Boys, Socks, and Why I Need a Baby Girl

So I just discovered I gave birth to a boy.

I realize that just now discovering the baby I had roughly a year and a week ago, is a boy is a bit inconvenient, but I have my reasons.

When you have your first baby you are just excited to finally hold your child.  Yes, you make the distinction of if the little one is a boy or a girl by the choice of his or her name.

But honestly, it’s a baby.

Point in case; think back to when you talked about your baby after he or she was first born. I am pretty sure it went kind of like this.

“You won’t believe what my baby did today!”

“My baby is cutting teeth!”

“The little one kept me up all night.”

I could go on forever. But you get the gist. Your baby is just that “a baby.” You never consider significance of your child being a boy or a girl…

Until their personalities start peaking through their all their pudgy babiness. 

And you discover that not only are you living with two males, but two that have the same sense of humor despite the twenty-four year age gap.

Point in case. 

Two weeks ago, we were packing for a trip to Milwaukee. The hubby was folding socks (something that never happens often in our house) and Darren is in his playpen to keep him from getting into everything. I am in standard packing panic mode, speed-racing around the house trying to fill two suitcases with more stuff that we need for a four day-trip.

Peals of baby laughter and man giggles are coming from the living room.

“Baby! Baby! Come here,” hubby gasps between giggles. “Watch!”

I walk into the room as he launches a pair of rolled socks in his son’s direction. Darren is sitting in the furthest corner of the playpen gurgling with laughter.

Cute, it does make me smile; but why they find is so hilarious is really beyond me.

This is when if felt the first inkling of being out numbered.

Then this past Saturday rolled around. I had a pretty relaxing morning with Darren. He was well behaved and cheerful.

Then daddy came home. 

And my cheerful well-behaved boy woke up from his nap and realized that his partner in crime had magically appeared while he was asleep.

By supper time I was ready to pull my hair out. Two and a half hours of constant yelling, grunting, protesting being told no, and etc.

And the little man wasn’t done. He was loudly stating his disgruntlement at how long his mama was taking to fix his plate. 

The hubby finally noticing my frayed ends and gives me a hug, while still hugging me he’s creates an impromptu game of peek-a-boo with Darren, swinging our bodies back and forth so that only one of us can look at Darren at a time.

Darren finds this terribly amusing.

I find in it extremely dizzying.

My frustration is about to boil over.

“Baby, just chill out,” the hubby says to try to get me to relax.

“But you two are such…….BOYS!” I sputter indignantly.

Man giggles is all I get in response. 

Boys, I can’t live with them, so I think it’s time we try to have a baby.

Hopefully it will be a girl or I am in a world of trouble.

Reality Birth Control

I love family. 

Anyone who really knows me knows I love family time and family always comes first.

But there are other reasons they are important.

They are my reality birth control. 

Before you get all confused let me explain. 

It’s become tradition that we end up spending the Christmas holiday with the hubby’s family and my foster family. No matter how long we are with them, whether it is two days or ten, we always come away with feeling relaxed but a bit skeptical about our roles as parents.

This is because of all the rascals we come into contact with.

Yes, I call them rascals. Because they are always up to something, being bad, pulling at your heart strings, or simply driving you bonkers. Let me spread the story of holiday cheer called children.

First there is Monkey Face. My foster parents first born daughter. Always perpetually in motion, by no means is this bad thing but she is the clumsiest child I know. If you have never seen a person trip on air, you need to meet this girl; she has mastered it.  At the age of five (I think J) she is also the most insightful child I know. 

Being a child she still slurps her juice for two minutes at the dinner table not noticing the noise is comparable to chalk screeching on a black board to an adult. But what took the cake was our conversation as we settled in the pew for the Christmas Eve service.

“Brittany, why is D**** not here?” She whispers this because she knows she’s not suppose to talk a lot in church.

“He had some other things planned for tonight.”

“But he needs to be here. Church is important,” she insists sternly.

I am at a loss for words. Not to throw the hubby under the bus, the child has a point. 

“I know sweetie. I will let him know you say so.” This seems to satisfy her because she gives me a firm nod, sits back and picks up her program.

Yeah. Completely floored.

Then there’s The Boss. Mr. Self Assured. The Boss is the hubby’s nephew. This boy has an older brother, but it’s definitely him that does the bullying in their relationship. He acts hard like a gangsta when he needs to and is caring, mischievous, ruff little boy when he doesn’t. I would repeat full convos of him threatening to punch someone in the neck if they didn’t leave him alone, but that would make him seem less than the angel he is.

The Boss’s softer side emerges when his cousin Darren is around and he insists on feeding him, wiping his nose, directing you on how to change his diaper, and most of all giving his little cuzo hugs when he cries.

But beware of boys they always have something up their sleeves. 

The Boss: “Hey Brittany.”

Me: “Yeah?”

The Boss: “You see all those presents under the tree?”

Me: “Yeah, there are a lot of them.”

The Boss rests his chin on my knee and looks up at me with big eyes and a cheesy smile. “I can open them for you!”  

At that point I had suppress my urge to laugh and tell him no, he could not open his presents before Christmas.

The stories don’t end there. I could fill your ears with stories of a boy who wouldn’t keep his clothes on, and another little girl who can switch the charm on an off, but that would take too long and I still have to talk about my little monster. 

Darren finally found something that made him master the art of crawling.

(Yep, you heard me. HE’S CRAWLING!! )

That things is a red remote control sports car operated by The Boss. 

If a crawling baby isn’t momentary birth control. I don’t know what is.

Baby Dreams

I had a dream about having a baby last night. 

It was about literally ‘having’ a baby.

But not in the normal way.

There I am just driving over Belgrade Bridge in Mankato. And I think to myself: “I wish I were pregnant.” Then BAM, I am pregos. Next thought: “I haven’t felt the baby move in a while.” The next thing you know I feel that odd bulging feeling you get when you have a baby inside you. How I went from wishing I was pregnant to a baby moving inside, I don’t know. All I know is it took two seconds.

As I sit there enjoying my baby girl (intuition told me it was a girl) moving in my womb, I realize there is something wrong. I look down and the imprint of a foot is pushing my coat way from my body! I pull over and rip my coat open where I find a baby foot protruding from my belly button.

Yes I said it. MY BELLY BUTTON!!

Not only is this baby’s foot coming out of my belly button, but the rest of her body is coming out too! By this point I am freaking out and covered in gooey stuff. I literally watch as my second born child is born breech style from my midsection. Seconds later she is wrapped in my coat looking at me with huge eyes as I am trembling uncontrollably.

Doing the only sensible thing I can think of, I drive myself to the hospital. Or I thought it was suppose to be a hospital, but it was more like an office. Yep. An office. With cubicles and everything. The even weirder thing is that they are all nurses and doctors. And they are all rushing around. 

There I stand hold my newborn. I just stand there not saying anything. Then a male nurse (why I remember that he is male is beyond me) starts rushing towards me. And then I faint.

And wake up. (in my dream)

And the nurses are working on my baby. While I start yelling. ‘She came from my belly.” 

The nurse. “We know sweetheart. You’re baby will be just fine.”

“No, not my belly. SHE CAME FROM MY BELLY BUTTON!!!” 

The nurse does a double take and pulls my coat off my baby.

“Sweetheart. This isn’t a she. IT’S A BOY!!!”

Then I wake up, for real.

And recall the whole dream over again.

I shake my head and mutter. “I swear it was a girl.”

The African Jiggly

I know I have been MIA for the past week, but I’m back to blogging

And I got my hair did.

Yep I did. 

The transformation to completely natural hair has been started. Excited? Yes I am. My new look? Micro braids.

The comments I have been getting are quite something. I walk in to work. “Did you put extensions in?” Then I try to explain the concept of micro braids. “Really….Can I touch them?”  “That’s not real human hair is it?” is by far the most laughable comment. The most common? “How long did it take?”

 

Four and a half hours. Yes, by the end my neck was stiff and my butt was sore. But ladies, you know as well as I do the price we pay to make ourselves look good.  The sacrifice is necessary and well worth it. 

Four and half hours. Yes, I took my son with me. 

Yeah I am crazy, but I lately I have been feeling I only get to see him when he is a sleep, so I wanted to be with Darren as much as possible on my day off. 

I am glad I did.

The African ladies doing my hair didn’t mind at all. Darren being his usual self turned on the charm and played nicely in my lap on and off for about an hour and a half. 

Then he was done.

Pooped out. Ready for a nap. 

No biggy right? I’ll just rock him in my lap. 

Nope. Not having that. 

Let me explain first about Darren and his naps. One, he is not a napper. This kid will go a hundred miles per hour for the whole day with maybe two twenty minute naps. Two, this kid will not fall asleep if there is tons of commotion around him. So being in a small room with three other people he’d never seen before, it was a recipe for disaster. Plus, these people where women? Forget it; I had already prepared myself for this. I was willing to let him exhaust every ounce of his energy before I forced him to take a nap.

But African ladies are a force to be reckoned with. 

They have tricks up their sleeves from the homeland that I wish I could do.

After being passed around the room to be rocked in the unoccupied hands, he was still fighting sleep. 

Finally one of the ladies asks.

“Do you mind if I put him on my back?”

“Seriously?” I ask. Yes, I asked. Just to double check I am not being taken for a ride.

“Yes, this is how we do it in my country.”

Do I mind? No ma’am I do not mind at all. Actually I am extremely intrigued. 

I watch as she gets a long African sari and they lay Darren piggy-back like on her back, then settle his legs on either side of her waist. The sari is around him like a blanket and the ends are tucked in at her chest and waist. 

Darren is laughing.

Then she starts doing a little jiggle.

Ten minutes later my boy is out like a light, his head bobbing gently to the jiggling.

I am amazed. 

I mention so to them. “I need to learn how to do that.”

“You have someone help you do it the first time.” They laugh. 

It’s true. I will need help, but baby number two (when he/she comes) will definitely be well acquainted with my African jiggly. Just to make sure I am going to practice with Darren now.

Busted: I’m a Nuk Sucker

“You know that is for the baby right?”

The Schwan’s man throws this causal comment my way as I prepare to put Darren down for the night at my parents place.

I don’t even have to turn to know what he is talking about. Pretty sure Darren’s nuk is residing in my mouth at the moment. And yes, I am casually sucking it as I flip the lights off.

How embarrassing.

The sad thing is it happens all the time. I mean, I suck on Darren’s nuk all the time, but strangers usually don’t see this habit.

My mom butts in and asks; “Didn’t you have two nuks?”

Now I am forced to admit that the second nuk is MIA. Probably lost in the all the juggling that went on when we brought Darren back from Milwaukee.

My dad only laughs and adds fuel to the fire.

“So you lost Darren’s and won’t share yours? Jeez.”

Pretty sure I am completely beet red under this caramel completion. But I just roll with it because it’s not the first or last time anyone will catch me sucking on the nuk.

In my defense I have my reasons.

First off, Darren’s nuk is in constant disappearance mode.

It would help if he actually cared about his nuk, but he doesn’t. In his mind it is a toy, a teething ring, and occasionally, a sleep activator. Other than that he could care less where it is. Meaning, he can have it in his mouth one second and the next it’s nowhere to be found because he casually dropped it.

To combat this I have gotten into the habit of just putting it in my own mouth. Weird, I know, but for someone who daily has frequent bouts of mommy brain, this is the safest spot for it. I’ve tried putting it in my pocket, that doesn’t work because it gets lost in couches and under car seats and everyone knows that what’s in my couches is not very sanitary.

Second off, it is a great mind motivator (not to mention stress reliever). You wouldn't believe how many times I am chewing on his nuk and writing a blog post at the same time.

So don’t credit these words to pure genius; it’s all in the nuk sucking. You should try it sometime.

Sad Puppy

“I know what your blog should be today,” The hubby said this to me two days ago.

I turned from the door and gave him a confused look. “What do you mean?”

“Sad Puppy.”

I still was confused.

“Babe, that is the fifth time you’ve checked the door in a half an hour.”

I gave him a shamefaced smile. It was the truth.  I had been waiting for my mom to come so we could begin our road trip. Since about ten minutes after I got home from work, I had been ready to go. That was at twelve-fifteenish. She was supposed to be at our house at one. It was one-twenty-four.

Who’s the late one now Mommy? (just kidding.)

My eagerness is fueled by my need to be close to my son. I hadn’t seen him since Sunday before I went to work. Five days and one mental breakdown later, I was practically itching with withdrawal. As the hubby put it I was a “mental case.” In retrospect I was a walking mental case. Tears were always moments away, irritation level extremely high, and restlessness even higher. 

The fact that he called me a ‘sad puppy’ is a major understatement for what I had become.

So why did I put myself though sending Darren six hours away to spend time with the hubby’s family?

At first I wasn’t sure. But after fielding a half million ‘How will you do it?” questions from co-works, family and friends, and a million “I could never do it,” and one “Enjoy it while you can,” (Cindalicous) statements, I know why.

Growing up, I was never given the chance to really get to know my adopted father’s family. As a result, I barely know them and rarely see them. Now that Darren is back home with us and hearing how much fun he had with his cousins and aunts and uncles, it makes me regret not knowing them better.

When the topic of Darren going to visit for awhile (without mommy or daddy along) came up, I was completely against it. I actually did what I could to put it off for a while. It’s not that I didn’t want him to go see family, but I didn’t know how I would cope without my little man. The more the hubby talked to me about it, it became very evident that the visiting would happen. I agreed it should happen.

 That doesn’t mean I had to like it.

It means that family is a high priority for me. 

It has been, and always will be. 

It means that if I have to send my son six hours away for a week, it will happen. But be prepared for me to be a basket case. Actually, be prepared to deal with the emotional, hormonal, irrational lost woman in your presence. AKA: a mother. 

The Hubby felt the same lost feelings, but he was manlier about it.

“I miss my Lingle,” (His pet name for Darren, don’t ask). That’s all I heard from him, that and random bursts of laughter as he was reminded about some cute thing his little man would do.

But he made the same decision as me. 

It means family is a high priority for him.

It has been, and always will be.

“So how, often do you think you’d be able to let Darren go visit?” This comes from the hubby tonight.

“Babe, I just got him back, I am not even thinking about the next time he’s going.” 

He just laughs. I think he’s just relieved he doesn’t have to deal with me being a mental case anymore.

(Leave a comment and let me know what you would do in this situation. Thanks for reading!)