Smitten.

Ever since we found out that we were pregnant, Matt and I have pondered the question, "How will we possibly love two?"

It's not that we didn't think we could love two, but would we love them equally? Because our love for Henry grows more each day. We naturally thought that we would love our second child, but we assumed it would fall lower on the scale-of-love (if you will) than the love we have for Henry.

We had no idea.

There aren't words to express the immediate overwhelming love we have for this sweet little girl, but let me share with you a story that might begin to illustrate it.

Saturday evening was the first time Matt and I had been alone with Harper since her birth. She was one-day old, and as she slept in her hospital crib, we sat wondering, "So what now?" I could tell that Matt was antsy. It was 7:30pm, and I asked him, "Whatcha thinkin'?" He said, "Well (anytime he starts a sentence that way it means he has something he wants to do but is hesitant about asking), I'd like to go shopping."

Strange, I thought. I did not marry a shopper. Unless shopping results in a new firearm, my husband wants nothing to do with it. Many moons ago, I teased (though his friends insist it wasn't a joke) that with every baby we have, Matt could get a new gun. For a split second I thought maybe he was going to approach me about this idea, but I knew better. Actually, I knew that he knew better. So I just looked at him.

He continued, "Well, I thought I'd get her a blanket. I haven't been able to get anything for her yet, and I know you want her to have a blanket." He was right. I want a swaddling blanket for her that isn't blue or brown. "Great," I said, "In fact, I have a Target gift card you can use."

The reality is that we are having to rethink our budget as we bring another baby into our home. Babies aren't cheap, and we are sacrificing one income so that I can be home with our children. It's worth every sacrifice (and then some), but it makes for a lot of creative shopping.

So off to Target he went.

One hour later he returned. Sans Target bag.

"So, what did you get at Target?"

"Well (again, this means he has some explaining to do), I didn't get anything from Target."

I just looked at him.

In short, my husband, the non-shopper, went shopping. Like real shopping. And he didn't even get a blanket. Rather he returned with a dress. A D-R-E-S-S! From the third store he stopped in. Apparently nothing was "good enough" at the first two stores. He said the dress was a "Harper dress." And it is. It screams Harper. It's perfect.

But the pricetag read $24.

$24!

Look, I don't need to justify our spending habits, but $24 for a tiny cotton dress that she will soil and grow out of in less time it took for me to write this post? No, thank you.

I expressed my concern.

He assured me, "It wasn't $24; it was on sale."

Better-ish. It wasn't on final-markdown-clearance sale (the kind of shopping that I like to do), but it was better than full price.

And can I just say that is the proudest $24 sale item my husband has ever bought? Honest to goodness, he was beaming as he showed me this dress. Beaming.

And so was I. My husband, the non-shopper, could hardly wait more than one day before proudly purchasing a dress (a dress!) for his baby girl. He is hopelessly smitten, and it moves me to tears.

Somehow God grew our hearts so that we would continue loving Henry even more each day while simultaneously loving Harper in such a way that we never thought we could.

And as I observe the father of my daughter, I'm awestruck at God's ability to fill my heart up even more with love for my husband. Watching Matt with our sweet girl has turned me into a weepy mess. She has snatched her daddy's heart, and I'm happy to let her have it.

God is crazy awesome. In less than 48 hours He has overwhelmed me beyond what I ever thought possible. Not only did He give me a heart for adoring two children and a precious husband, but I'm blown away by our family and friends who are loving and supporting us through this transition.

My parents have unconditionally cared for our sick son (Henry came down with croup over the weekend) as we spent time with our newborn. Matt's family will put more miles on their car and take more days off work in the next few weeks simply to give our family extra hands. My sister single-handedly bought out the entire pink side of Carter's. And our friends. Wow, our friends. They have overloaded our inboxes and mailbox with their words of encouragement, support, and sincere prayers. Not to mention hospital visits and an insane number of meal offers. Seriously, God? Seriously? You love my family this much? I can't even stand it.

As if all this wasn't enough to make me cry big-ugly tears as I type, my husband sent me right over my blubbery edge when he looked at me before bed last night and said, "I was going to pay $24 for the dress."

Of course he was.

Something tells me he didn't even see the pricetag on that dress. Because no matter what, it wouldn't have mattered.

Non-Maternal Instincts

You know you have a toddler when . . .

His forehead (and elbows, knees, shins, and hands) require you to constantly tell of his most recent tumble simply so that no one suspects you of child abuse.

Your husband comes home from a long day at work and says, "Somebody's been sitting in my chair." (Shh, don't tell.)

You experience a moment of, "Oh Dear Lord, I've lost my child!" only to find him giggling away right under your nose.

You find him watching cartoons from the most unusual of surfaces.

And in the most uncomfortable of positions.

Once again, you think that you have lost him and will surely find him knocked unconscious somewhere in your house only to find that he's wiggled his way onto the back porch and is having the time of his life.

He begins to emulate you. (You might find this to be cute at first, but it soon becomes frightening.)

Your dining room table was last seen in 2008 and can now be found buried underneath this:

You begin to accumulate items such as this:

You often find your dog communicating to you, "it wasn't me this time, I promise."

Your once well-fed dog has given up on eating and drinking for fear of what he might find in his bowl.

So instead, he has retreated to this:

Non-Maternal Instincts

Originally posted in January, 2009



Irony.

I had an epiphany this week.

Motherhood and pregnancy don't mix.

Ironic, dontcha think?

Ironic but oh-so-true.

Here are only a few reasons why motherhood and pregnancy don't mix:

1. At the exact moment when my son is having a complete meltdown, I am also having a complete meltdown. Together we are crying and screaming, "da-da." Usually "da-da" isn't home, so we end up getting funny looks from the dog.
2. Poopy diapers make for a LOT of gagging. At least once a day, I am a reflex away from puking all over my son.
3. Constant hunger means that I am constantly nibbling on devouring my son's food. On the average day I consume a 1/2 box of goldfish, a cup of Cheerios, several packages of fruit snacks, a box of macaroni and cheese, a value-size Hershey's bar (not my son's, but if I pretend that it's my son's, I don't feel so guilty eating it), a couple of Nutri-Grain bars, loads of watermelon-flavored yogurt, animal crackers galore, a value-size Hershey's bar (What? My dad was raised in PA; it's in our blood), and enough cut-up fruit to feed my ever-expanding gut. And that's only what I eat off of my son's plate. That doesn't include the five "real" meals that I eat everyday. As I quickly resemble Violet Beauregarde after she eats the three-course meal chewing gum, my son is beginning to resemble the flytrap plant in Little Shop of Horrors ("feed me").
4. It is not exactly safe to "watch" a child while falling asleep. Let's just say that I spend most of the day attempting to NOT fall asleep. I might have woken up to my son pulling down the blinds yesterday. I'm pretty sure that wasn't a dream (as evidenced by the blinds on my floor).
5. My son has begun this thing where he hits me. Not in a mean way, just in a hey-I-know-how-to-make-noises-when-I-smack-my-hands-against-your-body kind of way. Pregnancy makes my chest tender. Combined with my son's new game, my chest is VERY tender.

Dear Lord of Creation,

I know how much you love irony (Abraham and Sarah, David and Goliath, The Book of Job), but motherhood and pregnancy? Really, God?

Okay, fine, joke's on me. But wouldn't it be cool if pregnancy turned moms into these super-human creatures, like unicorns, who could defeat the monsters under the bed while creating another little monster deep inside their bellies. Wait a minute? That's basically what I am doing. I am a super-hero to one baby (two if you count my husband, and yes, he does count) while miraculously creating another baby (yes, Lord, I know, that's your miracle, not mine. Shout-out to the Big Man).

Okay, fine, I get it.

I am super-human, and there ain't anything ironic about that! {wink}

Non-Maternal Instincts

Inner-monologue at nine-months pregnant.

{Huffin' and puffin'} Now why did I come up here? I know I came up for something. Hmm, can't remember. Phew, I better sit down.

{Plops down on unmade bed} WHOA! Those are my feet? What happened to my feet? Why didn't anyone tell me?! I mean, where are my ankles? They're, they're, they're gone! I don't have ankles and my feet are huge. Like puffy huge. No. Those can't be my feet.

Gee, this bed is soft. Cozy. Pillows. Fluffy pillows. But it's only 10am. Ugh. Stupid insomnia. Stupid insomnia equals Ali and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

Can't sleep now anyway. I need to pee. Didn't I just do that? Yeah, I went before I came upstairs. I wonder if I can talk my doctor into giving me a catheter for the next month. I need to talk to him about that. Better write that down.

Wait a sec, who's that? Me?! No. That can't be me. Darn it. Why'd I look in the mirror? I might be carrying this baby in the front, but apparently I'm also carrying one in the back. Dang, girl. No wonder my clothes don't fit anymore. Not even my maternity clothes. Bah.

Oh, baby powder, my best friend. Is that why I came up here? No, that wasn't it.

Now what was it? Ouch. Cranky. Stop. Ouch. Better sit down for this one. Stupid Braxton Hicks, you're such a tease.

Wait. Yuck. Gag. Why is my throat burning? Burning swords attacking my throat. Oh! That's it! I came up here for Pepcid. Love me some Pepcid. Yes, please, I need Pepcid!

{With Pepcid in hand, waddles back downstairs for glass of water}

NOOOOOO! What did I do? I dropped it. No! Dagnabbit. Now how am I going to pick that up? I can't bend down there and pick up that little pill.

Ah, forget it. I need ice cream.

Non-Maternal Instincts

Originally posted in Janurary, 2009

My Husband, the Potato Chip Runner

Once again, this week's post doesn't quite fall under non-maternal. Or maybe it does. What do I know? I'm just some crazy pregnant lady. But I warn you, don't mess with the pregnant lady.

If you have ever been pregnant, or hormonal, or menstrual, or, well, just a girl, then you know what it's like to crave potato chips. I don't know any girl who doesn't like potato chips. And if you are a girl and you don't like them, then you are probably really a man.

So yesterday, around dinner time, I WANTED potato chips. And I wanted them NOW (imagine Fat Bastard as he looks at his fried chicken, "Get in my belly!" Except that I didn't have any potato chips to threaten). So I unbuttoned a few of the buttons on my polo turned on my most pathetic and whiny voice and said, "I really want potato chips."

Hubs responded to my declaration, "I can go on a potato chip run." {ain't he the greatest?}

"Are you sure? You don't have to if you don't want to." {lying}

"Honey, I'm sure. What kind - Ruffles, Conn's, or Lay's?" {WOW, this guy is good!}

"Ruffles or Lay's," I responded excitedly.

"Okay, I'll be right back." {we live only a few blocks from a convenience store - it makes for a very convenient nine months}

5 minutes later

Hubs walks in the door, "I hope you like my selection."

He shows me a bag of Wavy Conn's potato chips.

I look at him, I look at the bag, and then I look at him, "I said Ruffles or Lay's."

He looks confused. "I thought you said Conn's."

"No, I hate Conn's." {I really don't care for them - they taste like old socks, whatever that tastes like}

"But, these are from Zanesville. I really thought you said Conn's." {okay, you just heard Conn's because you wanted Conn's. I don't care if you grew up near Zanesville. I'm pregnant, and I WANT RUFFLES OR LAY'S!}

And that's when my hormones exploded. I really tried to suppress them. But they weren't listening to me. It seems that the fig-sized being growing deep within my womb spits out hormones at cosmic force.

And then I throw a fit. You know, the usual girly game of, "No, don't go back out just for chips," "Okay, I really want chips," "No, I'll be fine," "Okay, I want Ruffles, please."

My potato chip runner then leaves for the second time that evening. But this time he's not back right away. It's at least fifteen minutes before he returns. {and don't think for a minute that this hungry preggo wasn't starting to really jones}

As it turns out, the convenient store down the street was out of Ruffles. So my I-better-get-it-right-this-time hubby drove all the way to the next nearest convenient store just to find the perfect potato chip.

He scored. {thank you, Jesus!}

And since he is all about staying out of trouble making me happy, he picked up a bag of Skittles and Sour Patch Kids while he was there.

Except that I was now craving Gummi Bears.

Non-Maternal Instincts

My son gets shots today.

Crap.

I'm dreading it.

Last time he got stuck, he clamped onto my neck and body for his bloody life, clawing my neck. After she stuck him the first time, he went from cute-little-baby-boy to deranged Vietnam vet watching over his back for even the slightest move.

He screamed. He turned purple. He shed a month's worth of snot and tears.

I think I heard him hiss at her. Or maybe that was me.

I'm gonna be talkin' to Jesus a lot this morning. I hope He doesn't mind if I clamp onto His neck. I promise not to claw.

Or hiss.

Non-Maternal Instincts

Originally posted in December, 2008

It only gets worse.

I didn't think that it was possible to toss my maternal instincts aside any farther, but apparently, I was wrong.

No, my son isn't becoming an absolute terror. Yes, he's nearly nine months old which means he's mobile and getting into everything, but surprisingly, I think it's cute (as long as he's not pulling my I-just-spent-an-hour-organizing-these-piles-of-bills-and-mail off of the coffee table. And why would I pile important papers in my son's reach on the coffee table? Because I'm the mom, and I can do whatever I want).

No, my son actually has nothing to do with the complete downward spiral of my sweet and cheery disposition (if only my husband posted comments to this blog; he would most definitely assure you that my disposition is most always sweet and cherry {cough-cough-ahem}).

So why am I going from, "ah, that's my sweet little boy," to, "#@%#*&# just leave me alone!" in 3-2-1? You haven't guessed yet? I'm pregnant.

Yes, it's the little dime-sized creature living deep inside my lady parts that is driving me to locking myself in the bathroom - for months.

As my most adorable growing baby boy hits milestone after milestone (Did he just sit himself up? Wowsers! Is that another tooth? Yowzers! Could that be "da-da?" Woot!), the mere bean of a being that is only going to make me fat (don't even get me started) wrecks havoc in my lower abdomen causing me to react quite unusually (Oh, great, he's sitting up? Better build a cage. Oh, dang-it, another tooth? I've had enough of this drool bucket! Oh, cute, "da-da"? Who birthed this child? And all I'm hearing is the name of the person who doesn't have the first clue what it's like to be nauseous and fat and bloated and BLAH!)

So just when I thought I'd turned a corner (Christmas is only days away! I should be full of good cheer and well wishes), I learn that my body is yet again being taken over for the sake of another so-called blessing. Bah-humbug.

Dear Lord who only asked one thing of Eve (DON'T EAT THE APPLE!),

I would really like to speak to her, if I may, "Girlfriend, what were you thinking? Because of your stupid fall-into-temptation, us uterus-bearing wo-men are stuck feeling like absolute crap! One stinkin' apple? Was it worth it? Was it the best-dang-tastin' apple you've ever bitten into? Because I'd kill to enjoy a bite of anything right now without having to make a run for the bathroom. Instead of enjoying the vibrant life cruisin' around my living room, I'm spending my days teaching him to hold back my hair as I hug onto oval-shaped porcelain. Thanks a lot."

But Lord, honestly, I am thankful to have another baby growing inside of me. I'm trying my darndest to remember to be grateful in all things. But would you forgive me if just this time I gave thanks only after I flush my lunch down the toilet, because it is in those few moments that I actually feel human again, at least until the next wave of I-think-I'm-gonna-blow hits.

Non-Maternal Instincts

Whose hair is it anyway?

We took the plunge.

We cut my son's hair.

And by "we," I mean my sister cut as I supervised and my husband took pictures (in case there was a snafu requiring photographic evidence). My sister is a professional, and by golly, no one other than an experienced, knowledgeable, and licensed hair-cutting professional was coming within a mile of my son's precious locks with $200 scissors (I'm not kidding. Her scissors cost $200. They're magical scissors).

Before I share pictures, let me back up.

Once in a blue moon, when I get my hair cut, the interaction with my sister goes something like this -

Morgan: "So what do you want done today?"

Me: "I don't care. You're the one who told me I needed a haircut."

Morgan: "I know, but do you want layers? Are you growing out your bangs? Do you want to be able to pull it back?"

Me: "Yeah, all that."

Morgan: "Seriously, Ali, you have to tell me what you want."

Me: "Okay, fine, I want the haircut that will take the least amount of time and makes me look 20 pounds lighter. Go."

Morgan: {tosses my head back in the sink, turns on scalding hot water, and shampoos my head viciously} {something tells me she is slightly annoyed}

On the contrary, when I finally broke down and agreed to have my sister (her official title is Artistic Director) (she graduated from the Vidal Sassoon Academy of L.A.) (you know, L.A., like Los Angeles, the heart of fashion) cut my son's hair, the interaction went something like this -

Me: "Okay, fine, you can trim it, but I mean trim it. Not cut it. There's a huge difference."

Morgan: "I know, Alison {it's never good when she uses my given name}; I do this for a living."

Me: "But mostly just the front; he just needs a little taken from the front. Only a little. And just a teensy bit from the back and sides. You know, just clean it up. But nothing dramatic. I don't want people to notice."

Morgan: "Okay, but he needs that hair out of his face and ears, so you're going to notice a little bit."

Me: "But then don't leave the back too long because then he'll look like he has a mullet."

Morgan: "He's not going to have a mullet."

Me: "But you don't see it every morning when he wakes up and the back is all smashed down. It sometimes looks mullet-ish."

Morgan: "Okay, Alison {oh dear, there she goes again with that Alison crap}, I'm not going to give him a mullet."

Me: "And don't you dare take off any of his curls. He can't lose his curls. Promise me you won't take any curls."

Morgan: "No curls, I promise."

Me: "I'll be so mad if you take his curls."

Morgan: {she gives me a really stern look that, when translated, means something that I cannot repeat}

Me: "Okay, I trust you."

Morgan: {still staring me down}

Me: "And just a trim."

Morgan: {still staring}

Me: "And leave the curls."

It went well. It really did. But hey, let's face it, we've all cried over a haircut before.

Oh, and for the record, I think she took a curl. I'm just sayin'.

Non-Maternal Instincts

Originally published in December, 2008

Cherries, cats, or penicillin?

Thursday night, as I was lifting my son, I noticed a blemish under his shirt. Not thinking much of it, I lifted up my son's shirt, and HOLY CROW! What is this? What in God's name is going on here?

My son's usually smooth and pale-peach belly was covered in dots! He was spotted! My baby boy's spots were bright pink, round, and most importantly, there were hundreds of them!

I rolled up his pant legs, and spots! I scrunched up his sleeves, and spots! I pulled down the neck of his shirt - spots! Spots! Spots! Everywhere!

They were overtaking him. And I had no idea why.

Fever - nope. Was he itchy - nada. Respiratory symptoms – nothin’. Just stinkin' dots everywhere.

So naturally I freaked out. And then I checked his temp again (no fever). So I freaked out some more.

And amidst all the freakin’ out, I managed to narrow down the causes of the mystery dots to three things: cherries, cats, and penicillin.

He had cherries for the first time on Thursday. He pet a cat for the first time on Thursday. And just a couple days prior to Thursday, he was on a penicillin-laced antibiotic.

But after speaking with everyone and their mother (and my mother, and my husband’s mother), I (we) decided that the most likely cause of the mystery spots was the antibiotic.

But, crap. That’s scary, right? Because after the hives comes shortness of breath and then comes wheezing and then comes anaphylactic shock and then, AHHHH! This is scary stuff.

Not to mention my son’s belly looks like a fourteen-year-old boy’s face during wrestling season. Minus the pus. Thank God there’s no pus.

But he’s spotted. Very spotted. And I want my smooth, pale peach baby back.

Dear Lord of all things pure,

HELP! My baby boy is covered in spots! Have you seen him? It’s bad, no? And please don’t tell me it’s not, because I don’t want to turn into one of those moms who freaks out about the littlest thing and all her friends roll their eyes because, “oh, here she goes again, freakin’ out because the baby sneezed.” Too late, you say? Darn.

But this is worth freakin’ out about. Did you ever find Baby Jesus covered in spots? Can you ask Mary? What did she do? Because her baby was perfect. I mean, my baby is perfect. But her baby was perfect-perfect. So was she freakin’?

The nice lady at the pharmacy recommended an oatmeal bath to soothe my baby's spotted skin, but I’m leaning toward holy water – got some you can sprinkle across his belly? Thanks, that’d be great.

Oh, and before I forget. Thanks for holding off on the pus. Which reminds me, is it to early to start praying that my son never comes home with any of that?

Non-Maternal Instincts

This is why I pray for a self-cleaning baby.
 

Baby, I don't blame you, chocolate should be smeared madly across the face . . .

. . . hands, arms . . .

. . . legs and body.

Frankly, I'm jealous that I don't give myself the freedom and opportunity to eat chocolate like that more often (if ever). God knows I wear enough of it on my hips, why not make it my elbows and knees while I'm at it.

But the difference between you and me, son, is that I have the ability to clean myself. As for you, well, it is up to my ability to clean you. 

And that is why this chocolate-covered pretzel debacle drives me wonky. 

Not to mention that too-cute-for-words mini Buckeye chair (equipped with a cup holder!), and your brand-spankin' new blue onesie that makes you look more precious than I could have ever imagined. Yes, those things don't clean themselves either.

So one teeny, tiny chocolate-covered pretzel disaster later (thank you, mother, for indulging him), I'm busy at work cleaning baby, baby chair, baby clothes, and myself (because chocolate-covered baby equals chocolate-covered mommy).

It's days like this that I thank God for warm weather and a sturdy hose.