up the phone and reschedule. Because apparently I have the same sort of "smash your own fool head against the floor and then complain about it" impulses as Noah.

This entry probably reads downright bizarre to a lot of you. Or like, all of you. Seriously? She's whining about not being pregnant two paragraphs after going on and on about her current child's hellacious never-ending tantrum of nerve-shattering asshole-ness? And did she just maybe call the current child whom she is goddamned lucky to have in the first place an asshole right there?

Yes. And yes. Irrational Little Snowflake, thy name is Blogger. Or maybe, Unconditional Love, thy name is Mother.

Yes. Hopefully it's that one.

Mah Bucket of Solitude

Yesterday, after I asked him if he was ready to go to school:

Noted. Now go put your shoes on.