Light and Air

I bought my oldest an alarm clock, and told him that under no circumstances, "unless [he was] bleeding or on fire" was he to go downstairs until the clock read 7:00 AM.

Both boys woke up at 6:53. I heard their footsteps slam on the carpet as they ran in circles, squealing.

Seriously. Every morning they do this. 

Owen said, "Wait, I need to check the alarm clock."

"Alarm clock, Owen?"

"Yes, Joel, alarm clock."

There was silence as he examined the numbers. "Six-Five-Seven. Too early."

"Too early, Owen?"

"Yes. GET BACK TO BED!"

I heard the thump of his body as Joel hit the floor, wailing in protest. He wasn't really crying as much as making crying sounds.

I generally ignore these tantrums, which sprout like mushrooms, and are smashed just as easily.

But my first-born does not share my resolve. He cooed, as one would to a small child (unless--ahem--one is heartless), "It's okay, Buddy. I love you. We can go down soon, I promise."

His brother hiccuped and sniffled, "Hug, Owen?"

"Okay." The wailing ceased. They paused for a moment, then my youngest yelped, "I happy now!"

"We can go downstairs," Owen said, "The clock says Seven-Zero-Zero."

I listened to their footsteps tumble down the stairs, and blinked back my tears.

Yes, they will fight. Joel antagonizes. Owen is insufferably bossy.

But, for a moment, grace floated, as effervescent as light and air.

Progress For Now

Ever since Joel's birthday, the sibling slugfests have taken on a new intensity. There's fighting over toys, especially the shiny new ones. They both want to be on the same stool, or the same section of the couch, or in the same tiny patch of air. One is always terribly, horribly WRONGED, and I feel like my life has become one of those dreadful talk shows where everybody is SCREAMING all the time.

For example, today I heard  "JOELY! NO!" followed by a high-pitched wail. You know the kind? It burns the enamel off your teeth.

Joel entered the room, howling,  "Blabbity, blah, blah blah, O-WOO!" I believe this means, "I have been terribly wronged once again and the person who deserves your punishment is no other than my dastardly brother, Owen." 


Apparently my youngest talks like Simon Cowell in my imagination.

Owen, meanwhile, came in with his usual dissertation: "I was playing with that truck and it was MY TURN to play with it. I told Joel to go away and he didn't listen. I was there first and I told him to go play with something else and he never, ever does what I tell him to do. You need to make him go away because I am DONE WITH THIS, Mommy."

He went on like this for several more paragraphs, but I'll spare you the hot mess.

I did what I always do in situations like this: I put the truck on the top of the fridge and kicked them both into the backyard to play.

Where.... they promptly got into a fight about Joel's improper dumping of sand.

It was the kind of day that makes you reconsider the benefits of having two children.

As I was tucking Joel into bed for his nap, I heard Owen scream, "Somebody scribbled all over my book and I don't want anybody in my house EVER AGAIN!"

I hastily put Joel down, and met Owen in his room. He was holding the book in question in one hand, and tears were running down his face. He ran to his bed, into my arms, and sobbed.

The injustice! I felt it in every ounce of his little body. He heaved and shook as he clutched the book. It's a little too old for him, and he's never given a second thought about it before. That is, until Joel defiled it with purple crayon.

I held him until he calmed down enough to say, "Joel wasn't very nice to me. He makes me so angry."

As the oldest in my family, I can understand this anger. He felt violated, and it doesn't matter that Joel is "little" or "doesn't understand." It's still not cool.

I struggled to find the words, and found myself saying this:

"Do you know what Joel asked while you were at Grandma and Grandpa's house?"

"What?" Owen said, his arms a tight knot across his chest.

"He said, 'Where's O-Woo?' He asked that all the time. Why do you think he wanted to see you?"

"I don't know," Owen said, a ray of a smile peeking behind his block of ice.

"Because you're the most important person in his life." I tickled him gently. "What did he eat applesauce? Because you were eating it. Why did he eat a plum?"

"Because I was eating it!" he said, laughing.

"So," I said, "Why do you think he was writing in your book?"

"I don't know,"  he said, serious once more.

"Do you think he was trying to write letters, like you?"

Owen smiled, "Joely wants to be like me!"

"That's right, Buddy. You are his hero. What is your job?"

He sighed slightly, and said, "To take care of him."

"Because he loves you," I prompted.

"Yes, Mommy. Because he loves me."

I walked away, and heard Owen call, "I love Joely too. But tell him not to write in my books, ever again!"

"Okay, honey," I said. "I'll do my best."

I guess I'll call that progress for now.

Guilty Party

Joel is channeling my inner Jewish mother. I'm allowed to say this because I asked my friend, Beth, (once, a long time ago), if I was allowed to be Jewish in guilt only, and she gave me the go-ahead.

By the way, there are very few Jewish folk where I live--for some reason, the chosen people don't want to live in St. Mary's County--so whenever I meet somebody of the Jewish faith, I immediately attempt to invite myself to Passover Seder. Like this:

New Friend: "I have to drive all the way to Silver Spring for Yom Kippur services."

Me: "Oh, you're Jewish." (Visions of brisket and matzo ball soup dance in my head. I wait a beat. Attempt to wait another. Cannot wait any longer.) "So, are you having a Seder this year? Can I bring wine?" It doesn't matter the time of year. This is always my first question.

New Friend: "Um, is that my phone? Excuse me..." (I then hear the sound of squealing tires.)

Although I don't get potato pancakes or invitations to Bar Mitzvahs these days, I do attempt to harness my inner Jewish mother in two ways: Food and Guilt

Food

Joel, just to be a pisser, has decided that he doesn't like to be spoon fed. Nope. Not for him. Since he has been one for almost two weeks, he would far prefer to munch on a well-done steak or raw carrots.

We like him, so we don't let him have such choking hazards. Instead, I try a variety of finger foods, such as ravioli, sweet potatoes, dried strawberries, and so on. He enjoys mashing them up and stuffing them up his ear canal, but actually consuming these objects is quite objectionable.

He sits in his chair and screams baby obscenities, a Gordan Ramsey in Pampers. Nothing is acceptable for his mature palate except for Club Crackers and Yogurt.

This is a phase, and every book says that it is pointless to engage in food battles. Nevertheless, I find myself saying things like, "Eat! Eat! You're skin and bones! Eat!"

Guilt

Owen is with his grandparents, so I had the opportunity to spend time with just Joel today. We read books, and Joel lingered over pages, flipping up the flaps or cooing at pictures as much as he liked.

Not once did his brother rip the book out of his hands or micro-manage his reading. Owen is quick to tell Joel that he is not allowed to chew the books or read them upside down, despite the fact that these books still have teeth marks from Owen's infancy.

Later, my friend came over with her adorable baby, who is about a month older than Joel. The two babies played peek-a-boo in the curtains and hung out together. They shared some crackers and mouthed each other's sippy cups. Good times.

I realized with a gasp that this was Joel's first baby playdate. He's seen other babies before, but they are usually like him---younger siblings, along for the ride. Owen, by the time he was Joel's age, had a large circle of baby playmates, and regularly attended playdates. He also attended storytime at the library, had participated in baby yoga, and had even taken a music class.

You can see where this is going. Joel's main stimulation most days involves chewing on a plastic spatula and avoiding the beat-down of his enthusiastic brother.

I know that Joel is getting the stimulation of Owen's constant chatter and he always has a play mate in his brother. If anything, Joel has progressed with language and physical milestones faster than Owen, probably just to keep up.

But yet. I feel the occasional smothering blanket of guilt. Joel doesn't get the same single-minded attention. His milestones are appreciated, but not celebrated with the same dizzying intensity. I started Joel's baby book when he was in the NICU, but have not picked it up since. I don't even blog about him as often as Owen.

The guilt is there. Usually, I'm just too busy to indulge in it.

You know what would make me feel better? A nice Passover Seder. Anyone?

Smackdown!

Are you not entertained? Are you not entertained? Is this not why you are here?

Boys...

The Boy...

Informs you, in between bites of sandwich, that he goes pee-pee in houseplants instead of in the toilet. You go upstairs to investigate. The plant, which you always forget to water, is flourishing, and the soil is damp. You call the husband to make sure that he did not water the plant. He says, "What plant?"

The Boy...

Stands in the kitchen, pajama top still on, naked from the waist down. You say, "Owen, let's get your pants and underwear on."

He replies, "Not yet, Mommy, I'm still touching my pee-pee." (This is the entry Owen will point to when he enters therapy).

The Boy...

Really misses Grandma and Grandpa's house. Especially their front-loading washer. Owen will sit in front of it, using a stool as a chair. He'll watch the water slosh and the clothing toss. It's better than any movie. He loves it so much that he pulls rugs off the floor and towels from the racks to create more laundry. This gets old very quickly.

The Other Boy...

Has discovered the insane joyousness of Cheerios. You place some Cheerios on the high chair tray, and then sit back and watch Joel scarf them down, stopping periodically to smile at the awesomeness.

Owen has now rediscovered Cheerios, and because Joel eats them, they are The Coolest Things Ever.

Boys....

Are great. Matching monkey jammies? Wrestling? (By the way, they don't look alike at all, do they? Owen is mini-me, Joel is mini-Paul).

One step closer

Joel is now mobile. I would not call it crawling as much as a military-style scoot. It's not pretty, but it does get him from one place to another.

This means that I am one step closer to having one toddler and one preschooler.

I am one step closer to carrying around a feed bag bursting with Goldfish crackers and Cheerios.

I am one step closer to exiling the houseplants upstairs. Although they may wither from a lack of sunlight and/or neglect, they will not perish at the hands of my baby boy.

I am one step closer to the day when I will take two walking boys to the playground AND keep all four of their limbs intact.

Lord help me, this means I'm one step closer to taking both of them to the pool and the beach, too.

One step closer to the day that Owen realizes he has a playmate, not a baby brother.

One step closer to the day that Owen finally gets his comeuppance. Go get 'em Joel!

One step closer to two boys digging for worms in the flower beds, and two boys stomping in the piles of leaves.

I'm one step closer to discovering Joel--his likes, dislikes, his sense of humor, his take on the world.

I'm terrified. I also can't wait to see what's next.

It's one step closer.

This is why I smile to myself sometimes.

Today, driving home from the park, I'm listening to Joel fuss, because he hates his car seat.

Then, looking in my rear-view mirror, I see his tiny hand extend toward his brother.

Owen reaches out and holds his hand. Instantly, the crying stops.

Goosebumps.

Us vs. Them

I love this:

Owen was with his grandparents for two days. When they drop him off, he runs past me, past Paul, straight to Joel. He says, "Baby Joel-Joels. I missed you!" He then does his routine of tossing Joel around like a chew toy. I would be more alarmed if Joel wasn't grinning from ear to ear.

This is the beginning of Us. vs. Them, and I'm okay with it. The whole point of having a sibling is knowing that there is another person who understands the absurdity of the parents. Only a brother or sister can, with a rolled eye or chuckle, boil down the parent-child relationship to its core. Only a brother or sister can say, "See, this, this is why we're crazy."

Someday, I can see Owen and Joel in the backseat, as we drive to some National Park for a family vacation, mocking our words, our music, our clothing, and our very existence. Yes, they will bicker, but they will have a common enemy: Mom and Dad.

Don't get me wrong: I think that they will like us. What's not to like? However, I remember turning in my Cool Membership Card when I checked out of the hospital (as do all parents), and I fully expect that I will embarrass both of my boys, sooner if not later.

It will be so humiliating, having Mom pull up to the middle school, blasting Beck and talking about books and nature and, God Forbid, Klingon Names. "Kill me now," the boys will think, if not shout to the heavens.

That's okay, though. Owen and Joel will not have to do it alone. They have each other, partners in mocking, in derision, and occasionally, hopefully, in love.

Brotherhood

Owen and Joel woke up around seven. Commence mad dash of getting children dressed, pottyed/changed, and fed, all the while staying in my PJs. Now that Joel's on solids three meals a day, I've been eating like a bird, attempting swallows here and there in between coaxing Joel to eat pureed peas and keeping Owen in his seat for more than five minutes. You would think I would lose weight this way, but I make up for it by scarfing down bowls of Goldfish or animal crackers when the boys are asleep.

After everybody eats, we settle in for the morning routine of bossing Joel around. I plop him on the carpet, and give him a toy. Owen then proceeds to either take the toy away from him, or micromanage his play. Sample gab: "No Baby Joel, don't eat it. That's not right, Baby Joel. You need to hold it this way. Moommmmy, make Baby Joel stop eating his toy. Mommmy, Baby Joel doesn't like to play with [whatever he is playing with]; he wants to give it to Owen."

I know that this is textbook toddler--the "it's mine," the self-centeredness, the selective hearing---but it still troubles me. Paul's and my philosophy of parenting breaks down to this: Don't be an asshole. We would like our kids to be smart, or athletic, or talented. More importantly, though, we want our kids to be good friends, good husbands, and good fathers. The world has plenty of assholes. We don't need to produce two more.

So, I thus attempt to teach Owen how to share with his brother. It works to the extent that he'll let Joel play with his own toys for maybe five minutes at a time, before he involuntarily "shares them." Luckily, Joel is still easily distracted by the carpet, an empty sippy cup, or the dust bunnies that are invariably inches from his nose, since more educational toys, designed for infants, are being used by his almost-three-year-old brother.

I guess I just didn't expect to be doing sibling stuff already. Of course, I'll happily take the flip side of brotherhood. Seeing Owen, in his footie jammies, run into Joel's room when he wakes up, patting his tummy through the bars of his crib, saying, "Good morning Joely!" Being able to tell Owen, "Go make Joel laugh," when I'm cooking dinner, then hearing Joel's squeals of delight. Having Owen give updates on Joel's progress from his car seat: "Joel's sleeping. Good sleeping Joel. Now he's looking around. Good job, Joely. Now he's sleeping again. Wake up, Joel. It's daytime!"

I have no idea if Owen and Joel will be good friends in addition to brothers. I know that some siblings are, and some aren't. Of course, I hope that they are friends, or, at least, people that share their toys.

Updates and Joel's Turn

Updates on earlier posts...

P.S. #1: I finally bought the formula for the food bank. I feel less guilty now, and can read the stupid Oprah magazine in peace.

P.S. #2: The magazine really isn't that good. Oprah gained the weight back because she stopped focusing on her diet and exercise routine.

P.S. #3: Joel may not have been teething after all, but suffering from his SECOND ear infection in his four-month-old life.

P.S. #4: This does not negate my new appreciation for teething horror stories.

P.S. #5: Joel, due to reoccurring cough and lung crud, is on two different types of inhalers. They cost $40.00 each. If this is the going rate for inhalers, I have a new appreciation for my friends who deal with asthma. Geesh...

P.S. #6: Reading over my posts, as I am wont to do (because I am an egomaniac), makes me realize how often Owen makes appearances, and how Joel seems to be in the shadows, as an afterthought, or a complaint. This makes me sad. Let me tell you a little bit about Joel.

Joel's eyes are the most beautiful blue. This makes me happy, because I feel like he has already beat the odds, facing down my dominant brown eyed genetics, and saying, "No thank you, I'll take blue." When I look at him, I cannot believe that Paul and I made such a beautiful person.

Honestly, I think Owen's a pretty cute kid. So, during my pregnancy, I prepared myself for Joel to be less cute. That sounds awful, but how likely is it that we would capture lightening in a bottle twice?

Pretty likely, I guess. Not only does Joel have blue eyes, but he has red hair. Granted, it's less red then when he was a newborn, but it's still red. I'm so surprised, and so happy to see that Joel's physical appearance presents him as his own person, not as "Owen #2."

Joel is such a happy guy. He laughs easily, loves to bounce, smiles at anybody. Sometimes things will be so happy, and so good for him, that he will laugh and lunge for a shoulder, attempting to bite it. He's a bit of a vampire, this one.

Joel has made Owen a kinder person. When he bumps or hurts Joel, as is bound to happen, his eyes well up with tears, not because he is in trouble, but because he truly feels bad about hurting another person.

Owen will hug me when I'm holding Joel and say, "Mommy's two boys. I love you, Mommy. I love you, Joely."

P.S. #7: I hope that Joel knows that even though he cannot yet speak, get in trouble, walk, or throw a tantrum, he still gets our attention. He is in the body of our family's letter. Joel is not a Post Script.

Feed Him, Little Cat

When Joel is acting fussy, Owen has started to say, "Feed Him, Little Cat." Your guess is as good as mine...

Owen has been toying with my emotions come naptime. He napped every day last week, after not napping for a good three weeks prior. Now he's back to not napping. It's the inconsistency that kills me. The other day, Owen said, "I took a nap." Outraged, I replied, "No, you did NOT take a nap, and if you had any consideration, you would take one and give Mommy the time she needs." As you can imagine, this came across to Owen as "Blah Blah Mommy Blah," as his attention was already diverted by a piece of lint on the ground.

When we voted yesterday, I introduced him to the words "McCain" and "Obama." He finds "Obama" to be hilarious and great fun to say. Then, at story time today, the librarian read a book, Llama Llama Red Pajama. She asked, "What rhymes with Llama?" Owen said, "Obama!" The two year old next to him said, "Osama!" And that, my friends, passes for political discourse in my life these days...