Tykes on a Plane

When we took our first (cross-country!) flight with two toddlers last month, I expected the worst.  Good thing.

Things I've learned about flying with two little ones:

1. It's not possible to have too many snack options

2. There are seemingly endless uses for a gauzy scarf (blanket, scarf, lovey, burp cloth, nursing cover (I'm no longer nursing, but I can imagine how useful it would be if I were))

3. It's easier than you think to change a baby in an airport bathroom, especially if you have a diaper changing wallet (holds diapers, wipes and has a built in changing pad)

4. The Ergo baby carrier (even though Southwest wouldn't let me fasten it) is a lifesaver on the plane and just in general

5. Three-year-olds think drinkable applesauce is awesome

6. How to pack milk for a (weaned) baby without breaking liquid restrictions: Pre-measure formula in disposable bottle liners, roll the liners up and secure them with tape, then buy bottled water after going through security.  Upside: you can carry on many servings without carrying on liquid and while saving space (don't have to pack multiple bottles).  Downside: the rolled up bottle liners look like contraband, prompting The Boy to say "You know we have to make it through airport security, right?"  Thankfully, though the rolls aroused the suspicion of my parents, my sister-in-law and my husband, the TSA was not curious.

7. Portable DVD players that can hold a charge are well worth the trouble/expense it takes to procure them (we were lucky enough to borrow one) and kid-sized ear buds are worth the expense
8. With the exception of one American Airlines flight attendant, people are more understanding than you might think.  An  apologetic smile and visible attempts at courtesy seemed to go a long way.
9. Though others are, I am not capable of doing it alone. I could not have done it without The Boy (on the way out), and my parents on the way back.

Other lessons from our trip to California:
1. Disneyland may be one of the happiest places on earth, but we wouldn't know.  We spent that day at the UC Irvine ER, as Mirabella had a 104-degree fever I couldn't get down.
2. If you're going to take a jet-lagged baby for walk around the lobby at 6AM in a convention hotel, don't wear your jammies.  No one else is.
3. If your hotel room doesn't have a refrigerator, just ask.   I wish we would have known this sooner. An overachieving desk clerk mentioned it to us and provided it at no extra charge.
4. To get a baby to sleep in a hotel room when you're not yet ready to go to sleep, hide on the floor.  You heard it here first.

While I am grateful we got to spend those few days with The Boy, joining him on a work trip is not all it's cracked up to be. The most important lesson I learned on our trip: I don't want to do it again any time soon.

She Uses Vaseline

On the same day Mirabella emerged from her nap sporting full hand and foot tattoos,

I struggled to zip up the dress I had bought for my brother's wedding last summer while Mirabella watched. It still had the tags on it-- it hadn't fit when I needed it. Now, facing a Valentine's dinner The Boy had cooked several days early, since he would be away the entire week of the actual made-up holiday, I thought I'd try to make it special. I felt a little like ten pounds of sugar in a five pound bag, but I went for it.

"Oh, you look beautiful, Mommy," Mirabella gushed, "Daddy gonna love it." I finally got her to bed and descended to china and candles and my favorite Spanish wine. I was proud of us-- we weren't just finding time for romance, I thought, we were forcing it. As we finished eating, we heard noises from upstairs. The Boy ran up to check, then right back down.

"Okay, you choose-- dishes or your daughter." And, back to our reality.

"Which daughter and what's wrong with her?" I asked.

"Mirabella, and I can't even-- you just have to see it. She put Vaseline all over herself. She is shiny."

"Whatever, it can't be that bad," I said. I made it within two stairs of her room before I collapsed in laughter.
"Mirabella! What happened?" I said.

She would not meet my eyes. "Well, I had to get up to go potty, then I had to go potty a-gain."

"That's not what I'm talking about. What happened to your hair?"

"Oh, that?" She said, nonchalantly, "That's just my hair lotion."

Her hair lotion was half a tub of Vaseline. It was also all over her body and her dollhouse family. I did not even know where to begin. It took a while to stop laughing, but as soon as I realized just how un-water soluble Vaseline is, it stopped being funny. I tried to wash it out, and the water just beaded up. The tub looked like an oil slick. I knew I needed something to absorb the oil, so I grabbed baking soda, but it didn't work at all. I ran down the stairs where The Boy was washing dishes and still chuckling, "To the cloud," I said, and Googled "Vaseline remove from hair." There were thousands of results, some as specific as "how to remove Vaseline from a toddler's hair." Based on my findings, I tried corn starch, Dawn dish liquid, and baking powder, but nothing worked.

After 11PM I posted my dilemma on Facebook: "So, let's say your three-year-old used half a jar of Vaseline on her head as "hair lotion" while she was allegedly in bed and you were having a candlelit Valentine's Day dinner with your spouse...what would you use to get it out? Hypothetically?" I had nearly 30 responses, like, "hypothetically, I want pictures." The most serious came from my friend Alex, who earned a Chemical Engineering undergraduate degree. He spoke of emulsifiers and organic solvents and said, "I guess paint thinner or xylene is out of the question?" How to remove the Vaseline without using harsh chemicals on her head?

Some people asked if she was punished. Watching her shiver in the bath that night as I washed her hair more than ten times, hours after her bed time, changing the water so frequently we ran out of hot water, I thought it was probably punishment enough.

"When we make choices, there are consequences, Mirabella," I said, "good ones or bad ones. You have to have your hair washed a bunch of times because that's the consequence of putting Vaseline in your hair. Do you think that was a good choice?"

"No, Mommy. This is NOT a fun bath," she pouted. "But now do you want to talk about how I pee peed in the potty?"

The Boy said, "If she still looks like John Travolta in the morning, I am not taking her to church."

The next day we used the sprayer in the kitchen sink, and her daddy got involved. The baking powder worked better than anything so far, but we were still embarrassed to take her out of the house. She wore pigtails to the store that night where I got plant-based Goo Gone and clarifying shampoo. Alas, greasy pigtails again on Monday.

I read the strangest variety of remedies. People tried Coke, baby oil, and even kerosene. I drew the line at putting gasoline on my kid's head, and was reluctant to try baby oil for fear it would get worse. Also, I didn't have any. My dad thought vegetable oil might be an okay stand in. It was not. Pigtail knots to day care on Tuesday.

I finally broke down and made another trip to the store for Goop. I was hopeful. That night , my sister-in-law came over to help with the kids and offered to wash Mirabella's hair again while I did some work. She lathered the Goop on dry hair and let it sit.

After 5-10 minutes, Mirabella complained it was hurting her head, and we panicked and washed it out. I was already lining up my next moves. Glycerine soap? Or the dreaded baby oil? But then she emerged with dry hair that actually looked dry.

Success! I told Alex, "I'm not sure how much a Chemical Engineering degree from Carnegie Mellon costs, but I submit it was worth every penny. A canister of Goop - $1.67. Getting the Vaseline out of my toddler's hair after 4 days - priceless." Alex, a former Naval Officer and current almost attorney said it's about the only practical application he's found for his degree. I'm glad I could help.

If you found this blog while looking for Vaseline removal remedies, you have my empathy and my advice to RUN to your nearest WalMart or hardware store to buy Goop. Try it first, really! Save yourself the pain and days of excessive hair washing! Be sure to apply it to dry hair, let it sit, then wash it out (we used clarifying shampoo). Happy parenting...

Christmas Present

I am more excited for Christmas than I've been since I was a little kid. As parents of a perceptive three-year-old, we have been conscious of how we present Christmas. We do Santa Claus, but we don't talk about it much. I feel like she will learn about that without us teaching her. But we talk about Jesus and the story of his birth every day. She plays with her Little People nativity scene; she and Emerie stand in front of it and try to elbow each other out of the way. Today, Mary is a single mother-- Joseph is probably under the couch again. She's standing at the manger alone. Other days, there's been a donkey on top of the manger, a princess with a magic wand bearing gifts and once, inexplicably, Noah was at the birth of Jesus. It's important to me that my kids have a happy, exciting childhood; I want Christmas to be important and spiritual, but also magical. It's a tall order.

We've been talking about what it means to be thankful and kind; that not everyone has enough, not everyone gets to live in a warm house or open Christmas presents, and that God wants us to share what we've been given. We adopted a family, a single mother and three children who lost their house in a fire and their father in court. It's been a horrible year. But she's going back to school and working in her field. She emailed me last week to tell me her seven-year-old daughter was student of the week. Things are looking up. I have tried to include Mirabella in the shopping and in the story. I'm proud that she didn't ask to keep the presents-- she is excited to give them away.

Living in the city, we drive past homeless people on a daily basis. One bitter-cold night, as we drove past the arena that is lined with blanket-covered shopping carts, she noticed a man on the street. "Dat man doesn't got shelter, Mommy?" I told her no, not everyone has a home. "But we got a home, Mommy." I asked her what we should do. "He can come live at our home, Mommy. We can share." I almost cried; I was unprepared for her innocent logic.

Often I feel like I'm making it up as I go. I don't have all the answers for her. But I am so thankful for every day with my sweet children. I mentioned to a woman at church how exciting Christmas is now. She is in town from New Zealand for six months to care for her new granddaughter. "It is such an awesome privilege," she said, "to experience all of the wonder of life through their eyes."

Mirabella was sick yesterday, on her birthday. I told her she could take a sparkly princess bath and filled the tub with bubbles and the yellow and pink sprinkles that had been on her birthday cake. This morning, seeing the sprinkles still on the counter, she said, "Mommy, 'ank you for my pink and yellow 'parkly princess bath. 'Ank you for buying dose 'prinkles." I feel like I should thank her for letting me be a part of it.

Merry Christmas to you and yours. Here's to finding joy and wonderment in the smallest of miracles.

Adventures in Grrridlock

Realtors beware: We are Open House crashers. We don't go out of our way to look for them or anything, but when homes in our neighborhood are on the market, you better believe we'll be there. In our early crashing days, we used to pretend we were actually interested, but the closer the open houses have gotten to our door, we've decided to fess up. We're just nosy neighbors, upside down, looking for a little reassurance that our house will sell in our lifetime.

So a couple open houses ago, The Boy noticed an open staircase in direct contrast to our dark, tunnel-like one. "I could totally take down the wall and make ours look like this," he said then. Feh, I thought. Then a month ago, he asked if it would be okay if he tackled the project.

"Only if the girls and I are out of the house," I said. So I made plans to head to Richmond and Amber, my best friend from college, and The Boy somehow coerced his father and brother to come down from Connecticut to help with the project. Preparing myself for the worst since, despite his best intentions his well-executed plans are rarely executed on time, I told him I expected to come home to drywall dust and dirty dishes and unfinished work. He smiled and said, "We'll see."

Friday morning I got up early and packed outfits, diapers, and toys for the girls. I thought of everything. I timed it perfectly so that we could leave as soon as Emerie ate and just as Mirabella would be ready for a nap. At 1:30 I was on the road, singing grown-up songs, with both girls conked out. I can do this, I thought, no sweat. But well before the Woodrow Wilson bridge, Mirabella was up and chatty. I had only gotten 40 miles from home when Emerie starting screaming under the Welcome to Virginia sign.

Washington, DC/Northern Virginia is not the easiest place to stop, and it wasn't time for Emerie to eat anyway; she was just unhappy. I barely made it through Springfield when I found myself parked at a Wendy's with Emerie on my lap and Mirabella on the passenger's seat, coloring. After feeding Emerie, I walked the girls into the bathroom where I laid Emerie on the floor on a changing pad while changing a standing Mirabella. No changing table, no problem. At 3:18 I got a text from Amber: "Dinner choices... 1. I cook, 2. Japanese takeout, or 3. You and I go out to dinner nearby and Matt watches the kids." I responded, "I might kiss him. Just warning you now." I had a renewed sense of purpose, but by the time I strapped Emerie in her seat, she was wailing again. I closed the door to pump gas. I couldn't hear the girls. I might have lingered at the gas pump.

I merged off the ramp onto 95 and standstill traffic. I made it 11 miles in an hour and 15 minutes. I tried to ignore my baby's mostly on-again crying. I found myself becoming angry with everyone. I never notice the vast array of non-issues about which to be passionate until I'm in traffic with bumper-sticker people. Two of the most memorable: Owned by Parrots, and Got Tea? I can think of few things less likely to induce passion then tea, but then maybe I need to venture further outside my black/red/Earl Grey comfort zone.

At 5:30, I was still an hour and a half outside of Richmond, under the best circumstances, and it was time to feed the baby. I ventured farther than necessary off the exit and into a McDonald's where I bought a vanilla shake and an iced mocha. The women behind the counter ooed and ahhed over the baby, and I could only imagine how frazzled I looked. Again, we sat in the car and I sighed deeply. Repeatedly. I glared at the clock and felt my dinner with my friend slipping away.

Back on 95 an hour later, nothing had changed. The baby, now fed, still cried, and traffic still moved at 6 miles per hour. We finally arrived in Richmond after 8:00, hungry and annoyed. Mirabella ate mac and cheese and I ate leftover spaghetti. The girls were both down by 9 but not asleep until after 11. I talked with my friend into the wee hours.

After a weekend of time at the park with five children after they all napped at the same time, a forced viewing of Twilight in an attempt to convert me, copious time in the minivan, and the long-awaited Japanese takeout, I almost cried in preparation for the drive home today. Thankfully, as I said in my message to Amber upon arriving home, sometimes God says yes. We didn't stop at all, since Emerie slept the entire way home and we hit minimal traffic. We arrived home to no dirty dishes or drywall dust, an opened stairway but unfinished walls.

"Why Daddy do dat?" Mirabella asked, gesturing to the new hallway. "He need to put a rail-lin."

Then, at dinner, she had this to say:

"Mommy, sometimes dinosaurs say, 'Rahhhhr.'"

"Yes, sometimes they do say that if they're angry," I said.

"Mommy, sometimes you say, 'Grrrrr.'"

"Mommy doesn't really say that much, Mirabella."

"Yes your do," she replied, "When you're angry. You say dat."

"Sometimes I do," I conceded, "When I'm angry. But I don't say it much."

"Yes your do say dat. You say dat in the car all de time. You say, 'Grrr, come on, cars!'"

The Boy just laughed.

Still Pregnant

Really? I could have sworn I had written an update before now. I have been on some form of bed rest for 8 weeks now, putting me at 35 weeks. 32 days until D-Day. What has it been like?

Until Christmas, my days were pretty ordered. Up early, get ready (shower, makeup, etc., of course, because that's just the kind of girl I am), breakfast, then plop on the couch. Conference calls for an hour, then work, Rachael Ray at 10, work throughout the day. I have had some more freedom for the last four weeks-- still couldn't return to work, but was told I could "ambulate a little more and see how it goes." So I have been able to help out around the house a little more. I've had a lot of contractions and discomfort, but so far they don't seem to be affecting me or the baby. Girlfriend and I are very cramped for space at this point. She doesn't move as much as she used to, but when she does, I can see her little limbs and joints protruding from my about-to-burst belly. Like an alien would. It's weird.

Mirabella had a series of birthday parties leading up to her actual birthday, often coinciding with other events like an aunt's or a friend's birthday. On her actual birthday, home sick with a virus, she told me, "O-ny my blow out the candles, right Mommy? Not Amy. O-ny it's my birt-day." We gave her a hand-me-down dollhouse with new people that she loves and I made ladybug cupcakes we only ate 2 1/2 of. The Boy bought a nearly four-foot-tall Cinderella balloon (or "Tinkerbelt," depending on who you ask). We decorated the living and dining rooms with streamers and watched the Tinkerbell movie. All of this after Mirabella awoke from a nap as an official two-year-old, irrationally screaming for no apparent reason. This is not typical behavior for her. Or at least, it wasn't before.

"So," The Boy said, "I didn't expect that the Terrible Twos would start at t he exact moment she turned two." Neither did I.

But mostly she's still the very talkative and hilarious sweetheart she's been. She enjoyed a week-long visit with her Nonna (The Boy's mom) that ended Monday. This was a special challenge, as she was basically couch-ridden with a broken foot and I was supposed to be on the couch as well, but Mirabella was home and basic things still needed to get done. We look forward to a more normal visit after the little one arrives.

This morning The Boy called me on his way to work, after dropping Mirabella off at day care. She has taken to making up and singing mashups, like the following she sang to me in the kitchen the other day, "The Bible tell me so, and the Bible never ever get me, 'cause my in my kitchen, and my mommy make me dinner, the Bible tell me so." This morning's song was about "Baby Sitder," about whom she talks a lot these days. The Boy said, "Are you excited about Baby Sister?"

"Yes, my excited. It's my baby sitder, right? Right Daddy? Not yours. O-ny my baby sitder."

"Right, Mirabella," he said, "She is your baby sister, but she is mine and Mommy's baby."

"No, she not your baby. O-ny you can have one baby, not two ones, Daddy. Your can't have two ones, only one. My your baby, Daddy."

Uh-oh.

Snapshot of our Life

We sat on a bench eating ice cream and listening to a band cover Billy Idol. Mirabella, in her jammies and clutching Hank, her tiny stuffed hamster, stood on the bench and kissed The Boy. "Bye Daddy. See you soon," she said. She kissed me good-bye too and tried to wriggle off the bench.

"Where are you going?" I asked her.

"I going a work," she announced. Right before she screamed and arched her back and told me "Top it Mommy, top it, I GET DOWN!" because I wouldn't let her walk around the sidewalk in her socks. Welcome to our life these days with an almost 2-year-old and another on the way.

"Where's Mommy's baby?" I ask Mirabella. She pulls up my shirt and points to my "beddy."

"Mommy's baby in a beddy," she says, then points to her belly, "and Lella's baby in a beddy." She doesn't quite get it yet.

I am exhausted most of the time, but I'm not sure who's to blame. Last time I was pregnant, I had a stress-free (if also fulfillment-free) job and all I had to do was make it through the day. A challenge, to be sure, but once I did it, I could crash on the couch. It was okay if I didn't make dinner, even if I felt bad about it. Now, I like what I'm doing much more, but the days are crazy. I certainly don't have time to nap in my car, as I had done last time. When I get home I'm chasing a toddler and making dinner and there's bath and bed and, if I can stay awake long enough, I'll check in with work. If I can't, I mumble an apology to my husband and pass out midsentence. Life is crowded and joyful and we are excited, but if I hear one more person tell me how tired I look, I can't be responsible for what happens.

So in the middle of all the mundane, we look forward to February, even as we try to soak in the now. We took Mirabella to the fair yesterday, amid plenty of double strollers, but we relished this time with just her. She said hello to every animal, attempting to speak to each in their native tongues. She rode the carousel for the first time, and she squealed when her daddy won her a teddy bear in a Ravens letterman's jacket.

"Look at us, doing family things," The Boy said, over a shamefully large cup of cheese fries.

"I think maybe that's what we are."

"Maybe so."

Are You My Mother?

I walked into TGI Friday's at 5:30, printed coupon in hand, and saw my daughter light up and yell hi, both arms outstretched. She hugged me with her whole body. The Boy had picked her up from day care so I could go to band rehearsal, and we met for dinner in between because I have become adept at scoring coupons for free meals. Mirabella was restless, lunging from lap to lap. I produced a plastic container of animal crackers.

"How do you have cookies in your purse?" The Boy asked.

"Mommies carry cookies in their purses," I explained. He looked flabbergasted.

I'm not embarrassed to be seen in public with spit up, drool, or cookie stained garments. I'm not fazed at work when I reach for my planner from my tote bag and a Sesame Street play thermometer or block falls out. I'm getting to the point where I'm no longer bothered when my child yells, squeals or shrieks in public. It's a little embarrassing when she says "hi" to passersby at the store, increasing her volume the longer they do not respond, but mostly that's funny. But one of her latest habits is deeply upsetting.

Aunt Nae, her day care provider, is at the top of her list of favorite people. I have mostly come to terms with this, and mostly I am grateful. If I have to be away all day, which I do, at least I'm able to leave her with someone who adores her (and whom she adores). But. Recently, Mirabella has learned to call Aunt Nae. She does this when she has finished her nap, when another child takes a toy from her, when she wants some milk, when she's not getting her way. And now, apparently, when her parents just aren't cutting it. Last Sunday in the church nursery, she had parked herself at the top of the slide, as is her custom, waving and shouting hi to the people below, with no regard for the children waiting to slide behind her. One of the kids pushed her out of the way. She squealed, "Ahh Na-ay! Ahh Na-ay!" I pretended I didn't know what she was saying.

One of the volunteers said, "Who is she calling?"

"Oh, um . . . Aunt Nae. That's her day care provider," I blushed.

Later that day in the grocery store, I had let her have a sip (or 20 gulps) of my chocolate milk. She had taken the straw out and spilled the milk all over her shirt. I pried it from her milky hands and moved it away from her. Again, she shrieked in frustration and yelled, "Ahh Na-ay! Ahh Na-ay!"

Since then? She calls Aunt Nae after she has said "ahh-dow" (all done) and we have not retrieved her from her high chair fast enough. She calls her if she can't reach a toy she wants, if we take something away we don't want her to have, if we force her to sit (not stand and walk across) the couch she has recently learned how to climb on. And last night, the kicker, after I had put her to bed I heard her on the monitor, calling softly, "Ahh Na-ay."

The other night while I worked on the computer in the office, I heard her downstairs calling Aunt Nae, presumably because The Boy hadn't rescued her from her chair fast enough for her liking. I then heard him correct her, "No, not Aunt Nae, Mirabella. Ma-ma, Ma-ma." At least he tried.