You've got something on your shirt

This whole have a second baby thing, not what I thought it would be. I thought this time I would be more organized. I thought nothing would take me by surprise. I thought that I may not be as wonder struck this time around, I was wrong.


I am just as powerless to Tate's charms as I was to Turner's. My delusional plans to keep getting things accomplished during nap time are a joke. Just as I laid on the couch and stared at my son, I now lay on the couch and stare at my daughter. I thought I would put her down and go do the mom stuff that I need to get done. Well I still get my mom duties checked off. But I do it while wearing baby girl in a sling so we still get to be cuddled up right next to each other.

While my mother-in-law was here she kept dropping little nuggets of advice. For example: Set her down, there is no reason to hold her so much. Don't get up with every cry, teach her to get herself settled back down. Etc etc. This is in no way bad advice, just not for me. It suited her while raising five boys. But as long as my back can bear the load, I will continue to pick up both my children as much and as often as I can. It will only be one or two more blinks of an eye and they'll be as tall as me and not wanting for mom to carry them. As for when they cry out, they need only do it once cause I'll always get up and see what they need.

Turner cried at midnight one day last week. I was bleary eyed and not too awake when I stumbled into his room. He wasn't fully awake either and I probably could have ignored him and he'd have drifted off back to sleep without any reassurance from me. But I did get up and go in his room to ask him what was wrong. My sweet baby said in a raspy dream heavy voice "Mommy, there are rollie pollies in my hair". I had to stifle a laugh. I brushed his hair off, then brushed the unseen rollie pollies from his pillow. He laid his head back down and was asleep. Now if I had chosen to just let him cry out and settle himself back to sleep I would have missed the chance to know what angels dream about.

I realize that new babies are a lot of work, but I have never been happier being this dog tired. Tate is one month old today. She has already changed so much. She loves baths. She is starting to smile, but only at Papa. She gazes at Turner with such concentration that I can not wait for her to be able to tell me what she sees.

Delirium is fun. Being a little wacky from sleep deprivation is a state I don't mind residing in. I make myself laugh. Yesterday I told Turner that I put his breakfast in the pool, I meant the living room. The look on my boy's face was priceless, mom has lost it.

I still think Brad and I were meant to do this together. His sense of humor keeps me lifted, he helps with out me asking, and the only thing better than looking at my two babies is getting to watch them with the person I made them with.

There are times when life is less than glamorous. Yesterday Turner was sick. I was up at five am changing sheets and disinfecting his room. Then at seven when he wanted oatmeal I fed it to him. After he finished eating he turned to me and threw up. I caught what I could in my hands, then let him spew what was left right into my bath robe. Hey, it kept it off the furniture. After clean up round number two I had to change Tate's diaper for the seventy fifth time. While I had her tush lifted making sure everything was clean she sneezed and shot poop onto my clean shirt and pants. But even after a morning spent smelling like poop and vomit I was still smiling. I love being the one who is there for them. I love taking care of my kids. I love my husband for buying me a nice washing machine. So if I can keep grinning on the days that literally "blow" and are "shitty", don't you wish you were me on the days when everything smells like roses?

Twice as Nice

I have gotten s few random phone calls/comments since having my baby girl. Mainly "I'm worried about you" or "You seem so happy(with a vocal inflection that denotes surprise)". Why? I was happy and made it through number one. Hell, I even wanted a number two, so it really couldn't have been that bad the first time around.


I guess all the concern throws me. But as a clarification: I don't really like being pregnant, but babies, I love babies. I have already started trying to soften Brad to the idea of a third. How you ask? By telling Turner to ask for a brother of course. No I don't want another one right now, but Brad takes a while to warm to new ideas.

Life with two is actually twice as great as life with one. I have just let go of some of my crazy rules and standards for the time being. Honestly, my bed hasn't been made since Tate came home with us and it doesn't bother me. Instead of spending five minutes in the morning making the bed I spend five minutes laying in the bed looking at my angels. Turner climbs up and hugs me and Tate. Then he stays with me while I feed his sister.

Nursing a second baby is different. It's not the quiet time that it was with Turner. Instead it's time spent holding my girl while talking with my boy. It forces me to sit down and slow down. Turner will come a sit in the chair with me. He'll hold Tate's tiny hand and talk with me. We discuss Power Rangers, rollie pollies, what's for lunch, our favorite colors, we sing, and I love every second of it.

Turner has really blossomed into a wonderful big brother. Brad and I both worried if our kids would be close. I never had a brother and he's never had a sister. This is uncharted territory for the both of us. Fortunately for us, I see no way that they won't be the best of friends. When I hear Turner saying "It's OK my lil girl, don't cry, brother is here" I know he'll be her hero all her life. Every day Turner wants to know if she's talking yet, like it'll happen over night. He can't wait to play with her. He talked to my stomach every night asking her to come out. I have no doubt that when Tate does decide to wake and talk it'll be Turner's name she says first.

Two More Hours

"Two more hours, you rub my head." This was the request I got tonight from Turner as I got ready to walk out of his room after story time. He has no concept of time, but "Two more hours" has been what he asks for. Two more hours to play, two more hours of his show, Pop will be home in two more hours, and two more hours of me rubbing his head.


I'm no fool, I know it's a stall tactic to prolong his being awake. I choose not to care that it is a stall tactic and look at it as my son loves me and wants just a few more minutes with his mom. Leave me my delusions.

So if I had this "Two more hours" that he thinks exist for the fun stuff what would I do with my two more hours? Well, I think I would do what I already do. I would wake up and share a bowl of oatmeal with my son while holding my daughter in my lap. I would spend the morning catching up with good friends. I would rub Turner's head while Tate lays across my shoulder. My life is happy and I am thankful for it. Having a second child has only made it more full.

Tate is in my lap right now making her sweet sleeping noises and I can hear Turner talking to himself as he settles down for sleep. The only thing missing is Papa. Working late happens. We'll enjoy tomorrow or the next day when he's here for the supper time battle and the bath time fun.

So day two of me and two kids has gone OK. Yes, Tate is two weeks old but my parents were here to help, and what a help they were. I am dog tired and still have to bathe myself and my daughter, finish cleaning the kitchen, eat supper, fold one more load of laundry, feed Tate two more times before bed and I'll be able to hit the sheets with all my To-Do's checked off for the day. I figure I won't be able to accomplish much of anything on half of my days and only some of it on the good days. But who really cares if the bed is made every day? As long as the rumpled sheets are clean and the kids tucked in them are fed, happy, healthy, and above all loved, then my real To-Do's are done.

Hurry Up!

Quick, quick, hurry! Hurry up and run to town before Tate pees, poops, or needs to be fed. Hurry, hurry and get the laundry put away while Turner and Tate are sleeping. Take a quick second to check my email and file some receipts while I'm in here. So much time spent hurrying.


While my Turner was a baby there was so much time spent slowly. Slowly get up and have breakfast. Take our time and have a bath in the morning. Slowly get dressed. No rush to do anything much, just enjoy my boy.

Now it's different. Now I have to hurry to enjoy my boy. He's the blue streak that is zooming around. Poor Tate will have whip lash before her first birthday. I try to stop and slow it down. Take a second and make Turner hug me. Hold on to him a little too long. Squeeze him tight and breathe him in, little boy smell and all.

I am trying to sit and gaze into my baby girls eyes and see what kind of person is in there. I want to give her the same attention I gave her brother, but it's not possible. I guess this is why there's a difference between the oldest child and the baby of the family. Brad and I will unknowingly be more strict on Turner. We won't do it on purpose and it won't be in a mean way. It'll be how all first borns are raised-by parents who are new to every stage.

Then there'll be Tate. She'll be two and a half years younger. We'll know what stages are coming and want to treasure them because we'll have already seen it go by too fast with Turner. We won't want our baby to grow up, so we'll baby her. None of it is anything new. Brad and I are both the oldest and turned out pretty OK even with being our parents guinea pigs. On the other side of the equation are our siblings, who all are pretty OK too, birth order not with standing.

So I hurry to empty my thoughts. Hurry to grab my baby up and hold her. Hurry to peek into Turner's room and watch him sleep. Tomorrow I'll hurry to snap some pictures. I'll hurry to write all my kids smiles on my heart. I want to remember every day of my children's lives. Everyday that they are in mine is magic.