I'm THAT mom too

Tonight we toured another hospital and met a group of midwives. They were lovely, and the hospital was alright. I don't think it's what I want to do, but it's still a very viable option.

During the tour, we proceeded to be the family that made all of the first time parents in attendance think, "OH DEAR LORD. What have we done?"

Little Bird was a holy terror. All he wanted to do was get down and run like a mad man. When we put him down, he ran in circles and squealed at the top of his lungs, making it very difficult for the midwife to be heard. If we picked him up, he thrashed about and screamed, "nononononononono" until we put him back down again to run in circles and squeal.

I thought Kevin was going to implode. I thought I was going to collapse.

People stared, and I know they were thinking, at least the ones who were still carrying their first child safely around in their bellies - they were thinking, "I will never let my child act like that."

What they fail to understand is that we weren't letting Bird act like that. Bird was choosing to act like that because he is his own little person. We were trying everything we knew to do to distract, redirect, occupy, or remove him. Only, when we were in the hospital part of the tour, we couldn't remove him because you can't hang out in the hallways. We didn't have a lot of options, and I could only whip out a boob when I had somewhere to sit.

It was his choice to act like a little hellion, and tonight, we failed to find the magic button to make him stop.

We were THAT family. He was THAT child. I was THAT mom.

There is a lot of talk about being THAT mom going on. I hope that you'll click over to Triangle Mamas and read about Susie's recent experiences as THAT mom. It's an awesome lesson in looking at someone through eyes of compassion instead of judgment.

It's also an awesome reason never to step foot in a Whole Foods again. Buy local. Buy fresh. Buy organic. But do it straight from the farmer and the dairies. It's better for everybody, and you won't risk getting treated like dirt from the emo artist lead singer check out people at Whole Foods.

Little Bird's pajama drawer

I like for my drawers to be neat. I like for clothes to be put in the exact same place every time. I like to fold my underwear. I like to organize my t-shirts by color, size, and softness. I like to fold my socks into neat little tubes that you stick directly onto your foot and unfold as you put it on.

At least I used to like all these things. I've been freed a little.

I still insist on folding my t-shirts all the same way. All the towels are folded in half, in half again, and then into thirds.

Kevin has freed me from the sock and underwear compulsiveness. I now toss my socks in one drawer and my panties in another - all wadded up.

It's liberating.

This sense of freedom has not found it's way into Little Bird's room. It's the only room in the house that stays compulsively neat these days. Until the construction is finished at our home, I've resigned myself to live in a bit of a mess, but Bird's room, it stays clean.

And his clothes stay organized and neat.

At least they used to. Before Bird decided that he wanted to "help Mama."

Little Bird likes to help put away his pajamas. He doesn't just like to help, he insists upon it.

And so his pajama drawer belongs to him completely. He has even figured out that he has to put both hands in and stir them up good so that the drawer will close. It's hard for me to close that drawer with those pajamas all twisted and the tops and bottoms scattered amongst each other. But he wants to do it himself, and I want him to learn.

My way is not necessarily the right way. Little Bird is his own little person with his own little messy pajama drawer.

I couldn't be more proud.

Entitled to change my mind

On the rare occasion, I have to admit that I've been wrong. Today is one of those days. Craigslist isn't always entirely a pain in the ass.

I mean, when you score a little beauty like this for $25, how can you complain?

It makes the outfit

Little Bird spends most of his time with me. He watches me do my hair and put on make up each day. Most of his friends are little girls. However, he does love to watch the older boys in the neighborhood, and he will imitate his daddy over me at the drop of a hat.

There is something though, that can only be blamed on me, and that is Bird's love of fabulous shoes.

When we were shoe shopping at Stride Rite one day, he picked out every pink and sparkly shoe he could reach and brought it to me. We left with a very manly pair of navy blue shoes, but the boy had spoken. His heart craved shoe bling.

Yesterday, I had grabbed the camera to take a picture of a baby hawk that was sitting on the slab for our soon to be garage. On my way back to the kitchen, I had to stop and get a shot of Bird in his favorite shoe. The shoe that was declared "scrumptious" by the gay men's vocal ensemble I accompanied once. A ringing endorsement if I have ever gotten one.

I can't wait until boot season this year. I have a feeling Bird is going to rock some Fluevogs.

Song Bird

When Little bird was 7 weeks old, I started taking him to Music Together classes. Some insane idea that I should be "doing something" with him. At 7 weeks old. I'm crazy, but I mean well.

Maybe though, it's not as crazy as I thought. Today, at just shy of 17 months, Little Bird serenaded us with "Trot Old Joe." It may be that the only people who appreciate this are Liz and Kristin, but that's alright.

The song goes like this:

Trot, Old Joe. Trot, Old Joe.
You ride better than any horse I know.
Trot, Old Joe. Trot, Old Joe.
You're the best horse in the country, ohhhhh
Whoooooaaaaaa, Joe.

The "Trot, old Joe." part is, "Mi-Do-Do," or a descending major third. Today, it was the last song we heard in the car on our way home from the grocery store. When we got inside, Bird started dancing around the kitchen singing, "Doo, doo doo" in the rhythm and pitch of "Trot, old Joe." He did this several times and then threw his head back and sang, "Whooooaaaaa!"

Just to show me that I wasn't making out something that wasn't there, he did it again at dinner. After he was finished eating, he started singing again. Kevin immediately recognized that Bird was singing an actual song, because it was. Of course by the end of Bird's impromptu concert, he was doing only one "Doo doo doo" before throwing his head back in an enthusiastic "Whooooaaaa!"

He has been trying to do the pitch and rhythm echo exercises at the end of certain songs on our Music Together cd's for awhile. But tonight - an actual song.

My little singer. He already knows how to play my heart strings.

You have to cut that out

Yesterday, we went in for our "nurse talk" where a patient history is taken and the nurse talks to you for about an hour about the rules. Nurse Kathy was nice about Little Bird tagging along with us. She wasn't so nice when she chuckled each time she said the word, "mature." Apparently referring to my age was the funniest thing she had done in a long time.

Little Bird climbed up in my lap near the end of our talking to and asked to nurse. Nurse Kathy asked how long he had nursed, and Kevin said that it wasn't a past tense thing. I said he still does, and she raised one eyebrow at me.

She said, "When are you going to cut that out?"

"When he's ready."

Then she put her professionally medical foot down and told me that I had to stop nursing my child. The doctor would tell me, and I needed to go ahead and do it now.

I just smiled.

The thing is, I had been sitting there thinking to myself that this could be easy. Just stay here at this OB practice and have a baby the way most of America has a baby. It's what I did last time, and Bird turned out just fine. Sure, some of the doctors and nurses annoy me, and it's complete overkill, but it would be the path of least resistance and familiarity.

Then I was shaken back into reality. That nurse, with her eyebrow raised in disapproval, was a good reminder of why I'm breaking up with my doctor. Maybe not at my next appointment, but soon.

After all, I'm a "mature" mother. I'm making informed parenting and birthing decisions. I'm done having doctors roll their eyes at me while I'm in labor. I'm done having nurses raise their eyebrows at me.

It's time for a change.

Butterbean at 9 weeks

I've been working on the post about our visit to the OB today, and I'm just too tired to wrap it up for now.

For now, I give you Butterbean at 9 weeks. So much more like a little baby this time. He was dancing his little bootie off in there, shaking his little fetal fins like pom poms. It was really cute.