betterbutter

how to go

I asked Eli if he was ready to go. In seconds flat he put this get-up together and then hollered for me to get his shoes on.

Mama! Jooooooz!

Apparently I have taught him that you need exactly six things to get yourself out and about.

1. A bag you love that doesn't hold diapers but is big enough to hold your stuff which at this point is not much more than a set of keys and on a good day a tube of lipstick. A lipstick that is the same brand and color as your aunt suggested you wear when you were three months pregnant with your firstborn sixteen months ago.

2. A maternity tank top pulled straight out of the clean but desperately unfolded pile of laundry. While your stomach may deflate post-partum, your chest will not and the extra material in any maternity top is sure to stretch over the landscape that is your set of nursing knockers.

3. At least one strand of Mardi Gras beads because, after all, life is a party each and every day.

4. The big, bad diaper bag full of everything for any emergency except a dirty diaper.

5. Sunglasses that are soon to be lost or broken at the hands of a toddler.

6. Someone to put your shoes on while you pull their hair and/or lick their forehead.

damn hoe

I knew it would happen eventually. The construction is complete and the back hoes and cranes have gone home to their Snort families. Needless to say, Eli is heartbroken and confused. A short time ago he fell hard for each and every piece of equipment and then this. No note, no nothing. The perils of young love. Gone are our morning walks where we greet each vehicle with adoring hellos. Gone are the endless sonnets to his BAaahK-HOez. Gone are their stolen minutes under the bleachers when I turn my back to scoop up Maltsby's poop. Just gone.

To be fair, things had been progressing so the break-up has been all the more difficult to take. Last week, one of the construction workers invited Eli into his vehicle. Eli was all business and lust while I took photos of them enjoying what were some of their last minutes together.

Then last night before dinner we set out to meet up with the Snorts only to find that there were none. I averted the tantrum and the crushed heart with a promise to walk on the sea wall. I do not promise this ever as it makes me shatter in puddles of nervousness to watch him run haphazardly on a wall above the sea. You understand but this was a hard day for my boy. And, wow,  he took it well. Good times abound-ed. After an amount of time that should have tired him out properly, I put him back in the stroller. He threw himself headlong over his tray and swung back and forth, like the trunk of an elephant, wailing. Snot and tears pouring forth. He did not stop. Passersby nodded with understanding or concern. I just plugged along with a smile of sorts. At one point, I even stopped to take a picture. My parents have a picture of me pitching a fit under a stool. Just then I understood what a great photo opportunity that was. Twenty minutes later of solid crying and howling over the ledge of his stroller, we arrived home.

This is the part where you grab the phone and dial child protective services on my ass.

Speaking of asses, someone had a fire in his pants. Poor Eli had made a mess sometime early in our outing to see the Snorts. I did not notice. He did not either perhaps. He certainly didn't tell me. He ran about in the sweltering evening heat in a sweltering cloth diaper with just the right fleece to rub flanks of skin raw. So he wasn't so much throwing a tantrum in the stroller as he was avoiding the pain in his ass. And there I was snapping pictures of an endless tantrum.

I'm a jerk.

At least the Snorts have been forgotten for now.

you might as well also know that i love eli most when he's napping

There are six long years between my brother and me. Growing up we didn't share much except for a Bon Jovi album that I'm pretty sure I stole from him. And stealing does not really count as sharing anyway. I teased him to win favor with my friends and then mostly ignored him when they went home. Once for Christmas I made a scavenger hunt for him to find his present. I purposefully ended the hunt in the attic where I knew he'd be scared to go alone. Another time while I was babysitting him I pretended to call the police and arrange for them to pick him up before our parents got home. I distinctly remember saying, "Oh, he'll NEVER see his parents again?!", while Tom sobbed into the carpet*. I stood smugly by proud of my power to reduce him to a puddle of tears.

I don't recall too many tender moments.

Things are much different now, I promise. Hopefully, I'm less cruel most of the time. Can you forgive me? I mean I love my brother now. Hi, Tom!

Onward.

So now I've got me a pair of brothers with sixteen months between them. They will have no memories that don't include each other. They will be in school together and at home together. Who knows what will come of them after they leave home for greener pastures but I fantasize that they will share as much love as my brother and I do now. Like my brother and myself they will share parents and opinions about their parents and secrets from their parents. It's hard to imagine exactly how it will unfold. And sometimes it's  hard to be patient for those stories. And sometimes it's hard to notice that I'm in the middle of a story like the one where people raise eyebrows and ask me how Henry got those marks and bruises. The answer is Eli, damnit. The big brother knows how to make love hurt. And bite. Just like Def Leppard said.

* Punctuation disaster. What's right?

rules for the new generation: 1 & 2

This is a complicated place, this here world. There is only so much sense to be made and beyond that lies the seductive lair of mayhem. I'm fairly cool with that.

Eli is not. I have mentioned how a mere blade of grass between the digits can RUIN an afternoon at the park. A park with three slides! Since then I've been watching closely at the rigorous codes and systems  that govern his days. This boy craves big thick margins.  I do provide some of my own rules regarding naps and food and acceptable behavior and diaper changing. That's just to prove to you that it's  not a total free-for-all in our house and I know he's likely adjusting to life with Henry and all but, MAN, need he be so rigid?

Here are the first two rules of Eli's life club. It's a damn club because if I don't play along, well, I don't have that luxury. His rules are my rules as my rules are his rules. I just have fewer is all I'm trying to say.

1. Stairs are never to be climbed without Maltsby leading the pack followed by me who is followed by Momma holding Henry. Any variance from said pattern is legitimate grounds for a top-grade tantrum no questions asked.

2. Hitting is fine as long as I follow it up immediately with  a syrupy "SAAaaaaah-ee".

I'll keep you posted as the rules unveil themselves.

And in other news I swore I wouldn't share with you. Eli found tampons under the sink. I didn't know they were there because how would I know that? I have had my period once since April of 2004 due to being knocked-up. I think  these were the tampons that Joe bought for me shortly after I had Henry. I had asked for pads and I can see how pads and tampons fall into the same category when you're a guy and you're lingering just a little too long in the feminine hygiene aisle but then again not so much. So yes. The tampons that Eli found. They were new. He opened the box, took them out, arranged them by size and filled his dump truck with as many as it would hold. That looked to be about thirty and then tiring of that trick he proceeded to try to stick one in his bottom.

What a surprise!

While our bathroom doors are always open I assure you he hasn't seen me or anyone do anything that could even be mistaken for this act. Now why did that occur to him? He plays with pens and crayons and other similarly shaped objects and has NEVER tried to store them  inside of himself. Furthermore he hasn't really discovered himself physically yet. The diapers get in the way of it. I didn't even know that he knew about that hole.

Anyway there you have it. I had to tell somebody. I chose you.

On a less philosophical note, here is Eli imitating me doing something that I do do. Ha. I said do-do. The gentleman riding shotgun is Dapper Dan, a gift from my babe-a-licious cousin.

as the world turns

You all made me feel hugged, you did. I wish I could have you to dinner. I'm making a new recipe this week that includes ricotta and raisins. I think you just might like it. Please come over. I know how to party. Why just this morning I had people over and entertained them with juice boxes, yogurt-covered raisins, banana bread and animal crackers. I believe it was a success because I got a woman's phone number before she left.

The phone number, in my Mom life, is the goldent ticket. No booty calling or romance these days. More like babysitting and commiserating and friendship.

I'm also planning to do more commiserating and cleansing and digging and speaking here on my blog. You were right. It will make me feel better. If I don't lay out my thoughts in words then I don't nail them down. Something about this time, this sitting here that forces the mirror up and I take glimpses and try to put words to it. Lately I am short on words but I will try to push them out. Like little daisies. Joe is gone for a stint so I am solo and without a good excuse for keeping quiet.

Again, thanks to each and every one of you for validating me. Sigh.

strings that bind

Our carefully orchestrated walk to the park was almost cut short today due to a string on Eli's sandals. The string, like any blade of grass, threatened to ruin a good moment until I tucked it out of Eli's sight. The boy is offended and unraveled by anything out of the ordinary in the feet region. Not so long ago I thought finger and toe painting outside on a sheet would be fun because it is fun unless you're Eli and said paint is as unwelcome as Maltsby's thick, hot breath. My firstborn, he is not mellow. He does force me to keep the floor free of dirt or else he'd spend the day pitching fits over the crumbs lodged between each toe.

And doesn't it say something that among the handful of words that Eli deems important enough to say BROOM is high on the list?

As for Henry, all is well. He's survived eight weeks with only minor head wounds inflicted on him by an overly loving brother. A brother who breastfeeds Elmo just to prove to me that if I would give him a damn chance he could feed Henry as well as I do.

Get an eyeful of edition two.

an ode to my treadmill

Because I remember close to nothing I rely on mnemonic devices and  lists on various post-it notes and a calendar to get me through a day. I manage to stay afloat of life in this rickety fashion. The calendar let me know about my upcoming six-week post-partum exam last week. I thought of questions to ask the doctor and then turned them into a snappy mnemonic device. That turned out be be NBC. Easy to remember. N was for the numb stretch across the c-section incision and BC were for birth control. Easy, easy. With the double stroller I clambered my way through doors and elevators in time for the appointment and NBC at hand.

I did get some answers. Numbness is normal. Birth control is ordered. Oh and I also sobbed because the doctor asked me how I was REALLY doing. You know how a question can catch you off-guard and unleash your everything in one helluva heap. Two hours and a pile of soiled tissues later I left with a prescription for an anti-depressant, an afternoon date with a therapist and a diagnosis of Post-partum Depression.

Maybe I do need the drugs and the counseling. But then maybe not. I think I'd be diagnosed with some brand of depression on a good day. I'm not and won't likely ever be the sunniest girl in the room.

Two weeks later:

So, yeah, here I am with two weeks of Zoloft coursing through my veins. I took the pills because I was curious about the results more than I needed the results. I am sure of this two weeks post-in-the-doctor's-office-meltdown. I thought perhaps that with the pills I'd reach some delirious plane of peace and love where belly laughs reigned supreme. Or better yet I'd have 4WD with the feeling of nature and the sense of urban, having a wide range of activities as daily space. Not so much though. I'm still Meredith. The only notable differences have been a persistent headache and, um, very little interest in getting it on.

I shall cease with the medical experiments STAT and whip my ass into shape because it is the exercise that seems to cure me most. Always and foremost.