Terrible

I think "terrible twos" hit around 2.5 years old for the dink, so we're just now really getting in the trenches. Example: yesterday.

I picked up D and K from daycare at the normal time, and as we were walking to the car, the same SUV that I've been picking them up in every day since we bought it four months ago, the dink starts asking me in this panicky, tearful voice: "Mommy's little black car? Mommy, you got your little black car back??" To which I tell him no, as usual, Daddy has Mommy's little black car now, and he's at work. To which he responds by bursting into tears. Okay.

Then to the car. After I check his seatbelt (he has to fasten it himself of course), I lean in for a kiss. But today he doesn't want a kiss and turns his head. I ask him again for a kiss, but: "I don't want to kiss Mommy today!" so I shut his car door and jump in the driver's seat. At which point he begins howling. What's wrong, dink? Tears streaming, sweat pouring. Have I mentioned that it's 102 degrees outside and I haven't even started the car? And in heels, of course. Somehow that makes everything more difficult. "I want to kiss Mommy!!!" Okay, dink. Let's kiss.

Then in the car. I say "Whew, it's hot! We need to turn on the air!" But apparently I was wrong. Because the dink starts in: No mommy! We not turn on the air! We not turn on the aaaaiiirrrr!" Wow. But this time, we turned on the air.

It pretty much continued like that until we got home. He got upset when I said it was getting cloudy, and when I stopped at the stop signs. But later told me that he "had a good day" and yelled "we're home!" when we got there like he actually wanted to reside with me. I just have to believe that this, too, shall pass, and that it's not true what people say--that 3 years old is now the new 2.

On a brighter note, there is K in that pic being cute as can be playing in my coupons. And today on the way home, D told me "I like Mommy's hair," and that was kind of nice.

Healing

I haven't spent enough time writing about Baby K since he was born, already six months ago. I'd say the process of integrating a second child into your life, your every thought, your future plans, and even correspondence with others is gradual, or has been for me at least. I don't know if this is universal. I've heard plenty people say that, while pregnant, though you can't comprehend the ability to love a second child as much as you love your first, when the child is born, you find a whole nother heart's worth of love and affection for that second baby that equals the first. And I believe that it happens that way for many people. But for me, it really just took time.

K was born as precious as they come, complete with a triangle head and smushed nose, and skin so red that the pediatrician checked his blood count at one week old to make sure he was normal. And I rejoiced in holding him against me most of our entire stay in the hospital, so happy that he was finally on the outside and that I wasn't pregnant anymore and could pat his little booty and smell his milk breath. And all of that was normal and wonderful and lasted until I got home and saw the burden it was for the dink to not have my full attention almost ever, and as soon as I quit taking painkillers for my stitches, Baby K's complete monopolization of my person increased tenfold. He cried the entire day long, from 2 weeks old until 10 weeks or so, at which point his misery only slightly diminished. His daytime naps lasted only 15 minutes, unless he was attached to my breast, and his nighttime sleep consisted of 2-3 hour naps, which ended at 4 a.m. when the night's repeated nursings culminated in gas and reflux too unbearable to be settled by patting, swinging, swaying, singing, dancing, jumping, praying, or even more nursing. Needless to say, J and I were both exhausted, and D somewhat neglected. But the biggest problem then was that when K would cry, it didn't kill me like it should have. Maybe because I heard it so much. Maybe because D managed to cry louder, when I had been holding K in my arms from the time he got home from daycare until J arrived--about 4 hours. Or maybe because I was crying along with him half the time, wondering why I couldn't have a baby who could be set down long enough for me to make breakfast, or why he couldn't be held contentedly on my lap sitting down instead of needing to be bounced around all the time just to distract him from the misery of being awake, or being alive, I sometimes felt.

I can write this today without feeling like the worst mother in world only because K at six months is not the same baby I begrudgingly bounced at six weeks. And I am not the same mother. When K was 9.5 weeks, on Ash Wednesday, I went on an extreme elimination diet to try to resolve K's apparent gastrointestinal misery. And it worked...slowly. By 16 weeks or so, he finally started to take on human-like qualities, quit with the horrific gas and diarrhea, and even started smiling when I walked into the room. And so did I. And for the past two months, I have finally experienced the process that most new mothers go through in the first month of their baby's life--the obsessive, all-encompassing, uncontrollable love and compassion and every other good feeling in the world for that baby. To make him smile by doing something silly and then repeat it 50 times tirelessly, enjoying just the reward of that grin or laugh. To want to smell every inch of him and memorize it, making a mental catalog of tummy, breath, hair. To worry that he'll quit breathing at least once a night, if not a dozen. To sigh contentedly along with him as he falls asleep in your arms. To well up with tears at the slightest suggestion that harm could come his way. I just love that baby like crazy now. And I expect the dink to love his brother, in spite of taking away from his attention, because I need K to be happy just as much as I need D.

Today, it's like everyone told me before. You always have room to love one more. Once they're there, you won't remember life without them. God knows what he's doing, and there is no gift greater than life. Though well worth the wait to finally experience these feelings, it has been a process. But now I can finally say that we're healed, and it feels so good.

Happy

The dink had his first big trip away from us--an entire week spent at Nana and Pop's house three hours away. It wasn't something I was particularly excited about--actually, the impending week caused me more stress than I'd like to admit throughout the entire month of May--but I packed him up with his loveys and little blue pillow and his swim diapers and Go Dog Go! and sent him on his way for seven long days and nights (long for me, that is--the dink still can't tell time).

One of the dink's best qualities is his enthusiasm. He's by far the most enthusiastic person I've ever met in my entire life, rivaled only by one of my best friends, Colleen. (And though Colleen's enthusiasm has remained remarkable into adulthood, knowing her as a teen allowed me to understand that sometimes maintaining that level of hype takes work. But for the dink, at 2.5 years old...it's still effortless.) He gets excited about his cheerios in the morning, or seeing Mickey Mouse on tv. He's thrilled about eating cheese and crackers or getting a cup of juice, or playing Playdoh, or going to the grocery store with Mommy (super excited on that one), or even just putting on his clothes sometimes ("Mommy, I get dressed!!"). I wish I could understand where that motivation comes from at such a young age, to keep a happy face in midst of mundanity, or even fear, or while learning to share me so sweetly with his baby brother. When he was a baby, people used to comment on what a happy little guy he was as if it was something remarkable, and I would think, he's a baby, what does he have to be sad about? But as he gets older, the more remarkable it really does seem. Don't all parents think some quality about their child is noteworthy? I think this is the dink's best feature. I try not to bore people with the "listen to how smart my child is" stories, or suppose that he will one day play professional sports every time he dribbles a soccer ball across the yard, or hurls some other object over the backyard fence...but now when someone comments on what a happy boy I have, I do indulge in a quiet smile to myself, envision a high-five to J, and take a little credit for that...even though I truly don't understand how he does it.

When the dink returned from Nana and Pop's after his long séjour, he carried an armful of lovies and stuffed snakes and his little blue pillow to his room to put back in his bed. I turned on the light, and the rejoicing commenced. "Mommy, my room! My trucks, mommy! My clothes! My little car! My booookkksss!!!" And I just stood there, grinning, silently rejoicing with him. My child! My child! My child!!!

Though D was nothing less than ecstatic about getting to see his "friends" again at daycare that first week after coming back, he couldn't quite yell "bye!" with his usual gusto when I left for work one morning. He followed me to the door to watch me get in the car, and I tried to make him laugh by telling him "Bye, sugar. Bye, honey." which is part of a game we usually play in the car. And he just stood there looking through the screen door at me, trying so hard to smile at me, but the little corners of his mouth kept turning down, and his eyes were all sadness. But even as his tears were forming, he was still trying to make himself smile. Oh, dink. Now witnessing that sweet effort can definitely make you late for work. But it only took a few hugs and kisses and a brief pep talk to get him back on his feet. And though I felt like a jerk all morning long for being a working mom at all, I was still glad to know that I was missed. I imagine that one benefit to having a clingy child would be knowing that child always needs you. And the downside of having a confident, independent child is wondering if he even needs you at all. I think with the dink, we got the best of both worlds.

Jesus

Aptly-timed with Easter fast approaching, Jesus has been a hot topic for the dink lately. One thing I love about his daycare is that it's run by a church, so Jesus-themed arts and crafts and weekly jam sessions with the "chapel ladies" are institutions. Since singing and dancing are probably the dink's favorite two activities (he is his father's son after all), it's no surprise that he can recite all the words to Jesus Loves Me, and that he can't hear me sing He's Got the Whole World in His Hands without performing the requisite hand motions. But at this age, I can only imagine that Jesus to him has similar meaning to Elmo and Handy Manny--other beloved characters in his life that he's never met outside of books, play figures, and tv.

What has always amazed me is how the dink accepts, and expects, to see these figures at any given moment, in any given setting. Elmo could literally show up on food items at the grocery store, on stickers at the doctor's office, on his shoes, his socks, his diapers, his lunch bag...I'm certainly not saying that the dink has so many Elmo-themed items, but that it's reasonable for him to see Elmo anywhere. And so it is with Handy Manny, and with Jesus. I was playing videos of garbage trucks on YouTube for him recently when one of the truck drivers had a beard and mustache. The dink starting whining "Jeee-sus...Mommy, see Jeee-sus" in the same exact tone of voice he uses when asking me for fruit snacks. I had to scurry to find a Jesus-themed children's video as fast as possible. Another time, he got away with making me agree to "one more book" before bedtime because he picked up The Easter Story and begged me to "Read Jesus, Mommy." At least that time the character was in the right setting.

The dink's "friends" are big characters in his life as well. That's how they refer to all of the other children at daycare. He's been reciting "Be nice to your friends" for quite awhile, but has recently upgraded that instruction to "It's not nice to make your friends sad." I'm not sure how the Jesus character fits into these lessons at school, but I'm thinking I need to find a bridge. I had a college roommate who loved to contribute to conversations with "something (can't remember) and lies make the baby Jesus cry." I think I'll hold off on that one, though, and perhaps try praying instead that maybe, just maybe, Jesus will come to life this Easter in places that none of his character friends have yet to transcend.

Breakthrough

Deuce is three months old now, which means that he is finally starting to act like a person, as opposed to the howling animal he's been mimicing for so many weeks. And along with his acquirement of people skills like smiling, laughing, making eye contact, and using his voice in a conversational manner, he's also acquired a new friend...

Dink was watching Sesame Steet the other day, and the segment was about friends. Now, the dink knows all about being "nice to your friends," a lesson that's apparently repeated daily at "school" (daycare). And I've been told for months that he is attached at the hip to a little troublemaker named Rylan in his class who frequently gets put in timeout (of course my dink never has to go to timeout, but he's definitely developed a healthy fear of it from watching his friends suffer). On Sunday nights, when I'm telling the dink that the next day is a school day, he tells me "go see your friends," and Rylan is usually at the top of the list of friends he'll see. (Randomly, though, it's a little girl named Gia that shows up among our list of family that we "God Bless..." in our prayers.) Anyway, after watching Sesame Street, I quizzed Declan on the friend situation. The conversation went like this:

ME: Who was Big Bird's best friend?

DINK: Teddy bear.

ME: Who was Ernie's best friend?

DINK: Bert.

ME: Who is your best friend? (I was anticipating Rylan. Instead I got the sweetest surprise...)

DINK: Baby Keane.

So both Dink and Deuce, and the whole Womack family scored big on that one. Deuce finally gained acceptance, and a friend that he'll treasure for life. Dink melted Mommy's heart with his sweetness and sincerity. And the Womack family unit as a whole breathed a sigh of relief that maybe it won't crumble after all from a permanent rift in its infrastructure.

Mardi Gras

The dink, as usual, continues to amuse, amaze, and ambush me with his limitless enthusiasm, joy, and insatiability for the smallest details of his little life. His daycare teacher left me a note the other day that when she announced to the class that it was time to read a book and sing songs (everyday occurrence), the dink yelled "Oh boy!" and shrieked with excitement. That's just classic dink for ya.

He's also known to reach peak excitement over things like eating strawberries, going to the grocery store, watching Toy Story 3, and hearing Daddy come home. I wonder if this is simply a personality trait of the dink that he's inherited from his dad (I could see J acting like this as a kid--me, I haven't reached peak excitement since I got my hands on the Babysitter's Club Super Special #5 Winter Vacation book in the fourth grade), or if this is how all kids act when their worlds are so small that getting a pirate sticker for teeteeing on the potty is somewhat equivalent to me getting a 20% pay raise. I guess only time will tell.

I remember when the dink was a baby, only cooing and crying for communication, and I would think that I couldn't wait until he was talking because I was so curious to know what he'd say. Now we're definitely at that stage where he says cute and funny things all the time, but we're only just now getting a peek at how his little brain works. Sometimes I think he's genius, and sometimes that he hasn't got a clue, but I'm never in doubt of his charm, his sensitivity, or his humor. Again, traits from his dad. I'm pretty sure all he inherited from me is fat cheeks, short legs, and long eyelashes.

Some of the dink's recent highlights:

• Getting really good at using possessives, and assigning ownership to everything he sees. "That's daddy's tools, not mommy's", etc. But when it belongs to him: "That's my's!" I don't know how he hasn't figured out such a classic 2-year-old expression, but I enjoy it too much to correct him.

• I asked him to throw away a grocery bag full of trash into the big trashcan in the kitchen. Turns out the big trashcan was already full. So D pulls out the milk carton on the top of the trash to make room for his bag, smashes down the trash in the can, presses his bag down into it, and replaces the milk carton--end result was that the trash can was less full than when he had begun. This is something his Papa would be so proud of.

• Saying "Mommy, hold you" and "Mommy, help you" when he needs hugs and help.

• Showing affection for the strangest objects, like drawings of cats in his books, or 3-inch figurines of Elmo and a trashman. He makes sort of a pouty face, draws his eyebrows together, and pulls the book/inanimate object to his shoulder, with his head pressed down, and gives it a "hug." He's very serious about it to, this hugging of books.

• Taking Mardi Gras by storm. I mean, this kid was scooping those beads off the ground and throwing them around his neck like he'd been doing it for years. Every time another float came, he'd say, "Mommy, it's a [insert color] one!" Total sensory overload. And of course he could never get enough, even after we took him to the Bogalusa parade in the pouring rain. He's still asking me for more beads, and more parades.

• Skipping that whole "Mommy, I want..." phase and going straight to "Mommy, I need..." And the list never ends. In an afternoon, he'll typically declare that at the very least he needs juice, milk, a kite, a dog, a treat, to watch Toy Story, and cake.

• Getting good at telling stories. Really cute ones. Today I asked him what he did at school today, and he told me that he played on the playground, he jumped, and he bumped heads with the sky. Does it get any better than that???
  

Deuce

Well, it's been a long time since I've taken a moment to write about what the dink's been experiencing, been learning, been teaching me...but it doesn't mean I haven't been thinking about it. Since baby #2, "deuce", arrived three weeks ago, the dink has been constantly on my mind.

I guess we didn't do due diligence in preparing the dink for the arrival of his baby brother. Sure, we added "baby brother" to the prayer list at night, and we taught him how to point to mommy's belly (and consequently daddy's belly and his own belly) when asked the question "Where's the baby?", but I didn't delve into books on today's theories about how to welcome a second child into a single-child situation where, by all obvious perceptions, #1 appears to be 100% content with his uniqueness. And I'm sort of regretting it now.

I've seen a new side of the dink since deuce arrived--a side of him I would have been happy to go my whole life never seeing. My mom says he's acting like a typical two-year-old. But what I see is a confused little boy who vacillates between two approaches to handling the new baby situation: 1) trying to put on a happy face, saying "hi, baby k!" when he sees his little brother, sharing his doggy lovey with him when he's fussing, and trying to climb into my lap when I'm holding him so he can ask me to say "my two boys!"...this is the approach that melts my heart and makes me proud of his glass-half-full view of the world and his ability to smile even when he's hurting. But then there's 2) exerting every ounce of control over me that he's spent the past two years building (I'll admit to being only partially aware of this), using whining, crying, and screaming frequently as primary forms of communication, and generally expressing his anger at me if not the whole world through those handy 2-year-old vehicles of temper tantrums, refusal to comply with very basic requests (getting dressed, taking a bath, etc), and frequent use of the words no, mine, do it!, and gguuuunnnmmmm--a multi-functional sound of extreme displeasure. This is the dink that infuriates me, saddens me, and drives me to question why we think we're qualified to raise a second child when the results of the first one are less than admirable... So I'm just praying that this, too, is another "phase" that will pass as quickly as the newborn baby struggles of fussing-all-day and up-all-night.

When my sister was a teenager, she was a door slammer. It used to drive my parents crazy, especially when she slammed her bedroom door upstairs. My dad claimed it shook the whole house. I remember one time, after a heated shouting match with my dad, my sister slammed her bedroom door for final punctuation. When my dad came upstairs soon after to tell me goodnight, I promised him that I would never fight with him the way that my sister did. Of course, that turned out to be a lie. Yet here I am, staring desperately into deuce's blue bug eyes and pleading with him already to not act like the dink when he is two years old, or any other time. But I can see, as I sway him right and left ever so gently, careful to rock him to sleep with the most agreeable rhythm, that he's already exerting his power over me, and I have no will to fight him. So here we are, and here we go again.

Two Years

Somewhere between our monotonous daily cycles of sleep/work/play/eat, and breathtaking moments of discovery about humility, empathy, and laughter...the dink turned two. Of course, I've heard it hundreds of times before--it goes by too fast; blink and they're teenagers...so I did expect the time to fly. But oh, how fast it has flown--especially for people like us who distinguish days of the week by the nature of our errands and to-do lists outside of working hours. So in some ways, I've really tried to listen to what people say, enjoying each part of the baby days of childhood before the next step comes too fast. But no one prepared me for how to avoid the grief of this moment, now that the moment has passed...when I find such sadness, guilt even, about my baby growing up.

Of course I am happy that he has survived the past two years: I am proud of all the words he's learned, tickled at the dance moves he's acquired, thrilled that he eats broccoli, pets cats, and would rather spend time with his family than just about anything else he's discovered in his entire little world. And I am happy that I've had the privilege of being his mommy. But it occurred to me the day of the dink's birthday party, when he woke up that morning having no idea of the commotion that would ensue, that at his age--and who knows, maybe it's like this forever--the birthday celebration is really about the mother. It's the day for me to remember how that little guy entered the world, how the world suddenly changed because he was in it, and how the two years that have passed since that revelatory November 10th are time that I have to close the door on, forever. Not in the sense of forgetting, but in the way that the years of all of our lives get whittled down into small treasure boxes of notable moments, milestones, pictures, choice stories. I've taken all the photos of baby dink that will ever exist. And I've spent as much time as I'll ever have nursing him, rocking him to sleep, holding him and communicating with him without language, sitting with him comfortably in my lap...and I'm having trouble coming to terms with that. I want more baby dink days, all three of us cooing in bed together on Saturday mornings. I want more anticipation of seeing him wear a new color and discovering his every look from a new angle. I want to keep watching him fall asleep, and I want him to keep calling me the second he wakes.

I guess this means that I'm ready for our new baby to arrive. Or maybe it means I'm not--that I'm grasping to hold on to the one that we have. Now I certainly don't harbor any notions that once a child turns two, I have to quit treating him like my "baby" and instead like a "big boy." I'll probably be like that old lady in Love You Forever, breaking and entering into his apartment in college to pat him on the back and make sure his feet are properly covered by his blankets (you know that's important to the dink). But without even noting the days of the time that is passing, I feel that babyness slipping further away. So while I am excited to know and understand who this little dink is with each year that his personality and his mind develops, for now, especially until the next baby arrives, I'll cherish the Mommy, hold yous and the sporadic hugs and kisses in the middle of play, and the awkward fit of him and me and my big belly in the rocking chair.

Probably one of the most notable moments from the day the dink was born that I relive almost every day was just hours after he was born, when J and I were finally alone and staring at the most precious specimen of human life we could imagine, and just seconds after marveling at how much we already loved him, I was gripped by the fear of continuing my own life if somehow I lost him. It's the worst part about having a child, in my opinion. And maybe this is more of a mother thing--after your body has spent so much time creating and bonding with this other being--the second that being breathes its own breath, you are suddenly rendered incapable of functioning without its existence. Sigh. So with that in mind, I guess I'll try to move past these feelings of sadness that the dink has already completed two years of life with me and spend some time instead thanking God that we have survived them, together.

Antics

The dink's antics never cease. I think this might be what the next ten years will look like...

Reminiscing

The dink's short-term memory is getting a little longer. Or maybe it's just that his vocabulary is now allowing him to tell me what he's thinking about. Lately, we seem to close out the day with him reminiscing about the people he saw or the things he did within the past 24-48 hours, or even up to a week when it's really memorable (like when he got to ride in Maman's big orange minivan with his baby cousin E). Sunday night, when I was trying to sing the ABCs so patiently with him, he couldn't stop thinking about how he had gotten to feed our friends' dog a treat while we were over there watching the Saints game. Every fourth or fifth letter, he'd interrupt me to say "Max. Dog. Cookie."

Bless the Tractor

Since he loves talking about the people he knows/sees so much, we close out the nighttime routine by naming them in our prayers. We go through a dozen or so family members, usually in a similar order, so the dink has come to anticipate each name before it's said. The other night, though, I guess he was reminiscing about a visit to Papa's house, because I said "God, please bless..." and the dink replied: "Papa's tractor."

Daddy Bobo

Last month, J managed to scrape off an obscene amount of skin on his shin trying to slide into a base during some ridiculous middle-of-the-night, law firm vs. law firm softball game. I don't think the result was as entertaining as he had planned. But he sure did garner a lot of genuine concern from one little guy over the injury. For two weeks, he had this 5-6 inch bright red scab on his leg that the dink watched him bandage every morning. And every evening, around the time J comes home, the dink would start asking me "Daddy bobo? Daddy bobo?" like he couldn't wait until J came home to assess the improvement of the bobo. A couple times when the dink looked at it up close, he would actually whimper with sadness for daddy or even back away, like he was scared of the bobo. Mark it down as the dink's first experience in empathy.

Go Away, Kitty Kitty

This one really breaks my heart. I've been so proud of the dink's love for his kitties (now kitty), and especially thankful that he hasn't shown any signs of allergy to them yet like his daddy. But one of the disadvantages of having an outdoor cat is that sometimes you end up feeding more than your own. Lately, it seems we've been feeding the entire neighborhood, but I really think that's because a colony of stray cats is reproducing behind the abandoned house a few doors down. And as much as I love cats, I'm trying not to let my heart bleed over all of these new little ones that are waiting for me on the outskirts of the driveway when I get home with the dink in the afternoon. So when I see them eating Number Two's food, I yell "Go away, cat! You don't live here!" And oh, how quickly the dink has caught on. He now thinks every cat needs to be yelled at. Where previously, when the dink saw a picture of a cat in one of his books, he would press the book up against his chest and say "Hug, kitty, hug," now he points that little finger accusingly at any cat he sees (real or illustrated) and starts yelling "Go away, kitty kitty!" at least 7-8 times per viewing. It kills me. It really does.

Syntax

I just love witnessing the dink's acquisition of language. It's one of those topics that have always fascinated me...and reflecting on the idiosyncrasies of the dink's syntax is proving to be much more exciting than reading Chomsky. One thing that cracks me up is that, although his pronunciation of English words is pretty accurate about 80% of the time, the rest of the time he's like a native French speaker learning English as an adult.

After he got a scrape on his leg, I gave the dink his first themed Bandaid--Dora the Explorer. I don't think the dink even knows who Dora is, and I only bought them in the first place because they were really cheap...but nevertheless the dink was super excited about it, and requested a "Beebee Dora" every single day after his bath or in the morning until the whole box was gone. It was so funny to me how he would put the descriptor "dora" after the word bandaid, like he was speaking a romance language. But I tried not to say the silly phrase back to him too much, and after a while he switched to "Dora Beebee." The real confusion came in later, when I treated him to a much more expensive box of Sesame Street Bandaids, and after he got the first one on his knee, he began talking about his "Elmo Dorabeebee" for the rest of the weekend. And last night before bed he was dying for an "Abby Dorabeebee"....what have I started here?

The other strange construction he's doing is starting sentences off with what sounds like "C'est," the French way of saying "It's." I think it started with him telling us to see this or that, but now the phrase starts just about every other sentence he utters. "C'est Elmo Dorabeebee..." yikes.

One thing he's doing really well is practicing hard on pronouncing especially the ending syllables of words. After he says something like book or milk, you can hear him repeating "kuh, kuh" under his breath for extra emphasis. And when saying plurals, another new skill, he always throws in an extra sss or two at the end ("keys-ss"). And just last week, he started occasionally using the word and. One afternoon, he must have told me 20 times in a row "Mommy AND Daddy. Mommy AND Daddy." That's a good one start with, at least. Much better than "Juice AND cookie" or "Bert AND Ernie."