carl in casimirland.

I wouldn't want to start out so blotchy and Jack Nicholson-like though. I haven't had much time to put my thoughts into bloggish lately because I've been so busy sleeping in and shopping and throwing parties! And trying to write a blog entry after having a baby reminds me of trying to write in my fifth grade journal the day after the much-anticipated "circus night" at school. There's so much to say! Where to start? It's not quite the same thing, but the same feeling, anyway.

I will say that everyone is absolutely right when they say that the first time you see your firstborn after having a second child, you will be shocked at how big he or she looks. When Casimir first sauntered into the hospital room, I thought, he's not so big. He's just as big as when I left him. Silly people. I already knew he was resembling a big boy and not a baby.
But then.
Then I had to change his diaper for the first time after changing the baby's in the hospital for 3 days. And boy did Caz look huge, and (mind out of the gutter) I'm not talking about his little peep. He just looked like a giant baby on that changing pad, compared to the teeny little body and I had just become used to. How could these big, sturdy legs with scraped knees and playground bruises belong to those of my first baby? Then he sat on my lap, and he felt like a football player. Had he been working out? Drinking weight-gaining shakes? His little hands looked huge. How did I not notice this before? He felt so solid, I couldn't believe it. And compared to the baby, the cat again feels like the fat ass he is, instead of the lightweight he feels like compared to Casimir. So it's a diet for him again.

I'm not good at talking about little baby fingers and falling in love at first sight. I do think though, that I could have twelve kids and love them all. It's not quite unfathomable anymore, though it feels different to me when they're new; sort of strangely less complicated, without yet all the memories and frustrations and guilt and love of their cute idiosyncracies and unique personality.

Appreciate it, damnit!
I had barely finished pushing the baby out before the midwife began to remind me about appreciating them while they're little, even when it's difficult, because they will grow up so fast. But he was only a minute or two old! Was I taking it for granted already? I know her daughter had just returned from Europe and was probably suddenly seeming really grown up, but surely that didn't go that fast. I had some time before Carl reached that point. And it doesn't take long to learn about how it "goes fast." I knew about that already. Casimir hasn't moved out of the house yet, but I had been given that same warning millions of times when he was born. Yet no matter how many pictures I took or how hard you sit and stare at your child and aim to soak up the present in a good moment, it still feels like it's gone by too fast once some time has gone by.

And, predictably, Carl is now 3 weeks old, and I'm all "Where did the weeks go? It feels like I just had him! He's changing already!" as if he were starting preschool already or something. I thought this had something to do with my weirdly sentimental fear of change, but I asked my down-to-earth and normal friend with a nine-month old, and she says she gets sad all the time that her baby is getting big so fast. I think this is why so many moms say they want another one when they still have a two-month old in their arms. I'm not quite ready for that, so I usually wish I could rewind (as if that's a valid option). Even the birth-- the walking and resting at home and waiting for the contractions to start after my water broke; the watching of PBS Mystery! in the hospital while waiting for my contractions to start; the late-night pacing of the hospital atrium like a Scooby Doo ghost in my gown with trailing pitocin IV (waiting for my contractions to start); -- I'd like to relive it all, even though at the time I just wanted it to be over. I already miss those first hours and first days. I can't wait until he's an older chubby baby and interacting more, but I love the first days, too. It uh, kind of makes me want to have another. Can you become a kid junkie? I hope I don't end up blogging about my sixth pregnancy. If I do, I'll blame it on the hormones.
So there you have it. I want my babies to grow and change, but then I sort of don't, too. It makes sense if you cock your head and squint your eyes a bit, I think.

Earlier this week I had both "kids" (rush! that's a plural!) alone for the first time, when I let Paul leave the house. I thought I had it so down. I nursed the baby in the sling with my boob, played play-do with Casimir with my right hand, and I turned the pages of Bitch Magazine with my left hand. I am so good at multi-tasking! For five minutes. And then later, Carl cries if he's set down, Casimir fusses for attention, the cat wants food, and I start to wonder what the name of the disorder is that I must have, because why else would I get so stressed out with only two kids? Carl's just a little newborn though, and Casimir is still adjusting (as am I.) I know it will get easier when we're out of our newborn/terrible twos phase. I hear all kids are a total breeze every day once they hit three. At least, mine will be.

I'm going to be tired tomorrow.

Casimir has this Things That Go book that he will not grow tired of, and still requests nearly every night before bed. The thing is, there's not much to read, it mostly just has pictures of trucks and cars and planes and construction vehicles, like excavators. You know, excavators. You've probably used the word a dozen times today already, without realizing it. Now that you've read this, I'll bet you'll just notice the word everywhere you look. Some books, be they British or just more age-appropriate, call them Diggers, which makes a lot more sense to me. But most of his truck books call them excavators. I would never have known that word before having a little truck-obsessed child (am I the only one that finds it unusual, I mean if you're not in consturction?), and I just find it funny that they put it in a little baby/toddler book. He still says things like "Me do it!" but he will point and properly say excavator when he sees a construction site. It seems a little similar to me being in German I in college and finding "nuclear power plant" on one of my early vocabulary lists. I couldn't say how old I was in German, but I could ask if your city had a nuclear power plant.
Look! An excavator by the nuclear power plant! Learning a language can be just fascinating whether it's your first or second.

I got really upset today (it still feels daring to bitch online, even when no one reads) because my child ate a tentacle. I can enjoy calamari if it is very fried and the sauce is plentiful and very spicy, but I have a thing about the tentacle parts. Like, they're disgusting. Paul will eat it and on purpose leave one little tentacle of the bunch hanging out of his mouth, but he can't help being that way sometimes. Actually I wasn't even big on seeing Casimir chew the calamari, and chew it, and chew it, and chew it, but he was enjoying it, so of course I let him. It's all relative, right? I feed him chicken without wincing. And I'm normally thrilled when he likes "different" food. I was actually thinking just last night after he downed an Afghan meal, that I can see why parents brag if their kids eat sea bass and swiss chard. It's no fun when they beg for chicken nuggets. But you get to feel like you do a damn good job at "exposing" your child to things if they randomly eat Afghan vegetable dishes you can't pronounce.

But then someone tried to feed my child one of the tentacle parts after I said "Please don't, Mommy might vomit." And they still did it. You know, I'm the one making sure he gets organic green things into his system, and whole milk and boring, sugar free yogurt. You just have to fucking respect that I don't want him eating a tentacle, even if we're not vegetarian. I let him eat calamari. It's not like I'm only feeding him only what I like. Just no fucking tentacles. He doesn't even know better yet. And I got grief for that. What is wrong with that? Is it so wrong? I may not own him, but I think I get to play boss more than anyone else NOT parenting him 24/7. Don't you think? Yeah, maybe when he's five, Casimir can make his own informed decision about eating squid and tentacles. And I will let him with grace, I swear. But he's only two, and I am acting regent in Casimirland, until he's of age. The longer I parent and the harder I work, the more tired I get when people try and tell you how to do it (which they do, beyond squid), or you know, feed him a tentacle after I said NO tentacles. I make great efforts not to impose my views on other parents, or assume that I know all about their child because I have one. Why can't other people do the same? WHY? We eat out so rarely, and I didn't want a fricking squid ruining it. The only thing worse than a toddler not listening to you say No 100 times over is a grown up not listening after you say it once.

A little better: The other night I dreamt that I was at a double-concert featuring Nine Inch Nails and The Wiggles. It was quite a good concert, I must say. I bet it won't happen any time soon though. For real, I mean. I bet there's some hidden dreamy meaning there, contrasting my former self and my mommy self. And the mommy self probably wins, whatever the dream significance is.

A lot better: I did see a cute little newborn in the restaurant today, over the plate of dead squid. If only I could just get over the whole labor part. It's sort of weird just waiting. It's not often you know you're going to give birth before the next couple of weeks is up, latest. It feels a bit more looming than it did the first time. I can't figure that out. Probably because I have an inkling how hard it is now. Let's just get this show on the road. But not before Monday, actually, if I had a choice. Just saying.

Not really. Wow, so it turns out that cranking the AC 24/7 for a sweaty preggers woman is expensive. Who'd have thought. Unlike most people who wax on about their love for summer breezes and chirping evening crickets, I personally enjoy slamming all the windows shut for the artificial freezing air in summer. I love just walking into that blast, listening to the whir of the machine as it kicks in high gear and flows out of the vents. For me it's one of the special sounds and feelings of summer, right up there with the smell of chlorinated swimsuits and hands sticky with popsicle drippings. My parents always refused to put it on growing up unless it was so hot and humid that people were dying, so I relish the freedom to turn it on as I please as big fancy grown-up. "There's a breeze" my mom would always say on a still, sticky humid day. Well there's no breeze like the cold, artificial kind whirring out of the vents, I say.

Each night I say I will go for a labor-inducing walk and then read my Penny Simkin book, but instead I crack open a (root)beer and watch another PBS Mystery DVD. I seem to really need both. And I tried rereading this book a little, which is a book written by a man about going through labor naturally. Isn't that a cute idea? I found it helped relax me a little for my first labor with some of it's visualization exercises, but I think it's just been too long since my herbal-tea-sipping, meditating, college days. I may be for informing yourself and attempting natural childbirth, but I can't seem to get down with the affirmations and some of the more earthy attitudes.

The strength of my contractions are a symbol of my feminine power.
My body is my friend.

I'm just too giant and irritable for that sort of thing right now. Or I've been told that I'm looking quite pointy in the belly. So maybe I'm just too pointy for that sort of attitude, even though I do want to enter labor feeling quite relaxed and positive, just like that. It's just that I've been very, eh, testy lately. Don't tell me the baby might come any day. I know that. The bag has been packed and the baby clothes washed and ready for weeks, 'kay? The carseat is in, and the bassinet is sitting in the corner, ready to be blown off by baby. The house is cleaned, the freezer stocked, the maxipads and nursing pads and pads for all sorts of leaks are bought. We are ready for a baby or a natural disaster, except just not one that will kill the electricity and melt all our stocked up frozen food. Don't ask me what I'm calling the baby, and especially don't ask if you've already been told 43 times. Don't laugh at me if I dribble food on my belly and don't notice, and don't tell me that Carl is a Polish name. I'm pretty sure it's not. In fact, don't even ask how I'm feeling. I know it sounds like you can't say anything without pissing me off. Well, yeah. So? Waiting is hard.

And don't yell at me for walking toward a bar (at a wedding reception) while pregnant.
"I'M NOT SERVING YOU!" the psychotic old man said behind the bar, with his finger pointing at me. What, they don't have water?
"No, but you can serve him!" Paul said while pointing to my belly, obviously hoping that he was kidding.
"NOT HIM EITHER!" he said.
"heh heh. eh.....??" said Paul.
"WAIT, are you kidding?" I asked.
"YEAH" he said, dead serious, glaring at me.
"I hope so," I said, in my best I-can-be-a-giant-asshole-too voice. (I'm actually pretty good at that voice, sometimes.)
I still am not sure if he was kidding. I know that he at least knows now that a woman with a big pregnant belly is still capable of biting your fucking head off. And that was the unpleasant encounter. I admit I also get annoyed when well-meaning people even politely refer to my being unable to have this or have that. I always hear about people getting dirty looks if they sip wine in public while visibly pregnant, or drink non-alcoholic beer (All I wanted was a goddamned cranberry juice and mineral water drink), or even enter a bar. Even though a half glass of wine on occasion isn't going to harm your baby, should you decide you feel comfortable having some sips here and there. Even though excessive alcohol is most damaging to a fetus when no one can even tell you're pregnant. Even though it's none of their fucking business unless you're falling off your stool and ordering another drink. Even though the presence of bar stools and alcohol in a nonsmoking environment will not harm the baby in utero.

The frightening thing is when attitudes like this come through, and you realize how prevalent they probably are. You just don't notice until you break a rule, like when I put on shoes and and left the kitchen and did something outrageous like approach a bar at a wedding reception. I know I sometimes avoid doing certain things in public (think totally crazy offensive things, like breastfeeding) that will piss stupid people off, simply because I don't want to deal with it. But it's kind of the easy way out. I'd hate to think what kind of approval I get from women-hating lunatics because I'm inadvertently not breaking any rules today, but am sitting happily at home, (barefoot) pregnant and married and tending to a child. I hate that barely tapping that toe outside of the circle of acceptability can potentially raise such ire, even if it's potentially joking ire from a confusing old bartender dude. (and BOY was he funny! HAHAhaha). But it's good to be reminded, unpleasant as it is.

I am able to birth in harmony with nature, and the power of birth strengthens me!