Evenings

One nice thing about both Charlie and I being home all day is that one of us can prepare meals and the other one can take on the role of jungle gym.

Main Street Update #5: Who Needs Professionals?

There are two things that I'd like to spend money on, but just can't do it. One is a haircut for Jett. I can't bring myself to spend money on that because he's only 2 1/2 and he doesn't care what his hair looks like. Plus, when I sit him in his highchair, give him a popsicle and turn on the t.v. he sits still long enough for me to snip, stand back and look at least a few times, and I like playing beauty school.

before

after

before

after

The other thing I can't bring myself to spend money on is professional photographs. I love the professional photos I have of Jett at six months, and I'd love to have some of Kai, but they just seem like a luxury item right now. Still, every once in a while the stars align and I snap a good one. Not professional quality, but still, not bad, right?

love love!

Clean

That was Sunday and I'm still recovering

The other morning I woke up to Jett and Kai's voices on the monitor, and something about their voices made it sound like they were in cahoots. So instead of laying in bed and listening to them, I got up to check things out. Sure enough, Jett was in Kai's crib, rolling around with him.

Wait a minute...what is that? What are they rolling around in?

POOP! POOP! POOP!

I pick Kai up, put him on the changing table, and wash his hands and face (which appeared clean, thankfully) with a wipe. I start taking off Kai's clothes to check for the poop when I turn my head around back to the crib to see Jett pointing out where on his pajamas the poop is coming from. As I realize that Jett is showing me specifically where the poop is coming out of his diaper, he puts his hand to his face and sticks his fingers in his mouth. Yes, the same fingers that were pointing out the poop.

I've got Kai half undressed on the changing table and can't leave him so instead of moving Kai to the floor and lifting Jett out of the crib (the better ideas always show up on the blog, not in real life) I very sternly tell Jett to take his fingers out of his mouth, thinking the sternness of my voice would startle him enough to take them out. Instead he just sucks harder and gives me a look which I probably deserved.

Now Kai is crying because he doesn't like to have his diaper changed unless you kiss his belly and I've forgotten to kiss his belly. (This is a shame because he just lights up when you kiss his bare belly). I still don't remember to kiss his belly and instead I give him an empty travel-wipes case to play with. Jett of course is whining now because I've spoken sternly to him, and of course the monitor is on, which means Charlie pops out of bed even though it's his turn to sleep in a little bit, but he's wondering what I've done to the children to have them both in tears so early in the morning.

Charlie comes in the room and I start to explain what has happened when I turn back to Kai to see that the empty travel-wipes container still had the travel-wipes soapy film in it, and now it has leaked all over his face, neck, hands, and arms. I take the wipes container out of Kai's hands and throw it on the floor. Kai protests.

Charlie attempts to lift Jett out of the crib, but Jett turns a blind eye on the one person who hasn't yelled at him this morning and demands that I pick him up out of the crib instead. Jett is the messiest one and needs the changing table the most, so Charlie picks up Kai, who is really crying now, I pick up Jett who is still angry, and wrestle him on to the changing table. Charlie takes Kai in to the bathroom and starts the bath for Jett.

I wrestle Jett out of his diaper, out of his clothes, and into the bath, where he sits and screams because he is two and a half years old or because the bathtub is in the bathroom or because his hair is blonde or because when you scream in the bathtub it is really, really loud and satisfying. Maybe I'll go try it right now.

When did bedtime get to be such a hassle?

I don't really like to write about Jett's misbehaviour on the blog, because at 2 1/2 years old, it's really not that cute. It's a pain in the butt behaviour and it makes me feel like I'm being controlled by the monster toddler that lives in my house. I mean his house. So I don't want to write about it.

But lucky for you, Internet, I'm laying it all out on the line tonight because I have had it and I'm ready to rumble.

Two nights ago our bedtime routine lasted two hours. Last night it lasted two and a half hours. Tonight it only lasted one and a half hours, but I didn't start it until ten after eight, so it was 9:30 before Jett stopped crying and went to sleep.

I read somewhere that a bedtime routine should only take 15 minutes, and all I want to do is find the editor who kept that line in the book and slap her upside the head because all I can think about every night is 15 minutes! 15 minutes! Little Miss Perfect Fmaily and their 15 minutes.

Two and a half hours is insane. INSANE. Jett gets attention for two and a half hours and I get nothing in return except an evening of a bedtime routine that isn't mine. It's like a nightmare that won't end. You keep redoing the same thing, reading the same book, giving the same hug, giving the same evil-eye...and up jumps our little jett-in-the-box again and again. I'll show you Jett in the box.

It is so much easier to keep reading the stupid books and letting him play with the puzzles on his bedroom floor. It is kind of cute too, the way he whispers so softly when Kai is sleeping in the crib. He knows how to play it, and I am so tired. I am so tired of these runny noses leaving slime everywhere. I am so tired of these coughs, one of which is now mine. I am so tired of trying to avoid an argument with Jett, which is bound to happen anyway because he can't watch 6 straight hours of tv, he can't jump on Kai, he can't have cookies for lunch. I am so tired of not having a routine because every day is different because we don't have jobs to keep us in a routine. I'm so tired of not having a job. I'm so tired of being tired.

So bring on his crying, bring on his protestations, bring on his tears, bring on his wailing, his wringing of garments. Bring on the guilt, the second-guessing, the longing to go back in his room and pick him up and hug him all night. Bring on Charlie's soft-side, his willingness to read the next book and the next. Bring it on.

I want my evenings back. His bedtime can be 9:00, fine. I want 7:00, Jett wants never, 9:00 will do. But it will not be 9:01.

Tomorrow night I'm starting Bedtime Bootcamp. Bring. It. On.

Happy New Year, blah blah blah

I give up. I have all of these half written posts floating around in my head, lovely ones about Christmas and how Christmas on a budget isn't that bad and spending $30 per kid actually was fine and Jett had so many presents he didn't even care about his last one and lovelier posts about the new year and all the fun things we are planning to do and the playgroup we joined and the highchair we borrowed and the fact that the two boys are sharing the same room now and loving it and my posts were going to be entertaining and sweet and nostalgic and something my boys would look back on and know how much I loved their little baby selves. But the post that actually gets written gets written at 12:20 in the morning and doesn't cover any of that. Instead it covers this.

What one thinks about when driving her toddler to the emergency room at 11:15 pm when it is not really an emergency, but on the other hand it is not Not An Emergency.

Or

When your kid has croup but can still breathe but you'd like him to breathe better.

*************************************

I'm driving down Western Avenue and Jett is in his carseat in the backseat. We didn't leave in a rush, so he has his winter coat, hat, and mittens on. He's wearing his green dinosaur pajamas, gray socks pulled up over the legs of his pajamas for warmth, and brown high-top shoes. He thinks we're going to go get medicine to help him feel better. I ask him if we should turn on the radio and he says yes. I follow the speed limit. We're relaxed.

Then I realize that I'm driving to the emergency room, why am I relaxed? I am taking my baby to the emergency room, why am I driving the speed limit. Wait a minute. This car in front of me hasn't even reached the speed limit. Not only am I relaxed, I'm driving slower than the speed limit! What is wrong with me? I pass the car.

I turn down Fullerton and start thinking about exactly where the hospital is. Fullerton and Lincoln. I start thinking about Fullerton and all I can think of is the redline stop. Is Lincoln before or after the redline? Before or after? The redline stop is my landmark for everything I know about Fullerton - do I look for the hospital before or after the redline? Think, Amy! It's impossible to drive by a hospital without knowing it, right? I mean, it's going to be that big white building just past Lincoln, right? Right?

(It's after the redline and there is NO street sign on Lincoln at Fullerton).

Should I be talking to Jett, or not making him talk? Should I turn around and look at him as usual at the redlights to try to get him to smile? He won't smile at me. Is he tired or scared or out of breath? Which is it? Which is it? Is he getting better? Awesome. Except if he's better, do I still take him in to the ER?

Ok, Ok, I'll stop looking at you Jett. I'll turn around now. The light is green.

Here's the driveway to the hospital. The sign says ER, but where do I put my car? Do I seriously have to look for street parking at the ER? That person in scrubs taking a smoke break says I can leave my car here, take my kid in, and then come back and move my car. Really? Leave my kid in the ER without me? Also, he's breathing pretty well now, do I risk the $50 ticket? But I'm taking him to the ER! I should be rushing instead of worrying about parking tickets! What is wrong with me?

Oh, I can park in the parking garage. Fine. I take the first spot, but since it's the first spot it's a tight corner and requires a 10 point turn. I am so slow! I am taking my baby (toddler) to the ER! HURRY UP, AMY!

I get Jett out of his car seat and he wants to walk. He wants to walk. Into the ER. I feel like the only parent who has ever brought a two-year-old to the ER who is healthy enough to walk in to it. I feel more self-conscious than I did during the 10 point turn in to the parking space.

We leave the parking garage and cross the street. It gets windy and Jett wants me to carry him because he is too cold. Thank god.

Triage goes fine, except for Jett's fear of hospital scales, but the nurse weighs me holding him and then weighs me and subtracts. They are very accommodating when it comes to screaming toddlers.

We are in the waiting room for 3 seconds and in that time I distract Jett by offering to buy him a pop-tart from the vending machine. We're dropping in the coins when the nurse calls us in.

Jett is examined by one nurse and three doctors. The first doctor asks Jett if he will open his mouth. Jett grips his now-opened pop-tart and says, "Nope" and the doctor doesn't push it and I say a silent prayer of thanks because Jett is still recovering from his episode with the hospital scale.

In the end, they gave Jett some medicine to reduce the inflammation in his throat (from the croup) and each doctor tells me over and over again how it is FINE that I brought him to the ER. It is GOOD that I brought him. Croup is tricky, and it was his first time having it.

Personally, I was thrilled to be in the ER. After he forgave me for holding him while I stepped on the scale, he calmed right down. In between doctors we layed on the bed and giggled and sang and kissed each other's foreheads. To be honest, it was my favorite part of the day.

The last doctor to examine Jett was trying to decide whether or not, in addition to the liquid medicine he took, Jett should also receive a breathing treatment of epinephrine. She really summed up the whole experience when she said, "You know, I think he's going to be fine without it. I've just never given the breathing treatment to a kid who was eating a pop-tart and singing."