Momedy

We just spent a wonderful weekend celebrating the Middle Child of the holidays, Thanksgiving.

I have much more to be thankful for than I deserve — my family, my kids, a husband who works his butt off every. single. day. to provide for our family, to keep our Dane in kibble and our kids in diapers, and takes care of all three when I get struck down by the plague for the remainder of the holiday weekend.

Mostly, I’m thankful for my entirely thankless job. (Can I say thankless in the wake of Thanksgiving weekend?) Well I’m going to. I don’t mean the kind of thankless that up-all-night-newborn feedings feel until all of a sudden one day that baby smiles at you. I’m talking about alllll of the behind-the-scenes orchestrating that is either unnoticed or just goes unacknowledged.

The juggling of activities — which kids activities’ are cancelled for the week due to the holiday and which ones are still on, who needs to bring a flashlight to school on Friday and who has a make-up swim lesson on the third Wednesday of every-other-month ending with -ember. Who has one more night’s worth of diapers before we’ll need more and whose white tights absolutely must be washed and folded by Sunday night so they’re ready for ballet on Monday afternoon.

You know, those things … the things that make it impossible to sit down in front of the TV at night without a whopping  basket of laundry to fold, or that make it hard to get past 8 p.m. without falling asleep (or past 3 a.m. without waking up) due to the constant mental gymnastics that takes up every ounce of brainpower you have leftover.

I give you this morning, for example.

There’s my car.

To some, this might look like one huge mess. Probably to my husband it looks like a day and a half of hard-earned money out the minivan window. To Alex it apparently looked like one big graham cracker, as that’s what he kept screaming the whole ride.

But to me it looks like every last second of the 2.5 hours between school drop-off and pick-up. It looks like final preparations for two holiday gatherings this weekend, like meals for my family for the next week, like final Christmas and birthday gifts procured, like two class snacks and one batch of homemade Playdough that we somehow ended up responsible for all in on week … like the culmination of an hours worth of menu planning and three different shopping lists — made first on my phone and then categorized and written out by store and section so I don’t have to run all the way back across Piggly Wiggly because I forgot the lettuce while I was in the produce section or the bacon while I was in the meat section. (Both of which happened anyways.)

Will my kids notice any of this and/or thank me for it? Nope. If I’m lucky, I might get a “Thank you for getting me Nutella, Mommy!” out of Evelyn, because she’s amazing and sometimes remembers to say things like that. More likely, though, the food will be consumed (or untouched by picky eaters and eventually thrown away to the sound of whining about going to bed hungry.) If I accomplish nothing else as a mother, they will notice and appreciate these efforts by the time they’re old enough to see past snack time.

Judging by the number of other Moms (and one Dad) I saw out doing the same thing today, I know I’m not alone in this.

So, just in case your kids didn’t recite the following list of “thank-you’s” over the Thanksgiving weekend, I’m writing this for you, because I see you behind the scenes and I know your household just wouldn’t run if you weren’t out running all morning. And I think you’re amazing.

Thank you for skipping your shower this morning so you could meal plan and write out your errand list for the day, even if it meant you showed up to Costco in the same thing you’re wearing in your Costco Card picture, which also happens to be the same grubby hat and sweatshirt you wear four times a week and have come to think of as your “shower-skip-day-uniform.” (Who, me?)

Thank you for risking E. Coli, Salmonella and Listeria to dig through the slimy packages of Chuck Roast so you could find the English Cut that’s on sale. All to make a delicious, nutritious pot roast for dinner that will be dubbed “too spicy” or “too mushy” or “too brown” and immediately shunned along with the vegetables you’ll roast in a way that according to Pinterest “toddlers will love”.

Thank you for waiting at the deli counter so that the lunchmeat can be sliced just so, even though the deli counter always seems to take up approximately 45 of the 50 minutes you have to shop.

Thank you for remembering the frozen waffles, even if it meant forgetting the bottle of Tums that has been on (and been forgotten from) your last 3 lists, for the heartburn that wakes you up five times a night thanks due to the child you’re growing that will also probably forget to thank you for all of this.

Thank you for keeping a running tally of the milk, diaper and applesauce supply so we are never, ever, ever out.

Thank you for schlepping your nuggets along on these errands when you’d so much rather be at home playing with them and/or working on noodle stringing and the other fine motor activities your Pediatrician keeps sending you worksheets on with notes like “I’m not concerned YET, but…” (Who, Alex?)

I’m counting playing with a straw and a water cup as a fine-motor-activity on the go.

Thank you for going to three different stores so you can get each thing that you need at the best possible value, so you can (in theory) have money leftover for date nights and soccer camp.

Thank you for hauling a** across town just to get five minutes at home to hide the presents and get the perishables in the fridge before running back across town for school pickup.

Thank you for not killing the driver of the Medivan that pulled out right in front of you a minute into this race home, who then not only anticipated your route home but drove 10 under the speed limit for the entirety of it. I see you staying out of jail this holiday season, and on behalf of your family, I appreciate it.

Thank you for throwing out your back loading and unloading this bounty in and out of three different shopping carts, one car and one fridge.

Thank you for the delicious meals that you will make from all of this, even knowing the mess that they will result in.

Thank you for getting down on the floor and cleaning up those messes three times a day, when the dog is so picky that she will lick up half of what falls but leave the rest for you and the dustpan, because while she loves eggs, she’s above eating eggs that have been reduced to a certain size. (Who, Pippa?)

Thank you for doing this day in and day out, regardless of if you’re perfectly healthy or feeling like death warmed over, if you’re at your physical prime or are in the midst of having both ribs and pelvis painfully separated by a 7 lb. baby, if you’ve gotten 10 hours of sleep or 10 minutes.

I could go on. And on. And on. But my point is – to anyone who is feeling like their job as a parent is particularly thankless on this (week after) Thanksgiving, I see you. Even if your kids don’t yet. And hopefully someday those kids will grow up, and some random Wednesday they’ll be doing exactly what you’re doing now, and then they’ll get it. And then they’ll send you flowers, and a gift certificate for a 90-minute Swedish massage followed by a manicure for those hands that have worked so tirelessly for them. Or at least they’ll just call and say thanks.

Mom, you’re my hero.

It’s been forever since I’ve posted anything. It’s just that my kids have required so much energy lately that every time I sit down to blog, no matter what topic I plan to cover, it comes out a Craigslist ad for full-time help.

Plus, my brain is completely fried from answering my 3-year-old’s questions. All the questions. All. The. Time.

When I’m working on a manuscript, my favorite scenes to write are the dialogue scenes.

Why? Because my characters get to have the conversations I would love to be having if I saw other adults during the day and was not being held hostage in a Honda Odyssey with two toddlers.

Instead of enjoying witty banter, my “conversations” are a long string of answers to an even longer string of questions.

These questions are at their worst in the car, when there’s no escaping each other. And we’re always there. I didn’t do a very good job of timing the kids’ activities this fall, so between school drop-off and swim lessons and school pick-up and dance class and speech twice a week, we never have quite enough time to go home between activities. So we basically live in the car on weekdays. This makes my vehicle look like it’s been chosen for an episode of Pimp my Ride, and the recipient is an individual who loves nothing more than empty fast food containers and coloring books.

If you’d dropped in on me at 10:45 yesterday, this is what you’d have heard.

Me: “Evelyn, please buckle up.”

Evelyn: “Why?”

Me: “Because being buckled in keeps you safe in the car.”

Evelyn: “Why?”

Me: “Because if you weren’t buckled in and I had to stop very quickly, you’d go flying out of your carseat and could bump and get hurt.”

Evelyn: “Why?”

Me: “Ev, just buckle up. I will drive the car once you’re buckled.”

Evelyn: “Where are we going?”

Me: “Target.”

Evelyn: “Why to Target?”

Me: “Because we need groceries and at Target I can get both groceries and a Starbucks, and I really need a coffee.”

Evelyn: “Why you need a coffee?”

Me: “Because I’m tired.”

Evelyn: “Why you tired?”

Me: “Because I have a 5 lb. human growing in my belly. And I don’t sleep anymore. And you were up at 5:30.”

Evelyn: “Why was I up at 5:30?”

Me: “That’s a very good question. Why were you up at 5:30?”

Evelyn: “There was pee-pee coming out of my butt.”

Me: *gags silently*

Evelyn: “Are we on Western?”

Me: “No, we’re on Wauwatosa.”

Evelyn: “Why are we turning onto Wauwatosa?”

Me: “Because this is the road that will take us to where we need to go.”

Evelyn: “Why is this the road that will take us where we need to go?”

Me: *Attempts to ignore question.*

Evelyn: “How long until we get to the roundabout?”

Me: “Not long.”

Evelyn: “But how many minutes?”

Me: “Two minutes.”

Evelyn: “Why not thirty-teen minutes?”

Me: “Because thirty-teen isn’t a number.”

Evelyn: “But how long is two minutes?”

Me: *Attempts to ignore question again.*

Evelyn: “Is this the roundabout?”

Me: “No, this is a stoplight.”

Evelyn: “Why are we moving?”

Me: “Because the light turned green.”

Evelyn: “Why did the light turn green?”

Me: “Because it’s  our turn to go.”

Evelyn: “Why is it our turn to go?”

Me: “Because we need to take turns with the other cars.”

Evelyn: “Why we need to take turns with the other cars?”

Me: “Because there are lots of cars going all different directions and if we didn’t have stoplights, everyone would crash into each other and no one would know when to drive.”

Evelyn: “Why are there lots of cars–”

Me: “You know what sweetheart, I need us to have a little quiet time.”

Evelyn: “Why you need us to have a little quiet time?”

Me: “Because all these questions tire me out and I just need a little break. Now Shhh.”

Evelyn: “Why you just need a little break?”

Me: Silence

Evelyn: (at a new, higher volume) “Why you just need a little break?!”

Me: Silence.

Evelyn: (at an even higher volume) “Why you just need a little break?!?”

Me: “Evelyn I’ve told you I need some quiet time, I will not be answering you until you can be quiet for two minutes.”

Evelyn: “BUT WHY YOU JUST NEED A LITTLE BREAAAAK?!?”

Screaming, crying and whining ensues for the rest of the drive. This is all. Day. Long. I have answered so many inane “why’s” that my nightmares — which used to be reserved for hearing a home invader downstairs and not being able to get my legs to move in order to escape — now consist of that one single word whispered very quietly in my ear.

I tell myself it’s a phase, and that the why’s will eventually stop. Which I’m sure they will. Unfortunately, I have a second child. Every week he adds new words to his vocabulary, and a few weeks ago, that word was “Why.”

If you need me, I’ll be checking myself into Rogers Memorial for the remainder of 2017.

This stage of life comes with many projects that I can never seem to see through to completion. Laundry is one of them. I haven’t seen the bottom of our hamper in over a year. Shaving’s another. My rushed showers seem to always allow time for my right leg, but my left has remained half-shaved since Easter, give or take. You’d think I’d learn to rotate my starting leg, but my brain is definitely not functioning at full capacity. As evidenced by the fact that I put Desitin on my toothbrush last week.

The interior of my car is another. I just can. not. keep. it. clean. It also represents most if not all of my former “I will never’s”. “I will never let my car look like a hoarder drives it,” I said. As I write this there are two strollers, two pack n plays, three carseats, 12 baby toys and 29 changes of clothes in there.

“I will never let my kids eat in the car,” I said. See that (those) stain (stains) on Evelyn’s carseat? Know what that is?

Neither do I. But today on the way home from school I heard her exclaim “Hey, a french fry!” and looked back just in time to see her pop it into her mouth, so it’s a safe assumption that those stains are from one of the many car meals during which that french fry was discarded. Judging by the crunch, it’s been at least a month.

The strollers are no better. Today Alex was eating Craisins and Clementines and dumped them all out. As I was reaching behind him to retrieve them, I also pulled out these withered, soggy apples.

The last time I used this stroller was Monday, and I cleaned it out that night, so I can only assume that Alex has fashioned a secret pocket to squirrel away his snacks until they’re good and rancid. He must be part of a toddler competition to see who can eat the grossest food without puking all over his crib.

I’d like to tell you that’s the worst thing he eats, but I’d be lying.

See that hairbrush lying on the floor? That hairbrush represents a new low in parenting, one that I achieved only this morning.

I should preface this by explaining that Alex eats hair.

From the day he figured out his pincer grasp, he’s delighted in nothing quite as much as he does plucking out my hair one strand at a time and putting in his mouth before I can wrangle it away from him. I think he’s trying to floss.

This used to gross me out. Then one day we were at the library and he walked over with someone else’s hair hanging out of his mouth. From that day on, my hair has been just fine. Still, I’ve always at least attempted to get it back out of his mouth once it goes in.

Until this morning.

The half-hour leading up to our departure for school this morning was one of the whiniest, screamiest I’ve endured. For thirty minutes I oscilated between plugging my ears and considering cutting them off with one of the knives I was unloading from the dishwasher for the third time in 24 hours.

Suddenly, there was silence. Glorious, deafening silence. I enjoyed it for a full 12 seconds before panic set in, and ran to the last place I’d seen Alex heading, which was the bathroom. Has he fallen into the toilet headfirst? I wondered. Has he stuffed his mouth so full of toilet paper that he can’t breathe? Opened the window and made a run for it?

Not to worry. What he’d done was find a hairbrush, and what he was doing was slowly pulling the hair out of it and eating it strand by strand. Did I stop him? Nope. Did I let him carry it to the car with him and continue for the whole drive? You betcha.

Evelyn was quiet too, thanks to my recent discovery of letting her color in the car.

This is what her seat looks like when she gets out. Sometimes there’s a melted crayon stuck to her butt, and sometimes I don’t notice until an hour later, and sometimes even then I don’t make a move to remove it.

Also, see how all the wrappers are peeled off? Another of my “I will never’s” that I abandoned long ago.

On Friday mornings I have two hours with no kids. Every single time, before I go anywhere else, I go to the gas station and vacuum the s••• out of my car and their carseats. By Saturday afternoon, this is how it looks.

It’s almost not worth it. And yet, for that remaining hour and fifty minutes, I get to drive to wherever I’m going and not feel like a hoarder … not feel like there are probably rats living in my car that will be scurrying out from under the seats at any moment. I get to feel like a slightly better parent because I know that at least for today, my kids will not be reaching into their carseat and pulling out a week-old chicken nugget and eating it like a piece of jerky. That’s just for Thursdays.

I can’t very well keep on blogging about my kids and not dedicate a post to Baby #3.

Bubba, we are all so excited to meet you! I especially am looking forward to it. I’m looking forward to meeting you and holding you … I’m looking forward to eating without vomiting and sneezing without peeing. Though I’m told I might never enjoy that last one again.

That’s me as a newborn. Look at those sweet little demon eyes. I was born at 29 weeks, and for this reason, when I hit the 29 week mark I start to think “alright baby, anytime now.” I mean, not really. But the end is now close enough that uncomfortable starts to feel more like unbearable — like the way Iron Man participants’ legs give out on them as soon as the finish line comes into sight. Although after my six daily trips up and down the basement stairs to do laundry, I know full well that I do not belong in the same sentence as any kind of triathlete.

I do also know that another ten weeks of gestation is in everyone’s best intrest. Except, of course, everyone who has to come in contact with me during those weeks.

Pregnancy does not look good on me. Pregnancy #3 is especially not my color.

For starters, the mood swings are unbelievable. One second I’m sitting down to lunch and feeling the baby kick, smiling to myself and thinking what a wonderful time of life this is. Five minutes later I’m on all fours cleaning the crumbs from under the table and swearing under my breath about how I can’t believe I’m carrying Eric’s third baby in three years, like a freaking broodmare.

One minute I’m laughing and singing “I’m a little teapot” to my kids as I boil the water for my decaf coffee, and the next I’m crying in the bathroom because they just will. Not. Stop. Whining.

One minute I’m listing Pippa for sale on Craigslist and the next I’m crying into her fur begging her to never die.

I have definitely gone from “fun mommy” before pregnancy, to “hangry mommy” the first trimester, to “mean mommy” for the duration. My patience is rock bottom, lower if possible. Sediment. On my very best days, I’m lazy Mommy. This is about all the energy I can muster to play with my kids:

At the top left, you’ll see Evelyn demonstrating a half W sit, which I’m supposed to correct every time to criss-cross-applesauce, but don’t have the energy to do. Looks like you’ll stay low tone a little longer, kiddo. Below that you can see my son’s back as he tries to tunnel under my legs, the only game I have energy for. On my right knee, you see a three day old coffee stain. Because laundry. Too much laundry. On the far right, you’ll see Pippa’s tail, where she’s standing at the window watching chipmunks and farting in my face. I’m still sitting there because moving would take too much energy. She’s farting because letting her out would take too much energy, between wiping four Clydesdale sized paws and then inevitably cleaning dog poop off a toddlers shoe. This is what my kids get right now.

What’s the opposite of a helicopter Mom? I’m calling it a junkyard Mom, and I am her.

Though it hasn’t actually increased, my workload feels like it’s tripled. Getting in and out of the car, for example. Wrangling my screaming, writhing 18-month-old into his rear-facing, back-row car seat without getting kicked in the belly requires a coordination that … well, that isn’t there. Since I have to do this about six times a day, the result is back pain and sciatica so bad that I’m limping from 3:00 on.

I google images of pregnant elephants and cry over their 11 month Gestations. I stub my toe and react in a fit of rage, looking around and finding something to slam as hard as possible. I cringe when I read in my weekly updates that the baby can now hear my voice, because it’s become rather shrill and is more often than not yelling “SIT. DOWN!!” or, quite hypocritically, “STOP. YELLING!!”

Every time I go in for one of my appointments I fantasize that I’ll be put on immediate bed rest.

I also fantasize about foot massages. Like, actually fantasize about them. When I was pregnant with Alex, I was so desperate for someone to touch my feet I ran over my foot with a shopping cart at Pick N Save. It backfired.

This time it’s so bad that I’ve started dreaming about it. Friday night I had one of my many crazy pregnancy dreams. In it, I was standing in the ocean with my parents, my sister and Burt Reynolds. We must have been on vacation, because I was very relaxed and jolly as I led the group in rounds of Row Row Rown Your Boat. All of a sudden, up swam a child ghost. Except it didn’t swim. It floated up in the form of an underwater light, then it materialized into a toddler-sized boy, standing under the water staring up at us. Everyone I was with screamed and splashed away as quickly as possible. I stayed put, and asked the child if he’d give me a foot massage.

Even my subconscious has no shame.

I remind myself this is a phase. Three months from now the baby will be here, three years from now my kids won’t remember the lazy, shouting woman who temporarily took over their mother. Three decades from now I’ll finally have bunyon surgery and while they’re in there they can repair the damage from the shopping cart.

For now I try to remind myself that pregnancy is an enormous blessing, and one that I know I will miss when we’re done having kids.

But you know what else is a blessing? Bladder control.

We’re a month into preschool and so far my favorite part of it – besides having 7.5 hours a week with just one minion to chase – is the artwork that Evelyn brings home.

If I’m being honest,  I tend to micro-manage most ( er – all) of the projects we do at home — as evidenced by these apple trees we made.

Clearly Alex still let me help with his. Or, I did the whole thing because we were at library class and he could have cared less about making an apple tree. After bringing home my masterpiece and proudly hanging it on the fridge, Evelyn saw it and wanted to make one of her own. So I cut out a trunk and the leaves for her, and that’s where my involvement ended.

I think it’s clear who’s tree is growing the organic apples and who is using growth hormones.

While I’m working to let go of my arts and crafts perfectionism, I’m embracing the creativity her independent artwork shows. Like the self portrait she brought home, for example.

I think my daughter is perfect as she is, but apparently she looked in the mirror and saw room for some improvements. I think she plans on taking this in next week for her 3-year check-up and asking for some cosmetic “improvements”. Telly Monster’s nose, for example. That should be a first for the plastic surgeon. Looks like she’s also in the market for an eye enlargement, just on the right side, and will likely be asking to cut bangs sooner than later. Also it seems like she’s over the whole Peter Pan collar thing and wants a basic black turtleneck. These are things I’m glad to know, it’s good to be prepared for those conversations.

Then there’s this.

First, I love the figure they’re coloring in. It looks more like this guy from Mulan than a preschooler:

Also, they must be learning about hair and eye color, because she’s really got that down.

But mostly love her “meet me” section in this. Never have I ever seen her play with a baby doll unless forced (by me) and even then it’s a lot of holding the poor thing by the ankles. Maybe she likes the babies at school better.

And she can absolutely go potty by herself 😳💩

This kid has been day trained since 18 months. She has a bladder the size of an elephant and if nap time isn’t in the equation for the day she can literally go sunup to sundown and use the bathroom maybe once. But close that door for quiet time and all of a sudden she just HAS to go potty 17 times. Or, on the glorious days like the one pictured above, she starts to go during rest time and decides to finish things off in the bathroom. Suffice it to say that naptime is no longer my favorite part of the day, or even slightly restful for me.

But back to art. My favorite piece of recent artwork came in the form of a magna-doodle, the morning after one of our many talks about the new baby. We’d spent a good half hour talking about the baby in my belly – Evelyn had been very curious about how it had gotten there and how it was coming out.

Next morning I was cleaning up after breakfast and hadn’t heard a peep from her in over 45 seconds, which is highly suspicious. So I went in to check on her and found her hovered over this:

“Ummm…” I said.

That was it. Just ummm. I cleared my throat and tried again.

“Wow! Looks like you’ve worked really hard on … that. What is it?”

“It’s for the new baby!” She said.

“How detailed did I get yesterday?” I asked myself, then asked her:

“What is it … for the new baby?”

“Balloons,” she replied.

Ahhhh, yes, of course. Balloons. I should have known to think outside the box, considering her recent painting of me:

I’m officially offended. Charmed, but offended.

Can’t wait to see what she brings home next week!

Twenty-eight weeks into my pregnancy with Evelyn, I found out I had Gestational Diabetes. My initial test had come back high, so I went back in for the dreaded 3-hour glucose test. I remember crying when they gave me the results — partly because it wasn’t the normal pregnancy I had planned, partly because I had no idea what to expect, but mostly because we were on our way to Door County that evening for our “babymoon” and I realized I probably wouldn’t be able to eat the cherry-stuffed French toast I had planned for breakfast.

I think back to that pregnancy and remember that day being one of its real low points.

Fast forward to pregnancy #3 —  I’m here again for that same 3 hour test — and I think today will go down as one of the absolute highs of this pregnancy.

And here’s why.

This morning I drove myself to the hospital. Alone. The back seat was quiet. I answered 0 questions.

Next I parked and got out of the car. Alone! With no stroller to unfold and no seatbelts to unbuckle except my own. On my way into the building, I answered 0 questions.

When I checked in, they had some trouble getting my veins to cooperate for the IV so they wrapped hot towels around both arms. HOT. TOWELS. It was so relaxing I almost didn’t notice the needles. Also I answered 0 questions about the needles, towels or other surroundings.

Next they showed me into the room where I’m to wait between blood draws. My current position is:

Those are my feet. They’re UP. In a recliner that I’ve actually been asked to stay in. On my lap is a warm blanket that no one is tugging off of me. And I’ve had to swat 0 hands away from that tempting red light switch.

Up here is a TV

It’s a TV, and there is no Daniel Tiger or Curious George on it. And I have answered 0 questions about the dozens of things on the walls. I have asked no one to stop trying to turn on that faucet. I have pulled no one away repeatedly from that Biohazard bin. I haven’t had to blow up a single one of those surgical gloves as makeshift balloon entertainment.

There are PEOPLE magazines. Lots of them. And I have three hours to read them at my leisure. If I can stay awake.

Amazing what 3 years of life changes will do to make what was a devastating day (if I’m being dramatic) the first time around feel like a day at the spa now. Honestly, I may not need that prenatal massage I’ve been wanting. Unless Eric is reading this and looking for anniversary gift ideas. In that case I absolutely need one.

So I’m off to enjoy my 3 question-free hours, because once I come home with that finger prick test, there are going to be lots of them.

Eric and I have a standing date night every Tuesday. Every once in awhile we manage to do something out of the ordinary and act like we’re still in our 20s.

But most nights we end up home by 8 and asleep by 8:03. Call it a side effect of living with toddlers.

We also try to talk about things other than the kids while we’re out, but we often fail at that too. Sometimes I’m able to text him updates during the day, like:

(When Evelyn first moved into her big girl beds we had a policy that every time she got out of bed, a lovie got taken away. This was 5 minutes into naptime.)

Or:

Or:

Or:

But more often than not, I have to catch him up on their day when he gets home at night – who dropped what in the toilet, who accidentally dialed my ex’s Mom while running away with my phone, who ate an entire bag of raisins apparently without chewing them and pooped out full grapes 24 hours later. (All Alex) So most of our conversation gets dominated by the kids.

This week we found ourselves the youngest patrons of Chucks Place by about 30 years, and again spent dinner talking about the kids. This time we took it a little deeper though and instead of talking about the kids in the present, we talked about the kids in the future. “Wouldn’t it be cool if we ended up with at least two of each gender” … “I hope one of them wants to take over the business one day” … “I hope we can keep everyone off drugs and our daughters off the pole,” … you know.

At one point Eric asked me what I’m most excited to teach Evelyn.

“To only pick her nose in private and to not pee in her pants at night and to sleep later than 5:15” were the rapid-fire answers that popped into my head, but I think I said something like “baking”. I’ve been thinking about it all week since then though, and I think I’d like to change my answer to “authenticity.”

I spent far too long pretending to like certain musicians or pretending to like the bar scene or pretending to hate certain movies when in reality I just wanted to go home early, turn on Notting Hill and admit that “Making Love out of Nothing at All” by Air Supply is my favorite song of. All. Time. And that’s just the petty stuff. All to impress people that in hindsight I have no idea why I cared about impressing.

It took me a long time to learn that after all is said and done you just have to be honest with yourself (and others) about certain things, like:

So. How do I teach my daughter to be okay with who she is, exactly as she is, without pretending to be someone else?

I wondered all week about the words I could say and the wisdom I could impart, until yesterday I realized the BEST (and maybe only) way I can teach her is to model it for her.

A few weeks ago we went to the vet to pick up Pippa’s HeartGuard and Interceptor Plus, and brought along a fecal sample at the vets request. Evelyn was of course very interested in the latter, and I explained it the best I could in toddler terms, dropped it off, and moved on.

Fast forward to yesterday afternoon when Evelyn finished a puzzle and asked what we should do next. I looked around. Alex was occupied pushing the doll stroller for its 37th lap around the house and there was a stuffed horse lying on the floor, so I suggested we play Vet.

“Okay!” She said, and handed me a block. “Here’s my poop.”

“Excuse me?” I said.

“Here’s my poop,” she said again.

“No I heard you, I just need an explanation,” I told her.

“To check for bugs,” she said matter-of-factly. “At the vet. My poop.”

It was all starting to come together, the fecal sample and my measly explanation that the vet needed to check to make see there were no bugs in there (I’d specifically said bugs and not worms because she’s obsessed with worms and I don’t need her digging through Pippa’s land mines looking for them.)

I realized then just how much of what I say and do she picks up on, even if it’s a non-event for me. I know kids are sponges, but I forget until I see them do something to prove it.

So, I turned on Air Supply and turned out some of my worst dance moves while I made dinner, in an attempt to show her that it’s okay to be an absolute dork about music and an even worse dancer, as long as you own it. Which, at least in the dancing category, she seems to have picked up on already.

Last weekend we were seated at an event next to some friends of my parents. They have a 2-year-old granddaughter, and we got to talking and sharing pictures. Their granddaughter, (much like what I had originally expected when I birthed a female) is now obsessed with babies. In every picture she had a doll under each arm, and looked every inch the sweet maternal little creature I’m sure she is.

Her grandmother was suprised to learn that this was not the case with my own little creature.

“She could care less about her babies,” I told her.

“Really? You’re kidding! What is she interested in?”

I didn’t know how to answer. Ummm, I dunno, Hoarding?

On the rare occasion that Evelyn entertains herself, I come back into the room and while the dolls remain untouched, her backpack has been stuffed with an assortment of items.

Actually — there is a doll in there, folded inside in the least gentle way with no regard for her delicate little neck. On top of her that’s a triangle, stethoscope and other medical tools. I walked in as Evelyn was hoisting this onto her back and when I asked where she was going, she answered “The Home on the Bay place” and scurried away into the other room, presumably to perform some medical experiments.

*When we lived in Whitefish Bay I changed the lyrics to Home on the Range to a new version, called Home on the Bay … “where the Evies and Alex’s play … where seldom is heard, a discouraging word, and Dad’s home at the end of the day” (thank God). It’s now the only song she wants to sing and has also become a fictional place in her imagination. When asked where the “home in the bay place” is, she’ll answer that it’s bigger than a house and that there are a lot of trees, and there are lots of animals but no chickens and no other kids. She’s very firm on the last point.

So there you go. Big imagination, not a lick of maternal instinct.

Back to our event, we also got to talking about talking, more specifically the lack of it. The 2-year-old in this woman’s life didn’t say much. Hardly anything in fact, and this information coupled with the sweet, quiet little girl she seemed to be had me wondering how I could orchestrate a trade without anyone noticing.

From the time my spawn stirs in the morning until she finally passes out at night, there is no rest from hearing that sweet little voice. The problem is, she has so many words she wants to get in there that she neglects to pronounce most consonants, which results in her sounding like a Drunken Dutchman. (I’ll next be changing the lyrics to “What do you do with a Drunken Sailor”).

Enter speech therapy. She’s been in a birth to 3 program for a few months now, and we’re in the process of transferring into the school system as her 3rd birthday looms. At the very beginning of this process, I wondered if there was something I’d done wrong that had led to her mispronunciation of so many words.

I didn’t even finish the question in my mind before I’d answered it — yes of course I had. It was entirely my fault. In fact I may be the worst possible example of proper speech.

If you’ve ever had a face-to-face conversation with me, you’ve probably wondered if I’m training to be a ventriloquist. My lips hardly move. (I’ve found this saves energy).

To listen to my voice on tape or voicemail makes it sound like I’m halfway through the sex change process.

And if my phone has a brain, which I’m not convinced it doesn’t, it probably wants to give me a breathalyzer every time I use the talk-to-text feature.

Yesterday for example I texted a friend who is due with her second this month. I spoke clearly into my phone: “it’s officially baby month!!”

My phone heard:

A few weeks ago I was at the pediatrician with Alex for his 15-month checkup. Each room is themed, and we were in one covered in Brewers Decals. Every time he saw the life-sized Robin Yount decal, Alex pointed to it and said “dada.” I tried to text Eric as much, but my phone heard this:

When I finally communicated the correct information to Eric, he was a little offended at the resemblance. I decided not to tell him that the week before Alex had been pointing to this and saying “Dada”:

Meanwhile Evelyn is convinced this is her father:

If you know Eric, this one is actually pretty accurate, right down to the argyle socks.

Anyway, I digress. While there are a lot of “what am I doing wrong as a parent” threads that I don’t want to pull at, the speech thing is a no brainer. Sorry, Ev.

“But talk to text does that to everyone,” you may be saying.

I’ll leave you with a Starbucks order last winter.

“Can I get a name for the order?” The barista asked.

“Melissa,” I said.

One of my favorite games to play as a parent is “My trait or Eric’s trait?” Both of my kids look like Eric, but it’s fun to see each of our personalities pop up in them.

Sure, there are traits that are 100% them, like Evelyn’s flair for drama. I actually caught her practicing her wails in the mirror the other day:

Other times I can see each of us clearly. Both kids are obsessed with figuring out how things work. That is 100% Eric. They could sit and analyze a toy for almost 45 seconds before moving onto something else. That’s like 3 hours in toddler time.

As for my own traits – some I see, like my passion for PBJs, and some I don’t, like my passion for going to bed while it’s still light out.  And then there are some I hope never get passed on to the next generation.

Case in point – a few weeks ago I inherited a bin of my childhood “treasures” – meaning old report cards and school projects. These files made it clear that I’ve always been a writer — every report card went something like:

Language Arts: A

English: A

Math: F. F- in fact.

There were also stories I’d written from way back in elementary school, and it’s these stories that I look at with trepidation and hope my kids don’t inherit my apparent interest in tragedies.

Exhibit A: The MBM (Melissa Blair Milne) Newsletter. This prestigious publication was launched in 1994 and sent out to a list of subscribers (family members) who I charged $1 an issue. Each issue contained a detailed update on the lives of each member of the Milne family – what color Meghan was painting her room, the family dog’s latest veterinary scare … things of real substance and interest. Then there was usually an update on the Badgers (because they couldn’t find that in the sports page) and finally a short story written by yours truly. This was the first edition’s:

Poor Jimmy, what a predicament. Also what a clever title. I’m sure my readers were on the edge of their seats waiting for the next edition. When it arrived they were surely disappointed:

As a member of the extended Milne family, I’d have been curious why this was coming from my 9-year-old brain. I’ve heard, as offensive as it may seem to their parents, that children often play “orphan” not because they wish they were in fact orphaned but because their subconscious needs to know they could handle it if it happened. Maybe that could explain Jimmy and his father, but then what about the next edition’s story?

This was the introduction to one of my more politically correct stories. It went on:

If you’re curious, that “and” is followed by “she fell to the ground unconscious” – my favorite cliffhanger. In the next edition she makes a speedy recovery in her teepee, just in time to run back to the ocean where she attempts to swim out and save Morning Star. But the blood trailing from her gunshot wound attracts a shark and it appears she may not make it back to shore.

As a kid I was very interested in Native American history, but even then was not much for fact checking. The fact that Indians of the Pacific Northwest did not dwell in tepees was of no concern to me … nor was the fact that I don’t think you find a lot of Great Whites off the coast of Oregon.

This was pretty much par for the course with my writing in elementary school, save a few stories here and there thrown in about the Holocaust, until middle school opened a whole new world of tragic topics:

If I was my 7th grade teacher reading this I would have been all:

“Good, okay, very shallow…typical 7th grade girl… uh red flag. Major red flag.”

Same with this story:

Playground fun turned trip to the ER and possible life long brain damage. The stuff of great American writing.

I have no idea why I chose to write about such uplifting topics, or whether my parents ever received calls from concerned teachers/social services.

I do hope this particular string of melancholy somehow misses my kids, or I can only imagine what my Little Miss Dramatic will be writing about/drawing pictures of.

I’m already anticipating the phone calls.