Bitten
I just visited with a co-worker’s infant twin boys. I felt the soft buttery skin. I heard the faint cooing. I smelled the milky sweetness. My heart leapt. And now my arms are aching.
Remember this?
Or this:
I tell myself that I need only return home in an hour and melt into the chaos of toddlerhood, but my oh my am I overwhelmed with want!
Little beans that blow you away with one look, changing everything about the way you see yourself, your love, the world.
Babies!
Sigh.
I want one.
May I have your attention please!
The Pie has made her first deposit! She has dropped her first set of kids off at the pool! She went to the library and returned a book! She went Number Two! She did a doody! Yippee and hooray!
Yes, my first born has accomplished the much anticipated First Poop. In the potty.
As I do everytime I go to the bathroom (and I think it’s written in the Mom Rulebook somewhere), I left the door open so that the Beans could come in and observe. Usually Pie comes in, takes a seat (fully clothed) and chats with me while I’m going, while Peanut only takes a half-hearted interest before she becomes completely bored and wanders off to find more interesting adventures. Lately, Pie will read (or have me read) her potty book to me and will practice “wiping her bottom” with a piece of toilet paper, while I’m doing my business.
But on Tuesday, she came in with a purpose. Her face became a bit puckered and red and she began to clench her fists. I knew this was my golden opportunity! I cheered and asked her, “Maggie, do you want to go potty?” She shook her head desperately that she didn’t, but I began undressing her anyway.
“Pie, you are such a big girl! You’re going to go potty!”
“Okay Momma.” (Tears beginning to well up in her eyes.)
“Good girl, Maggie! Momma is so proud of you! Look at you!”
“I go potty Momma!” (Still crying!)
“Oh, it’s okay honey! Look, I’m going potty too! Momma is going potty just like you are!”
“Okay Momma. Wipe bottom.”
I give her some toilet paper, but she just clenches it, uncomfortable but relieved that it’s over.
“All done Momma. Diaper!!! Diaper on!”
I got myself together and swooped her up into a big hug and wipe away her tears with my kisses.
“Okay, baby, you did so well. We’ll get the diaper.”
“Momma I go potty!!!” She is all smiles again, scooches down me and then runs off, bare bottomed, to tell Sister about her accomplishment.
The Backyard
It is a summer phenomenon that we’ve only just realized. Last summer, I was blissfully ignorant of the world outside our doors, for the most part. The Beans were just months old and still napped twice a day. When we did go out into the yard, they sat like blobs in their activity centers or they crawled around on blankets and beach towels, just barely creeping onto the grass. Not one for intense heat, I kept them (and myself) holed away in cool air-conditioned havens during the hottest of days.
But now. Now, the minute we arrive home, me from work and they from the grandmothers, the Beans rush to the gate to the back yard. “Backyard! Backyard!” they chant. Previous to the discovery that the backyard has a gate, they would mill around the door wall in the kitchen and repeat the same chant until I couldn’t take it anymore. They learned, “Too hot!” and “It’s raining,” were bad sentences and that “just a minute” wasn’t really measured in real time. They gaze longingly out the window, and stomp away, only to return a bit later to begin the call again. Now, the minute I set one on the driveway to get the other Bean out of her car seat, she dashes to the gate, grabs it and peers through to her treasured space. “Backyard!” she shouts over her shoulder to her sister, meaning “Hurry! Let’s go!”
One of the things that sold me on our current house is the backyard. It’s just as I imagined it when we moved in on a cold December day. It is big, for a subdivision home, and open and it was empty and ready to be filled with toys and playthings. In one corner, there is a swing set, already conquered by the Beans this summer. At the other corner sits a sandbox, which was regretfully installed by Momma Bean, but which is cherished by the Beans as they bathe each other in the stuff in what I think is their passive aggressive way to ensure that they will be treated with their beloved Bath Time afterward. In between and all around are things of the Beans scattered where they were last played with: shovels, tricycles, a bottle of bubbles.
They love it! They roll on the grass. They chase the dogs. They kick the pink ball that it almost as tall as they are. They water the flowers. They flirt with Old John, next door, who brought them a tiny bunny to see just the other day. They stand at the fence, patient and gazing at the ripening grapes, in the hopes that Marietta will pluck a bunch for their greedy little hands.
When I make the unwelcome announcement that it is time to go inside, they band together like thieves and run around the yard, daring me to catch them. I catch one, out of breath and feeling my age, and am cajoled into swinging her into the air. Meanwhile, the other jumps at my feet, waiting for her turn to be thrown into the sky. Finally, we call the dogs and march into the house, happily tired to our bones from our day out in the yard.
WINNER OF THE MOTHER OF THE WEEK AWARD
Not Momma Bean who says a little prayer of thanks every day for Charles Feltman and Coburg, Bavaria.
Roseola
Doesn’t it sound like a plucky little plant you’d have perched on your kitchen window sill? Something cheerful and downright obnoxious in its silliness.
What it really is, is three long, excruciating days of fever, followed by angry pink spots sprinkled all over the porcelain skin of The Pie which burst into little red fires when she is upset or hot.
It’s merely a virus, another childhood illness that I was clueless about as I was skipping through my pregnancy, imagining endless days of coloring and pushing Beans in a swing. At that time, I didn’t think about illness and disease. I was naïve to the fact that children actually do get sick. And it’s not fun.
What makes it worse is that, while tending to The Pie, I’ve been neglecting Peanut. She doesn’t know anything but the fact that her sister, her other, her joy is not herself. And her Momma is worried and distracted and won’t play the jumping game for too long and can’t fit both of them onto her lap at the moment. The extra kisses I’ve been planting on her head are brushed aside, because what she really wants is the return of normalcy. Of Pie chasing her and stealing her crayon. Of climbing the ladder to the slide and of tickling Daddy. Of the giggles at watching each other feed Max and Avery bits of dinner as Momma has that patented exasperated look on her face.
I admit that I’ve reveled in the moments when Pie lies hot in my arms, waiting for me to pet her hair and whisper that it will get better. These days, I’m lucky to get a quick hug or a spontaneous peck. There are too many things for an almost two year old to do in a day. But now, the quietness of her lethargy allows me to hold the weight of her for much longer than she would let me if she was feeling like her old self, and I love it, despite the reason behind her stillness.
Papa M said it best when I cried to him this morning over the torture of leaving her as she clung to me, sobbing:
“My Dear, I truly understand. The most heartbreaking times in my life were when you girls were sick or hurt. I can still remember when Arisa cut her face, you got bit by the dog and Amanda was burnt.
During those times you have to remember they are stronger than we think they are… Love is a painful thing.”
Hopefully soon, both Peanut and I will get our Pie back. And I’ll resume my normal daily chores that have been forgotten this week while Peanut will delight in the return of her beloved playmate. Until then, my arms are open.
The Playroom
This weekend was “Take Back Your Great Room” weekend in the Bean household. I have had it up to here with the obscene amount of stuffies in my space, tripping over Mega Bloks, slipping on books and finding half eaten crayons (by the dogs, not the Beans) underneath my couch.
When we first looked at the house, I was excited at the thought of getting to decorate this space. It was basically a clean slate just waiting for me to fill. I clipped pages out of the Pottery Barn catalogs and sent myself links to the different accessories I fell in love with at Pier 1 Imports. I knew exactly what this room would look like when I finished with it.
At that time, the Beans were two months old. They were tiny little things. When we moved in, they spent much of their afternoons on a little afghan on the floor of this great room. A couple of toys to catch their eye, but not much, as they were still too young to grasp the concept of play. They didn’t take up much room at all, really.
The room was starting to gain some character. I had found a great print at Costco, of all places, which flanked one wall, while I added a few of my favorite photographs on the mantle in between the candles. The new television, the new furniture and the accents complemented each other well and my room became a comfortable, relaxed but neat and (if I do say so myself) stylish haven.
A few short months later, while cozy under a blanket, feet propped on the ottoman, I noticed that somehow the room seemed a bit smaller. The Pie was just starting to crawl and, as a result, some toys were scattered around the room. The bouncers made perfect feeding pods as the Beans moved onto solids. Those were butted up against my gunmetal magazine rack. I peeked underneath the couch and found a discarded bottle and a missing Pipe. A few board books were stacked next to the armchair for easy access around bedtime.
Irritated, I gathered everything together and piled it in a corner. There was no use in putting it away, as the Beans used these things everyday, but I could at least create some semblance of order here.
By one year, my room was unrecognizable. Miss E. solved my organizing dilemma by commissioning personalized toy boxes for each of the Beans. They were cute as a button and worthy of display, so I consented when Daddy Bean relocated the boxes to our hearth. It killed two birds with one stone, as it protected the Beans from the fireplace and housed the growing number of toys in our possession.
On several occasions in the past two years, I have (un)successfully weeded out the unwanted toys. I’ve since lost the guilt I had in the past felt for the disposing of cute little stuffed animals and now gladly toss each forgotten animal into a large black garbage bag for donation. I must do this in stealth-like manner, however, because the Beans, when re-introduced to said animal, will immediately make it their BFF (or at least for the next week). Similarly, Daddy Bean is the PETA of the stuffed animal world, lording over me with contempt at my disregard towards these once loved creatures. I’ve tossed Happy Meal toys, a multitude of filled coloring books, and a couple of Bratz dolls that had found their way into our possession, to my horror.
Finally, a few weeks ago, I threw my arms up in despair. The Great Room was no longer great. Over the course of almost two years, it had evolved (quite quickly, I’m told) from a sophisticated retreat to an oversized playroom. The Beans have a couch, two armchairs and a tent in that room, as well as the two toy boxes and now a table and chair set. I have spent every evening for the past year picking up toys and reorganizing the room, only to see it completely monopolized again by the playthings early the next morning. So, I thought of converting the computer guest catch-all room into the new playroom. I had been contemplating this for several days, weighing the pros and cons.
Pro: I get my Great Room back! No more having to pick up after the Beans every night! The Beans have a room of their own!
Con: The playroom is upstairs. I still have some toys downstairs that I have to pick up every night. My walk-in closet is now my catch-all room. It cannot be a computer/guest room anymore.
Despite everything leaning on the side of con, I got to work cleaning out the third bedroom. As an aside, it’s amazing how you carry your junk from one house to another. J and I have been living together since 2000 and have lived in three different homes. Apparently, it was necessary for me to bring my Martha Stewart Weddings subscription to each house, as well as countless other objects that should have found their way to a garbage can in the past seven years.
I moved J into my closet, grudgingly. It is for the greater good, so I was able to clear out a small space for him (towards the bottom and to the right). I spent a good four hours flipping through old photographs (and, bonus!, I actually put some in an album!). I let go of a lot that I am sure at one point I thought I would one day reminisce about, but at that moment, the history was lost on me.
I emptied the room of my stuff and I filled it with the Beans’ stuff.
As the room started to take shape, I became excited at the reaction I imagined they would have when I unveiled it to them. I pictured their little tea parties by the window and the works of art they would create at their table. I remembered our play room in Virginia and I smiled and thought every girl should have a playroom to share with her sister. I found girly wall decals that I would put up with the Beans and I arranged the surviving stuffies into a group for a family photo. I thought for a split second that I would save this room for their birthday in a month, but then brushed that silliness aside and hollered to J that we had to pick the Beans up at my parents’ house quickly, so that we’d still have time to play.
Yesterday afternoon, the Beans were introduced to their new space. As it always goes, the anticipation was much more exhilarating than the reality, but it was only marred because The Pie had been suffering from a fever. We sat in the middle of the room for a spell and then we went back downstairs to the Great Room to get ready for bed.
Wouldn’t you know it…the Beans each brought down a stuffie.
Things you hear in the presence of a 22 month old.
• “I love you Momma.”
• “Share!”
• “Beautiful fireworks!”
• “Go Tigers!”
• “I’ll fix it.”
• “Momma sing it.”
• “Go outside?”
• “I pooped!”
• “[Cars/trees/dogs/etc.] everywhere!”
• “I color.”
• “Hungry!”
• “’Hot Potato’ on!”
• “Hi Jackson!”
• “Daddy at work.”
• “Maggie go walk.”
• “Eww!”
• “Bless You Max.”
• “Audie have boo-boo.”
• “I sit here.”
• Any of the following songs:
- o “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star”
o “The Alphabet Song”
o “Happy Birthday To You”
o “Hot Potato”
o “Rock-a-bye Bear”
o “Itsy Bitsy Spider”
o “The Pizza Song”*
*Music & Lyrics by Papa M.**
**It goes a little something like this: “I love pizza! That’s the food for me! Everytime I see it, I say, ‘Pizza please!’” And repeat, ad nauseum.
Fashionista
The Pie has a thing for fashion already.
It started with the Winnie the Pooh sweater with faux fur collar. It was sitting in a laundry basket at my mother’s house when Pie spotted it. At that time, she wasn’t using her words very well, so she brought it over to my mom and motioned her to help her put it on. Once she had it on, she’d parade back and forth, from the kitchen to the family room, displaying her fancy wares. But soon the sweater became a bit snug. When Gramma tried to coax her out of it, the Pie roared. So Gramma acquiesced and the Pie commenced her procession, with belly protruding.
Eventually, she discovered that the time to hit the jackpot was when I did the laundry. I’d sit in the great room with a pile of Bean clothes and a pile of baby hangers and I’d hang everything up while the Beans played around me. Shortly after I had all of the clothes neatly hung or folded, the Pie would rifle through my stacks until she spotted a fabric of interest and demand that I re-dress her. “On! On!” became her chant as she dangled the outfit in front of me.
Shoes aren’t left out of the equation. Don’t dare take off her pink butterfly sandals if she’s not ready to give them up. DaDa sent the Beans each a pair of sparkly sandals a few weeks ago and Pie doesn’t care if she’s in a dress or in capris, she must wear her blue sequined sandals.
My mom warned me. She told me to enjoy dressing them up now because once they reach adolescence, they’ll want nothing to do with the clothes I choose for them. Little did I know that Pie was on the fast track!
Yesterday, she found a swimsuit in her diaper bag. She plucked it out and ran over to me. “Maggie swimsuit on!” I brushed her away, as I was in the middle of something, but she persisted. “Maggie. Swimsuit. On!” Ugh. Okay. It had just rained, so we weren’t going outside to their pool, but I went along with it anyway. Then, “Momma diaper on!” Which meant that she wanted me to switch her regular diaper to a Little Swimmers diaper. No ah ah, Lady. Those things are a rip off and I’m using them as sparingly as possible! After a few minutes of complaining, she moved on to another suggestion. “Momma swimsuit on! Momma swimsuit on!” I nipped that in the bud right away. “Momma’s swimsuit is dirty.” Is it wrong that I’m lying to my daughter already? It doesn’t matter because she accepted my answer with an emphatic, “Ew!” and began twirling around the room in her pretty pink swimsuit.
Reality Check
Yesterday, before picking up the girls, I made a quick stop at Macy’s. I had already made a killing at Target for next summer’s wardrobe (I know, I know….just forget I ever wrote the Gluttony post!) and I thought I’d get lucky if I snuck in and searched the racks while I had the rare free minutes to spare. After all, I had purchased those adorable little Ralph Lauren swimsuits at Macy’s earlier in the season for a steal.
I quickly flipped through the racks in search of anything cute (and matching or coordinating) in Sizes 2T and 3T for A and M, respectively. As my Beans are on the small size, I’m running a risk by assuming they’ll fit these sizes, but I thought, for such a deal, I could afford to be off a little on sizes. At the very least, one set of each item I purchased would fit. The Pie is already growing out of some of her 18 Month clothes.
For some reason, I could only find 24 Month clothes and nothing larger. I was sure that the size would do just fine for Peanut next spring/summer, but I just couldn’t purchase one of everything. Before the Beans, I swore that I would not always dress them alike. But there is nothing cuter than these two sisters, who look nothing alike (and act nothing alike, for that matter) in matching or coordinating outfits. I’ve come to grips with the fact that one day a Bean will look at me square in the eye and tell me how ridiculous it is that she has to dress like her sister every day. Until that day comes, they are at my mercy when it comes to outfits. For goodness sakes, I should be given brownie points for not assigning them rhyming names!
Anyway, back to the story at hand. I was flipping through the racks, trying to find adorable, matching or coordinating summer wear in Sizes 2T and 3T and couldn’t find a thing. I thought, I couldn’t be this late for the sale! There must be something wrong! I then began searching through the regularly priced items. Same problem. Does Macy’s vendors have a bone to pick with the toddler crowd? Is next summer’s rage going to be diapers sans shirts? What’s the deal?
And then I looked up and across the aisle. In big block letters, the collection directly across from me was labeled “Girls 2-6”. I turned around and looked at the sign above me. “Babies and Toddlers.” Gasp!
I stood on the edge of the carpet leading to the aisle and gazed across at the clothes looming before me. It can’t be. I refuse to believe it! My Beans aren’t girls! They’re my Beans! My babies, my little ones, my breath, my dream, my everything. They only just started toddling! They are not girls. Well, not just yet. Right? Right??
I finally conjured up the nerve to step over to the other side. I only half-heartedly glanced at the clothes. And I did find the sizes I was looking for. It’s just that they didn’t seem nearly as cute now that they were “girl” clothes and not “baby” clothes. I left empty-handed and half broken-hearted.
I imagine I’ll feel the same way when one approaches me and demands to be taken bra shopping. I’ll choke on my tears and trudge along beside her as she skips eagerly into adolescence, knowing that, despite what the world sees in that young woman, she is and will always be my baby.
Gluttony
I’ve written numerous times about my slight addition to baby clothes. It’s a problem that is, for the most part, under control, but which, on occasion, becomes a raging insanity that results in boxes full of unworn clothes and barely treaded shoes that are too small for a Bean.
Last week, I went through my their clothes to see what needed to be kept, what needed to be returned, what could be saved (for future Beans?), donated and/or sold. By Wednesday evening, my basement was unrecognizable. When Daddy Bean came home from softball Thursday night, I warned him not to find me in the basement (not that he could even see me, as I was up to here in Carter’s), for fear that he would finally see the scope of my addiction.
It was like every episode that I’ve seen of Intervention. Or like Cops, when the suspect swears there are no drugs in the car, but I and the officer know that there is a pipe stashed in between the seats and a baggie in the glove compartment. The suspect always looks shocked when the loot is discovered. That’s how I felt when I looked at all of the clothes. Plastic tubs were spewing pink and purple everywhere. I was tripping over sleepers and onsies. It was a mess. I knew I had to do something about it.
I sorted through what I had, setting aside some of those that had a bit of sentimental value (and a kick-ass pair of Baby GAP jeans), tossing some of the stained and saving some of the cuter things that I wanted to keep for sisters, friends, neighbors. The rest were bagged for donation or photographed, tagged, and put out for a woman who was due around the time the girls were. When she stopped by, she was amazed by my selection and commented on how beautiful the clothes were. I agreed (almost) smugly, as I stood there in years old jeans that were too big for me and a $7 tank top. Yes, as with most moms, my wardrobe has suffered as a result of the birth of the Beans.
Last night, when I went upstairs to grab pajamas for the Beans, I had to do a double-take at their closet. There are two rows of clothes and for the first time since they were born, it isn’t brimming past full capacity. In fact, the bottom row is only half full, after I removed all of their blanket sleepers. I hate to admit that I got a bit of the jitters. I felt like a junkie missing his next fix, constantly thinking back to that empty space in their closet and how it just doesn’t seem right. This morning, I shoved aside my projects to peek at Gymboree, GAP, Janie and Jack and Old Navy to see if any fall clothing had starting coming out. To my chagrin, I could only find a couple of cardigans and jackets at GAP, just enough to make me want to take a detour on my way home but not enough to fully satisfy me.
What is wrong with me?!? Just last week, I chastised myself for such gluttony! I think about the money I could have put toward the Beans’ Michigan State fund and I cringe.
DaDa just asked me what I would have done if I had been blessed with boys instead of girls. I thought, certainly I could be more reasonable. There are never any clothes in the boys’ section, I remember when I was shopping for my nephew. She may be right and maybe I’ll find out some day. Until then, I think I need a bigger basement.
WINNER OF THE MOTHER OF THE WEEK AWARD
Not Momma Bean who, in a moment of complete frustration at seeing her homemade macaroni and cheese (which, she would like to say, was awesome) thrown to the floor (right next to the lunchmeat, apples, olives, bread and cheese cubes) and in an effort to finally push her Beans into the five percentile, gave in and fed her Beans Pop Tarts for dinner.
When asked to comment, she wiped a noodle off her face and stated, “I give up.”
Scarlet(t) isn’t just a Southern belle!
I guess it started Friday night, when she only picked at her pizza. I really began to notice when, by Saturday at lunch time, Audrey refused to eat anything at all. We were going on three meals and one snack time where she had little more than a few feeble gulps of milk. There were no other symptoms until later that afternoon. The four of us were at J’s friend’s surprise 29th birthday party and A would not leave his arms. She became lethargic throughout the evening and earlier on during the party we noticed that she had what looked like a faint rash on her chest and back.
By the time we said our early good-byes, she had developed a raging fever. We couldn’t figure out what it was that had come over her so quickly. We dosed her with Tylenol and put her to bed, only to be woken up in the middle of the night by her screams and a returning fever.
Grandma and Grampa M. attempted to coax her appetite and energy on Sunday by bribing her with chocolate and Curious George balloons, but their efforts were ignored as Audrey clung to her daddy, weak and despondent. I scoured the Internet between the cries and trying to comfort Maggie, who clearly knew something was amiss. I looked through my book of what to expect blah blah blah, only to find five different things that it could be. Rash. High fever. Loss of Appetite. I finally diagnosed her with a general virus. A bug that would go as quickly as it came.
But she didn’t eat that Sunday. And we found ourselves awoken again in the middle of the night. Another fever had crept up when the medicine wore off. And this time, it brought along more of the rash. It was now up to her neck and ears.
By Monday morning, the three of us had seen approximately two hours of sleep. Maggie remained blissfully unaware of our torturous night and slept soundly for her usual nine hours, snoring softly into the neck of Cookie Number One. I got out of bed at 5:30 a.m. to go online to check the time when the Beans’ pediatrician opened for the morning. I left a message asking them to call me as soon as they got in for an appointment. Her fever was down again, because of the Tylenol, but I knew it would return. If I didn’t receive a call back right away, I was mapping in my mind how I’d take her to the ER while J stayed behind with HRP, all the while telling myself that I’m a crazy mother and they’ll tell me she’s just a little sick.
At the office, Dr. B. looked at her rash first. By now it had spread to her forehead and chin. She asked me immediately if I knew of anyone who complained of a sore throat. I replied that I hadn’t heard anything of the sort and asked her why I should be concerned about that. She didn’t respond immediately and checked A’s ears and throat. She informed me that her throat was inflamed and that she had been in the throes of strep throat and now had scarlet fever.
Scarlet fever?
I didn’t even know that people could have that anymore, in this century. I thought that it was a storybook illness. Gilbert Blythe, after all, was sick with scarlet fever, which causes Anne to fall back into love with him. The little boy in The Velveteen Rabbit had most of his toys burned because of it! WTF?!?!? Of course I freaked out. I’m a mom, remember.
My no-nonsense doctor laughed off the look of fear in my eyes, told me that she’ll likely have a fever for another three days and sent me off with a prescription for a bottle of Amoxicillin and the warning that, yes it is contagious, and, yes, Maggie has been exposed already.
My heart jumped into my throat. I couldn’t handle two Beans like this. Though A was weak with the fever and lack of nourishment, it didn’t diminish her ability to cry incessantly, which she had been doing since Sunday. I couldn’t imagine handling both of them with this. It was enough that M was beginning to feel the brunt of most of my attention being given to Audrey, and responding accordingly.
We trudged home, both of us weak and in need of a good long nap. The rest of Monday consisted of more tears (from both of us), another fever and no sleep. By Tuesday, J had to return to work, so we sent M to my mom’s house for a little TLC while I tried to figure out thirty different ways to move A from arm to arm without sending her into a fit. I didn’t know if the rash (now spreading to her arms and legs) hurt or if she was crying from the inflamed throat or the malnourishment or if it was all of the above.
Her fever finally broke Tuesday night, which was a sign that there was a light at the end of the tunnel. She still had the rash all over her body, but it seemed to be fading from its origin, on her back and chest. By Thursday, she began calling for her sister, who had been separated from her for four days. Because of this, I knew that she was starting to feel better. Later that night, I saw her first real smile in a week and my heart warmed to see her sprinkling her sister with spontaneous hugs throughout the evening. On Friday, I rushed home from work and, like the last several days, inspected her body to see if the rash had retreated. This time, I saw that her rash had all but disappeared. She was better!
This weekend, the only remnants of the weeklong illness to be found on the Bean were the wobbly walk and the khaki shorts, which only last week fit perfectly, that occasionally fell into a pool around her ankles.
I told S. last week that it is miserable when you are ill yourself, but it’s infinitely more painful when your child is sick and weak and you have no idea how to make her suffering end, how to comfort her and tell her that it will all be over soon. It just tore my heart to see her lying limp on the floor, having fallen asleep mid-cry, completely broken. To a parent, no cut is just a minor one, no fever is something to not worry about and no rash is just that – a rash. Your baby is sick and all you know is that you need to make her better. And she is. Finally!
Fat Lips, Flirting and Full Sentences.
It was a weekend full of firsts for the Beans.
We spent the day on Saturday chilling with my momma. Even though I was no longer in the horizontal position (a barbeque led to food poisoning, which led to throwing up and…other things, which led to throwing out my always unpredictable back), I was pretty much L-shaped for the week and so Mom instructed that I bring the Beans over from some fun in the sun (them) and Thai food (me).
Later in the afternoon, we were to meet up with Daddy Bean and head over to his boss’ house for a team BBQ. Seriously, I changed the Beans’ shirts no less than three (3) times and swore to my father that if he got one speck of chocolate on their clothing, he’d be asking for it. I was anticipating total meltdown on the part of the Beans while at the BBQ (mostly from Her Royal Pie-ness, as she inherited a bit of the anti-social bug from her father) so I thought that by dressing them up in cute but casually cool BBQ attire, it would deflect attention from the hot dog throwing temper tantrums I was expecting.
Well, it turns out that I had no reason to worry. Not only were the Beans on their best behavior, they were fun and flirtatious!! Most of Daddy Bean’s co-workers are 20-something single men and the Beans just ate it up. They high-fived everyone, showed off their exemplary tumbling skills, conned more than a few potato chips when I wasn’t looking and may have even asked for a sip of beer! They were upset about leaving! Apparently, they have inherited a bit of my family’s party animal instincts. The only time HRP even whimpered was when a woman tried to pick her up for a cuddle. That wasn’t the case for J’s boss Mike, whose arms Maggie had a hard time leaving!
On Sunday, it rained all day long. The girls stood at the doorwall, in despair that their swing and slide were left untouched and they were stuck in the house with their dreadful parents. We attempted to cure their mood by kicking on a little bit of Toy Story 2 (their latest obsession…adios George, hello Woody) but that only cheered them up temporarily. Soon enough they found ways to amuse themselves, one being the wrap and tug. The Pie would wrap herself in a blanket and Audie Bear would tug the blanket until they both fell into a pile on the floor, giggling uncontrollably. And repeat. During one round, Audie’s lips met the edge of a Mega Blok and she burst into angry tears. When I rushed to grab her, she fought me. Her lip was growing purple and she was bleeding into her mouth but the girl wasn’t upset. She was pissed. She’s such a tiny little thing, and for the most part, she’s pretty laid back. But she’s a little spitfire when she’s angry. She refused my medical treatment (read: hugs, kisses, Ziplock bag and ice) and stomped away, biting her lip in fury, just daring it to bleed some more.
And finally, on Sunday night, The Pie walked up to me as I was sitting on the couch, pushed “Goodnight Moon” into my hands and said, “Read the book.” Huh? You speak? In sentences? I mean, I was just getting over Audie putting together Daddy Bean’s current location (“Daddy work”), and now you’re actually conversing like…people? I would have preferred their first sentence to be, “The winning lottery numbers are…” or “Momma is beautiful,” but I’ll take “Read the book,” for now. And, yes. I did read the book. Four times.
Audrey’s new favorite word.
Share!
Well, coming out of her little mouth, it sounds more like, “Scheawhhhhhhhahhh!”
As the eldest of three girls, I have little sympathy for the Bean. She’ll just have to learn like the rest of us. Take what you can get now. It may not be there later. I remember everytime we had turkey (and, as I’ve mentioned before, not always for Thanksgiving…my mom could whip up a full turkey dinner in the middle of July, if the mood struck her), we’d have to fight for the crispy on the outside, moist on the inside piece of bread that was securing the Stove Top in the bird. To this day, if I don’t jump for it, the other two vultures will have eaten it before we sit at the table.
I lucked out with the best seat in the car though. Whenever the three of us got into a car (and I wasn’t the one driving), I didn’t even have to worry about yelling “Shotgun!” and would just saunter over at my leisure as the other two pushed and shoved each other aside. “I’m the oldest,” was all I had to say to get the choice seat. Today, poor DaDa is relagated to the backseat still, unless one of us is not in the car. Sucks to be the youngest, huh?
Of course, not everything was a battle between the three of us, but we learned quickly to stand our ground and never give up. Audie will learn soon enough how to put The Pie in her place and soon Pie will learn how to graciously relinquish her firm grip on the toy in question and let her sister play too. It’s more fun that way, after all.
The Zoo, Take Two
Last year, we took the Beans on their first trip to the Detroit Zoo with Aunt DaDa. They were nine months old and didn’t really pay attention to anything. This year was a different story.
We went on Memorial Day and the Beans couldn’t have had a better time. Scratch that, they would have had an even better time had they been able to see the polar bears up close and personal. As it was, the exhibit was crowded and the line was too long to consider waiting in the 80+ degree sun with two tired Beans. 
They loved the penguins and the monkeys, were a bit put off by the lizards and snakes and hated the fact that they had to share their Dippin Dots with Momma Bean and Daddy Bean. 
The best is listening to the Beans shout out their animal sounds while we pointed each animal out. My personal favorite is the “Monkey” which Miss A. has got down pat. I think next time we’ll bring a little picnic with us, as Momma Bean may or may not have acquired a bit of food poisoning on an otherwise wonderful outing to the zoo.
Another cool thing about having Beans…
…you don’t feel so silly anymore about your penchant for buying children’s Band-Aids…
The Beans’ First Contest
Here is our entry for the First Annual Multiple Mom Movie Madness Award. As I said to the judging panel, it’s not nearly as clever as I had hoped for, but that’s our nightly routine. I cook. They dance.
WINNER OF THE MOTHER OF THE WEEK AWARD
Not Momma Bean who constantly fails to maintain the decent hygiene (Hi Jean! Get it?) of her Beans due to absolute laziness. She doesn’t bathe them every day (and may even let two days lapse between baths!), she sometimes forgets to brush their teeth and hair. And as a result of not clipping nails in who knows how long, she’s sporting a pretty nice gash along her neck, courtesy of Audie-Bear, that closely resembles a high school hickey. Bad Momma Bean!
