carl in casimirland.

We're sick. Runny nose, coughing, congested, and grumpy sick. Except for Paul, with the immunity of steel, we've all been sick for what feels like forever. I always take it as a personal affront when I or my kids get sick, as if we somehow weren't rested or taken care of properly to protect us against all those bad germs and viruses floating around, because don't you know that mothers thrive on guilt? I've just read too many anecdotes about how someone breastfed their kid for five years and they're seven and they've still never been sick.

And boy is it hard to get ready for the holidays when you can't stop wiping noses. First there was the attempt at taking a Christmas photo for our cheery holiday cards, which I see as obligatory because I'm a mom and I'm kinda cheesy now. For various reasons, however, I have issues with professional pictures and posed kids in holiday sweaters standing next to big, pretend candycanes. So I usually opt for my own brilliant "photography" skills. Plus, I'm free. But getting bobblehead Carl to sit still long enough for our ancient digital camera to actually take a picture proved nearly impossible. It was just Casimir and Baby Blur. I finally got one where they are both complying and posing like obedient children are supposed to do at holiday time, but it's kind of grainy looking, Casimir is looking to the side, and Carl just looks plump. Which means that it's a good picture, considering. I was going to keep trying, but then they got sick and started looking all red-nosed and bleary eyed, so the crappy grainy one was just going to have to do. Now when the cards start coming in, some of those professional pictures aren't looking so bad to me.

Then I was trying to finish our Christmas cards, but I kept having to stop to help Casimir blow his nose or calm a fussing Carl, or blow my own nose or the mailman's nose or change a diaper or get myself a cough drop or shot of coffee or something. Writing the cards at night wasn't any easier, because some of the nights around here have been, uh, trying to say the least. Let's just say a couple have involved some sleeplessness, crying, and throwing of pacifiers. So I was letting Casimir watch more Caillou than I normally would because when you feel crappy, play-do, cars, and fingerpaints really lose their appeal, and I wanted to finish these damn cards. I kept telling myself that I should just forget it. I wasn't trying to be all Perfect Mommy, who gets the baked goods to the neighbors by Christmas Eve and sends cards to everyone with pictures of her kids in their holiday sweaters. I didn't really care if I sent Christmas cards or not!
But telling myself that didn't make me stop.
I didn't so much care if I didn't get cards out to anyone, but I cared if I couldn't stamp and sign and stuff a mere 25 holiday cards while housebound all day. It was kind of the principle of the thing. I was determined and annoyed, and I was going to finish those goddamned Christmas cards if it killed me and win that battle. About half way through I realized that I had addressed and stamped half of the envelopes upside down, and gluesticked the grainy picture of Casimir and Carl right over the proclamation of JOY on some cards. I probably asked about Jackson when I was writing Cy's parents or vice versa, but who cares? Because I finished my Christmas cards! All done. And if you get one, don't open it, because someone probably coughed on it.
I hate to think what's going to happen to the fudge.

AND Casimir has stopped attacking Carl, which means I can go to the bathroom without major stress, bringing a baby along and locking the door or holding an arm out in defense. I guess if you help your two year-old express how much it truly sucks having a new baby crash the scene, he slowly feels validated and eventually calms down about it a little. It seems a little counterintuitive, but that and our little Mommy and Me times out to the Children's Museum and for bribery hamburgers helped him feel secure again on his #1 throne. My dad was the one who came over one day and diverted Casimir with a big hug and the catchphrase "Hugs not Hits!" Sometimes gentle discipline comes from the people you least expect it from. What happened to threatening to get out the belt? Turns out he had been reading some Dr. Spock, as in their 1965 copy that advised them through all four of their children. I thought they just taught obedience and spanking in the old days, but maybe old Spock wasn't as bad as I thought.

I've been having a sitter/mother's helper/rescuer come over for a few hours lately so I can do a little work and also just not have my head explode. Casimir's jealousy has been rearing it's precious little head again lately, and he often tries to swat Carl if I leave him like a sitting duck on a blanket or in his bouncy, which is a bit irksome, to say the least. It's hard to mention it, because even though I know it's common and developmentally normal behavior for a toddler with a new sibling, I feel like that kind of statement usually just offers up a fabulous opportunity for people to assume I'm dying for advice or that he's not stopping because I'm Doing Something Wrong. Or maybe I just assume they think that. Or maybe I just think that. Or whatever. Anyway.

Having a sitter is not quite like having my mom come over, because apparently regular sitters don't show up with a casserole and help me with my knitting and do the dishes, for free. But it's still helpful. It's hard to get used to having someone else around though, and I feel like I'm bossing her around if I ask her to change diapers or express a perference for no TV. The other day she was still here when both kids actually were sleeping at the same time, so I pretended I had "errands" to run and fled to Starbucks to read for an hour. I used to read all the time while Casimir was playing on his own, but now downtime kind of went out the window, and I have to hire someone and flee to coffee chains to do so.

And she doesn't eat anything, ever, which I think is funny. I remember not eating anything at houses I babysat at, partially because they inevitably had nothing interesting to snack on but teddy grahams and other toddler delicacies, and partly because it felt way too taboo. Like, even if they said "help yourself," I'd only eat something if there were loads of them, too many to count, and if there were no wrappers to conceal. One family started to call me a breatharian. Now I'm happy my sitter is the same way, not because I don't want her to eat anything here, but because it eases the burden of having to have a variety of good adult food on any given day. I mean if you like snacking on apple sauce, plain yogurt or peas, then you're set. Otherwise, the choice is kinda lame if I haven't been to the store.

Casimir has a new little favorite friend at one of his play classes. They run around together giggling and chasing and ticking and chattering. He'll say "Paulina, let's go over here! Tickle me! Come on!" and she'll say, "Polishpolish Pol Ish polishPolish-polishpolish" and they seem to communicate rather efficiently. It's cute.

Putting on a Santa suit should be like becoming a hostess at a perky family restaurant. You should have to smile, even if your face is starting to hurt. And say Ho Ho Ho. We went to see Santa after some hot chocoalte and a ride on a trolley driven by a crazy elf at a Christmas party in my parents' town. I had a feeling that Casimir's Santa excitement would dissipate once it was actually his turn to sit on Santa's big red lap, but I knew he was still intrigued, so I thought we could just casually stand in front of him together, say hello and tick off all that we wanted. But I think Santa thought I was forcing him to stay, so he sort of hastily moved on to the next kid before Casimir was ready. Like, is it that hard to think outside of the box and just talk without the lap sitting part? Is it so hard to SMILE Santa?

Well I was thinking of explaining to Casimir how Santa is pretend anyway, and I really wanted to that night to mitigate that first impression, but by the time we saw Santa again at Moms and Tots (the dude gets around), Caz seemed to be kind of over him. So who knows. Maybe we will continue with this charade for another year before I break down, discuss Santa in the framework of "pretend" and implore him not to ruin the magic for other kids whose parents expect us to keep up this silly house of cards for them. I think we can have some holiday magic without the untruths built around this elaborate sleigh/chimney story. I'm just strangely uncomfortable with the idea of teaching Casimir something that is so neat and so special that it's not true, and some day in the future, having to say, surprise! It was all made up! Sorry! But that's just me. Take out the cookie making, decorating, lights, tree, and gifts, and I can get a little scroogey.

I totally forgot to bring up our Thanksgiving holiday, which was pretty stressful and involved a lot of work and stress and difficulty for me. And that was getting out the door to grandmas by 10am, looking nice with our hair combed. I didn't actually cook anything.

Things I am adoring lately (which are stunningly mostly child-related):
The Ergo, which is so amazingly comfortable, I think it quite possible to forget you have a baby attached to your middle and hop on a motorbike or something similarly dangerous. I had previously been bjorning or using this Premaxx sling/aka "Premaxx baby bag" which is both uncomfortable and horridly resonant of the words "body bag" if you ask me. I'm also digging Brain, Child magazine which I just got and sort of liken to the Bitch Magazine of motherly reading. I was so engrossed in my first issue, I sat reading it in the bathtub while the water got cold and the mold in the hard-to-reach lower corners of the shower door stared me down. And of course there's still shoes, for which my affection is becoming increasingly obviously inversely proprotionate to how many brain cells I have left. Well, I used to be smart. I also just love the silly predictable aspects of my favorite shows, like on Law & Order, how the people just act SO ANNOYED when the homicide detectives come around to ask them questions about what they heard or saw or about the serial murderer they might have been sleeping or working with. They give curt answers while they go about their business, and then with a huff it's, "Can I GO now?" I've never been to New York. Are they really all so jaded with police detectives questioning them about the latest bloody murder on their street, that they just can't be bothered with those ever present homicide detecitves? Because then I really have to go there. I think I'd be a little excited to get involved!
There was more, but I've forgotton what other frivolties were lightening my mood.

The Obvious is sometimes elusive.
After over a year of attending Moms Pops and Tots with Casimir, I think I've finally discovered the big mysterious reason he refuses to dance for the first ten minutes of class when music is played. In fact, sometimes he darn right cuddles into my lap until I ask him if he wants to go home. Every week, I stupidly thought he'd start dancing, and every week, he pretty much didn't, so we just started showing up late, since he likes the rest of it. He often wavers between very shy and Tom Cruise-like loud and gregarious, so you never know. Well, today over lunch, I casually asked him why he didn't like that part, and he knit his brows and said, "She puts the music too loud. It scary."
You don't say.
I was scared too, the first week when she cranked the crackling recording of Wheels On the Bus up to ear-bleeding levels, but I guess I got used to it. And poor Casimir didn't. I guess sometimes the right words just take a long time to find.

And then, in the same illuminating lunch, I discovered that you only have to leave the acorn squash intact in the shell, throw it on the plate, call it a "squash boat" and voila. It's suddenly edible and far more scrumptious than mashing it to a buttery pulp.