A sweet moment in the storm

The first little figure materializes at the side of my bed around 3:30 a.m.

"I had a bad dream," she says, as distant thunder rumbles.

She clambers up and tucks herself beside me, cold tiny feet pressed against the small of my back.

I drowse. Until the second figure appears, again at my side of the bed.

"Mommy, I sceeered," he says. And then, outraged to find his sister already sprawled next to me -- "That's my spot! My spot!"

Hubs rolls over and pulls the still-sleeping child to his side while the second assumes the warm spot she leaves behind. "Mama's hair," he murmurs, and thus begins the stroking and tugging that occurs anytime he sleeps near me. For the rest of the night, he will curl himself around my head, comma-like, and nest there, fingers still wound tightly in my hair.

Every so often, I'll hear my oldest whispering in her sleep and the snuffling of my toddler.

And even though I know there will no more rest in these early-morning hours, I snuggle them closer, comforted by the sweet smell of my little one's blankie and the occasional soft snore from my little girl.

On a cheerier note...

When I saw this one, I told Hubs I'd just had a glimpse into the future: Our drunk frat boy being helped off the curb by two smashed girls after a kegger.

Easter weekend

The kids were cute.

Our visit to the in-laws?

Eek.

I'll post on it tomorrow. When I hope to be fully recovered.

(No wine. I opted for bourbon.)

An outlaw among the in-laws

Really, I just don't seem to fit in.

They weren't very enthused when Hubs and I got married. They weren't unwelcoming -- more like, "Eh. Another wife." Yawn.

Maybe it's the fact that I'm not the first wife. Maybe it's the 14-year age difference between my spouse and me. To put things in perspective -- around the time we started having kids, their youngest grandchildren were teenagers. Their great-granddaughter is the E-man's age.

And yet.

The lack of grandparently behavior wounds.

They showed no interest when I was pregnant with my first.

A week after her birth, they dropped by, but only because they were already in town, visiting my MIL's parents.

MIL picked up my daughter and, after a bizarre moment of inspection, said, "She's so tiny. And yellow."

Yes, well, she was 3 1/2 weeks, early. And that's called jaundice. Now quit being rude and marvel over the wonderousness of my first baby.

There was no baby blanket, like she'd made for all the other grandchildren. No gushing. Just ... stiffly impolite indifference.

They've shown more interest as the kids have gotten older. But it's not a constant thing. Sometimes they're affectionate with the little ones. Sometimes, not so much.

I've tried to let it go. But then Hubs tells me that when we visit them this weekend, my BIL is throwing my MIL a surprise birthday.

And all I can think about is how, last month, she forgot both of my kids' birthdays.

Let's just say I'm not inclined to bring a damn thing to this event. Except maybe a bottle of wine.

For me.

What you don't want to see or hear right before bed:

1.) Your husband, crouched on the floor, sniffing the heating vent.

2.) Your husband asking in a fake-nonchalant sort of way, "Does it smell like something ... oh, I probably shouldn't say it ... but, well ... does it smell like something is burning to you?"

Translated: Hey, my darling neurotic, paranoid wife, let me ensure that you lie awake until 3 a.m. imagining that you just saw a plume of smoke in the corner.

Children at funerals?

My husband's grandmother died a few days ago. Her funeral was at 1 p.m. today.

We took the kids to daycare/preK as usual. When we arrived at the service, people kept asking where the children were. At one point, I began to wonder if we had been expected to bring them.

Why didn't we?

Well, this is what I imagine would have happened.

"Mommy, why is Grandma Liz in that box?"

"Is she sleeping?"

"No, E-man. I think she's dead. She has lots of wrinkles. People with lots of wrinkles die."

"Wake up! You 'wake?!"

"Mommy, she's not waking up!"

Etc...
Grandma Liz was nearly 90 and suffered from Alzheimer's. I knew the funeral would be attended by older family members and seniors from her church. I couldn't imagine them wanting to hear the above conversation during an instrumental of Amazing Grace.

But then people kept asking. And my husband's nephew brought his 8-month-old baby.

I still think we made the right call. But I'm interested in other people's thoughts on this.

Kids at funerals? Yes? No?

If yes, at what age?

Been a bit obsessed...

...with a story at work. Hence the lack of posts and my slowness in commenting on your blogs.

I have things to say, but tonight I just can't find the right words.

Tomorrow.

Hey, Daddy! Step it up...

Must. Get. To. That. Snow.



Please note what Hubs used for the snowman's eyes.



*********************
Just got back from a girlfriend's baby shower in Dallas. And dang it -- I missed out on all that snow. Heh.

Am now trying to catch up on all my blog reading...

Making much with little

Last Sunday, Hubs woke up and decided to build the kids a swingset.

I raised my eyebrows when he started talking about buying lumber. "Um ... how much would that cost?" I asked in that tone.

(Read: It's another two weeks until payday. Ah, the journalist's life.)

Hubs wandered outside to think.

An hour later, I found him yanking up boards in the backyard. These boards were used by the previous homeowner for a middle-of-the-yard deck that boasted a birdbath, outdoor shower and a rusting basketball goal. (We have no idea. But trust me, we have certainly done some speculating.)

The kids came outside to see what was going on.

"You'll be swinging by this afternoon," Hubs promised.

So he sawed and hammered. All day, two little people stood outside, watching.

At 5 p.m., Hubs declared the swingset finished. Ecstatic, the kids claimed their swings.

It made me think -- I spend all this time thinking about what we don't have, and yet here's a daddy who spent his whole Sunday piecing together some old planks so that his kids would have a place to swing.

And I am grateful.

Bad Mommy Confession No. 243

I don't do snow.

Don't get out in it. Don't play in it.

Hate. It.

I'm from Texas. I now live in Arkansas. I'm quite happy with the fact that snowfalls occur only once or twice a year here. (Our winter weather forte is the Incapacitating Ice Storm, which also falls into my Ugh Category.)

So when the Hubs drifted into the bedroom this morning to announce, "It's snowing. You know the kids are going to want to play in it before school," he should have expected my reply:

"You're the snow person. I don't like cold. I don't like wet. Snow duty falls under Daddy Time."

After much sighing and whining, I faked a wee bit of excitement for the kids' benefit and Hubs took them out to play.

I poured a cup of coffee and watched the cuteness from the window. This is what I saw:

Happy children


Not-so-happy snow shepherd


Her expression is similar to the one I wore last year when forced to help build a snowman.

Lest you think I'm a totally negative, blah sort of person -- i mean, who doesn't find snow magical? -- I'm a really fun mom at the pool.

Aww... what a guy.

February, despite being my birthday month (psst...I recently turned 38), is my low point each year. It brings depression, bouts of weepiness and a violent hatred of the cold and rain.

A mere forecast is enough to ruin my day.

So of course, when I decided to embark on the reproductive path, I delivered not one, but TWO babies in ... February.

Talk about one helluva maternity leave.

Hello Postpartum! Meet my dear friends, Depression and Anxiety. We're going to have wonderful time together during these next few weeks! Oh, and look! We're going to get rain and snow and ice the entire time Cathy will be home with the baby. Perfecto! Let the sobbing begin!

Which brings me to one of the nicest things my husband has ever done for me.

Realizing that I was wallowing in despair, Hubs asked several of my friends to get me out of the house. Bear in mind that our new baby very much preferred the boob to bottles and wouldn't stop shrieking until the right nipple was placed before her. In other words, Hubs knew what he was in for.

Even so, he made some calls, stopped by desks and rallied the estrogen troops.

"We're taking you out to eat tonight," one girlfriend informed me. And then a group of women pried me from my spitup-stained couch and dragged me out the door.

It was a reprieve I dearly needed, but new motherhood, fear and guilt had kept me confined to my house.

I remember how disoriented I felt at first -- the lights, the chatter, the drinks. And I remember how much better I felt when I returned home just in time for 10 p.m. nursing.

"She did fine," my husband said.

I know he lied, to spare me any guilt.

So why am I telling you this story? Because I'm PMSing. And it's one of those nights when I have to remind myself that I really do like the guy. Even when he keeps breathing in my direction.