Motherhood Uncensored

Turning anxiety into awesome. Or where I star in the next episode of Hoarders.

When you walk around with your ankles shackled by anxiety on a regular basis, your mind can get trapped on a merry-go-round of crazy thoughts. But every now and then I can them, like the persistent one in which I convince myself that I'm going to die young, and turn it into a brilliant idea. 

Now the skin mole check, or whatever that unsexy exam where they mark all your freckles and moles on a paper and then scrape a few off with a razor is called, wasn't necessarily brilliant, but it was a smart idea. And phew, all clear. 

And there is the circus money I've started to stash away, which is really smart, or possibly brilliant if they all decide to major in art history or something.

Yes, so I was inspired by a Matt Damon movie. Shut up. 

No, the actual brilliant idea came about when I saw these pretty "Q" hoop earrings on Etsy when Quinlan was a baby. And I thought since she had such a unique letter, that it might be cool to collect jewelry with it and give them all to her when she was older and wanted to change her name because it was so weird.

KIDS. 

This then turned into a collection of initial necklaces and other fun trinkets for all the girls which I stuff on a regular basis into our fireproof box. 

But then THEN the real brilliance happened thanks to the lovely Courtney who posted a link and photo to a tin can on my Facebook Wall, which generally speaking I HATE when people post things on my wall but it was a can with Quinlan on it. 

No, not her face but her name, because apparently a long time ago there was a Quinlan pretzel company in Pennsylvania and so of course I had to buy the really expensive tin can, which led to a search for other such tin cans, which led to an obsession with finding ALL THE QUINLAN TIN CANS THAT EVER EXISTED, as well as old bar trays, and most recently, weird mugs with pretzel handles. 

This is all I could fit in the photo.

At the time, Drew was really into fire trucks, which he promptly grew out of the second I put a unbelievably challenging fire engine decal on his wall and purchased a whole gaggle of old fire truck toys, particularly old Fisher Price ones, all of which sit gathering dust on his shelf. 

Remember those?  

And while Margot was a bit of challenge, I did a little research and found out that her name means "pearl" so, duh, vintage pearl purses!, stashed haphazardly in a box that sits on a shelf in her closet. 

 

"These are my special purses, right Mama?" she says. 

So far, Bridget is racking up quite a collection of octopus jewelry, which, funny coincidence *I* have a pretty extensive and rapidly growing collection of octupus jewelry (ahem). Poor fourth kid. 

Of course, there's the stories I write here, that they can chuckle at and laugh over, which I might force them to do every year on my birthday, even after I'm gone, while pounding on tin cans, playing with fire trucks, and wearing pearl purses and octopus jewelry. 

Or they can sell everything I bought and go on a fabulous trip somewhere. 

And then at least I can say that all this stupid anxiety was worth it. 

If you're curious: I don't spend tons of hours or money doing this, really. I just search every now and then on Etsy, set a budget that I refuse to go over, then tuck everything away in a safe spot so they can't get into them and toss the $25 vintage fire truck off the 2nd floor deck.

She's electric.

"Did she just say what I think she said?" I asked Drew a few nights ago. 

And indeed she had. 

"MEAN MOMMY!" from my sweet little baby's mouth. 

She kept saying it over and over as I ushered her back in her bed. I did my best to try not to laugh because I know soon enough it won't be as funny. 

I often brush off Bridget's savvy language skills and survivor intuition because she's the fourth kid. She's got to keep up with the other three as they scooter down the hill at stomachache-inducing speeds. 

If no one gets her a snack, she climbs to the top of the pantry and grabs it herself. 

And the things she says, well, let's just say I'd turn my head around if I heard it come out of some other 2-year old's mouth. 

But I'm starting to think that it's just who she is, my little sparkplug.  

And I guess I shouldn't be surprised considering she barreled her way right out of me onto my guest room bed. 

Happy 2nd Birthday, Bridgety! 

(aka Buzzy)

 

More about Baby Four: Bridget's Birth Story, and her First Birthday. 

Buit, rhymes with OMFGCUTE

I've heard a lot of toddler talk in my years as a parent, but I swear none have been as adorable as Bridget. 

Or BReeeeeeJET, as she calls herself. 

Okay, so to be fair, pretty much everything that Bridget does, save smacking us in the face (what phase is that?), is freaking adorable because it's the last time anyone will ever do anything like that around here. 

Yes, I fully admit to having a case of the "OMG my last baby is growing up" syndrome. 

And while I'm not going around saying to myself "This could be the last poop in the diaper ever" because OH GOD I WISH IT SO HARD, it's a little sad. 

But unlike her siblings, who generally followed the typical language development track of single words, then 2-word phrases, then holy crap shut the heck up already, Bridget has her own language system. 

And of course, it's awesome. 

A month or so ago, we noticed that she jumped from saying simple things like "No" and "Okay!" (the exclamation point is important, people) to "IWANTDAT," but as one word, which sort of confused us a little. 

My husband and I would look at each other, puzzled, wondering if we actually just heard her say a sentence. 

Then when she said "IWANTTOGOTOPOOL" we realized that indeed it was, though you'd completely miss it and think it was just baby mumbo jumbo if you didn't actually listen. Or watch her grab the entire pool bag and drag it to the door. 

She also has a pretty advanced vocabulary for a near 2-year old, which like her ability to peel her own clementine orange in the trash can, is because she's the 4th kid. No babas or binkies around here. 

"Raining" she said to me, the other day. That also sounds very similar "Candy" and "Bandaid." You know, just common every day words. Also, really confusing when we keep those things in the same cabinet and also give them out at the same time, and she's screaming one of them at you over and over again. 

I totally need to invent edible bandaids. 

But she also runs words together, something we didn't quite figure out, even after she kept saying "Buit!" or "Buit?" or "BUIT" in the hopes that inflection would help us know what the hell she was talking about. 

Then she grabbed my hand and dragged me to our deck where her BATHING SUIT was drying in the sun. 

BUIT. 

A way more energy efficient way to say those words, if you ask me.

And so freaking cute I nearly ate her and her tiny little buit that very second. 

This almost makes me want another baby. Almost.

The water is wide

With Quinlan, I drank in every single nuance of her first year, a mix of sweet nectar, 100 proof scotch, and tears that left me happy and hungover, asking myself "What the hell just happened?" as I scraped myself off the floor and wiped my own drool off my face.

As more first years were celebrated, Drew, then Margot, I built up a tolerance, and the cocktail of those long twelve months became much easier to swallow.

Enjoyable even.

And now, as I watch my last baby, by far my easiest, most pleasant, "let's have another one because this shit is easy" baby, hit one, I realize that it's not just her first year that's coming to an end.

It's the end of all my kids' first years, kept alive by her babbles, her breastfeeding, yes, even her rashy bum.

She's gone from rolling to crawling to standingupwalkingrunningwaaaaaiiiiiit. From boob to bottle to eatingeverythinginsightincludingpencilerasersomfg.

Like someone accidentally pushed fast forward and I'm madly pressing every button I can just to get it to stop.

And there is no rewind, not even a brief pause so I can catch up on what I might have missed.

After four kids, I know now that it's all fleeting. I'll remember as much about their first year as they'll remember themselves, except for what I've captured here, in short stories and photos - my attempt to maintain some semblance of a baby book so that when they're older and asking me, I can say "Here. Read this. See, I was funny. And you were a royal pain in the ass."

Because it will be all I have.

Well, that and the uneven boobs.

With Bridget, it's less about endings than I thought it would be, the milestones reached and marked off in this urban myth they call "baby book."

It's about beginnings. A world opening up in front of her.

And me. The reporter, supporter. The giver, mentor. The presenter, editor.

Mother.

Happy Birthday, Bridget. The world is yours for the taking. A wide open sea of possibility.