Local Mom Disappears Into Bathroom, Is Not Seen For 2 Minutes. Panic Ensues.

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Burien, Washington.

Local mother Rachel Nelson, 28, is by all accounts a fairly normal woman. She has two young children, she has a decent repertoire of songs (though sadly, none about police helicopters), and she is adept at putting on underwear and opening boxes of raisins. But appearances can be deceiving.

This morning, Nelson simply got up, left her 24-hour mothering job, and walked into the bathroom. Alone.

"I just don't understand it," sobbed Sylvia Nelson, 11 months, speaking through an interpreter, "I love her. More than anything in the world. She loves me too. And yet--she chose the bathroom over time she could have spent holding me?"

Her older brother Peregrine, 3, is also perplexed.

"People like to be with people," he explained, "We do things together. It's part of human nature. We share our experiences. It's not the going to the bathroom thing that got me. I mean, everybody has to go potty once in a while, right? It's the fact that she just up and went, alone. She invited no one to go with her."

We asked if Peregrine ever desired to use the bathroom alone.

"No, never!" he exclaimed, and then added, "Well, of course I don't want Sylvia in with me. If I hear her even crawling in the direction of the door, I scream. Usually I stand by the door and hold it shut while screaming until my mom picks Sylvia up. Not that I can do that now that I've ripped the door out of its hinges. Now I just scream. But, I'm getting off track, as usual. This has nothing to do with Sylvia and me. Never would I ever shut my mother out of the bathroom, unless I was planning on eating soap or dismantling a toilet paper roll. A mother-son relationship is nothing like a brother-sister relationship. They're different entities entirely. Mothers and sons want to be together. They do things together."

We asked Sylvia the same question. Does she ever use the bathroom alone?

"No!" she responded, "Never! And I just really don't understand it. I mean, she's still got a lap when she's sitting on the toilet, right?"

Did they hear from their mother, or was there simply the sound of terrifying silence?

"Oh, she called to us," Sylvia responded, "She was all like, hey, Sylvia, I'm still here, I love you, I'll be back in a second. What on earth does she mean, still here? Way off in the bathroom is not still here. That's, like, in another country. If I can't get there in five seconds of fast crawling, that does not qualify as still here."

"We're not actually sure it was her," Peregrine confessed in a low voice, "It could have just been a tape recorder. She was saying really generic things--'I'm still here' and the like. When I asked her a question about police monster camper firetrucks driving through rocks, she claimed she 'couldn't understand me' because I 'wasn't talking loud enough.' It was just really canned and rote sounding. I didn't want to scare Sylvia, so I didn't say anything, but inside I was like, that is not my mother. My mother knows everything. She gives me detail, not one-liners that make no sense."

When asked if their mother had left the door open, or deliberately shut them out, Peregrine and Sylvia were quick to reply that she had, indeed, left all avenues of entrance and exit available for their use.

"But that's not the point," Peregrine insisted, "The point is that she went at all. Sure, she left the door open, but if she had truly welcomed our company, she would have invited us to go with her. She would have come into the room where we were both playing peacefully, and said, hey, I'm going to the bathroom, who wants to come sit on my lap and discuss the elimination process with me? It's not like she has a problem interrupting our play--she's quick to do it if it's nap time or dinner time or something. Why not now? It's just really fishy."

"I knew she was there," Sylvia added, "I crawled, I don't know, ten whole feet maybe? in the direction she'd gone. But I couldn't see her, it was so confusing. So I just put my head down and wailed. Then Peregrine put a pillow on my head."

When Nelson returned, she simply acted as though nothing had occurred.

"She just walked back out and was like, hey, P, what are you holding? And I was like, a lego, because it was. And then she started talking to me about fire trucks. It was a total distraction tactic, and it really made me suspicious. What was she hiding in there? Does she eat ice cream or something? It's not like I would have bothered her, in there with her. We would have talked, had good fellowship. I would have peered in the toilet and asked her about it. Totally normal stuff. I don't know what she's afraid of."

And how did Sylvia feel about seeing her mother after her long absence?

"I love her!" Sylvia exclaimed, "She's just--the best! I mean, she's soft, she's funny, she's the coolest person in the world except Peregrine, she has all these magic ways of getting stuff down and making food come out of boxes, and she even makes her own milk. I just--I don't know what to say, I love my mom."

We are currently monitoring Mrs. Nelson to see if this was merely an out-of-character mistake in judgment, or if there are deeper neurological imbalances causing her unorthodox behavior. Meanwhile, everything seems back to normal--for the time being.

Minus Four Wisdom Teeth

So, I got my wisdom teeth out on Thursday. I've had them in for about ten years now--they came through when I was in college--but they're in perfectly straight and they've never caused me any pain. Dentists have told me I need to get them out because my mouth is way too small for them, but I've put it off, primarily because I've never had dental insurance, and also, who wants to volunteer for surgery without significant motivation?

But we have dental insurance now, and they did need to come out, and the dentist convinced me it would be okay for breastfeeding because he would just give me standard post-C-section narcotics (presumably safe to nurse with), and I would only need local anesthetic.

That's right. Local anesthetic. So, basically, being wide awake while someone puts multiple shots into my mouth, and then holding my mouth open while four teeth are extracted.

But, I bit the bullet and scheduled it. Because sometimes you just have to.

It was unpleasant, not gonna lie. It's disturbingly easy to remove teeth--just a little bit of pulling and shoving, and out they pop. Or, at least, three of them did. The fourth was a bit more stuck--the dentist accused it of having "very long roots"--and it took pulling, shoving, and a fair bit of drilling. Eventually, I took to just closing my eyes. Because I wasn't in pain (twelve shots will do that to you), and I wasn't even that uncomfortable, but watching the dentist approach the inside of my mouth with various torture devices was a bit much. I still have no idea what the drilling was all about. I know it required three stitches to repair. But, I wasn't about to ask him.

Also, teeth sometimes crack when they are being pulled. I had been warned about this, but I thought I could handle it, seeing as how I wouldn't be feeling them cracking. But, it turns out, the body has a very visceral reaction to hearing its own bones breaking, even if no pain was involved. It was gross, memorable, and will now haunt my nightmares. As will the smell of something burning during the drilling episode.

It was funny, however, how much they expected me to communicate with them during the surgery. Not just yes-no questions either. They would ask me if I felt pain, or just pressure, or a little bit of both? They asked me how old my kids were. While my difficult tooth was being drilled, the dentist squirted a lot of water in, and most of it ended up lodged over my tracheal opening. When I politely indicated that something was wrong, they started asking me all sorts of questions about what, exactly, I was feeling. Pain? Pressure? Coldness? Sharpness? Bad sound effects? My mouth was completely numb, and wedged open, with a drill inside. Unfortunately, there isn't a convenient hand sign for "Chinese water torture."

My recovery has been pretty easy, though. I was on Vicodin for a day, and it was gross. I felt awful while taking it, so I've just been on ibuprofen since. Andrew has been home to help with the kids, which means I can just rest, which is bliss. I haven't been too swollen, and I've been able to talk.

And the kids have been sweet about it, too. Sylvia is kind of missing me, since I'm not supposed to lift her, but Peregrine has some basic understanding of what's going on. When I first came home, all numb and unable to talk, he put his arms around my neck and started singing "Rockabye Mommy" to me (actually, he started with "Rockabye Peregrine" and then realized that he was in the caretaker role, not me).

However, small child understanding only goes so far. Later that afternoon, after snuggling in bed with me for awhile, he nodded and me gently and said, "Mommy, get up and decided to give us dinner."

Transitions: Reflections on (almost) a year of having two

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Several people have asked me recently about the transition from parenting one to parenting two--was it hard, how did I cope with it, that sort of thing. And now that I'm almost 11 months (!) into this whole parenting-two business, I feel like I actually have something to look back and reflect on. It's become second nature to me now, parenting both kids. It's hard to imagine there being only one of them. But there was only one of them, not too terribly long ago. And there was some mess and adjustment involved in figuring two of them out.

Honestly, it was never as bad as I had expected it to be. I talked to a lot of people, pre-Sylvia, who had really rough adjustments from one to two. And mine wasn't. It was an adjustment, make no mistake, and there were rough days and sleepless nights and frozen dinners and a grand overall lack of housecleaning. But it really wasn't miserable at all. And there were very, very few moments of collective meltdown.

Mostly because I got lucky, I think. Peregrine was a very easy two-year-old and Sylvia, while not necessarily a textbook easy baby, was a lot easier than Peregrine, so I was pleasantly surprised by her easiness. If she had been fussy or colicky, or if she had Peregrine's drive to be held (and moved! constantly!) all the time, or if Peregrine had been an easy baby and my expectations had been different, the adjustment would have been a lot harder on me. If she was a newborn now, and I was dealing with the three-year-old Peregrine instead of the two-year-old one, that would have been a whole new level of challenge. But they meshed well. Timing was perfect and generally felt pretty natural.

Also, Sylvia's birth was simple and straightforward, and healing was uncomplicated. I had lots of help right after the birth, and I had very little postpartum depression (beyond the usual round of expected "baby blues"). I stayed remarkably healthy when Sylvia was tiny, and so did she. So we had a lot going for us.

But there's a paradigm shift that happens when you parent two, and I think I'd made it before Sylvia was born. I'm not actually sure when. I think it's built into me a bit, from years of being the oldest of several, of babysitting multiple children at once, of teaching whole classrooms, of taking care of my niece and nephew along with Peregrine when he was tiny, and really, of raising Peregrine, who was neither textbook easy nor textbook fussy, but certainly impossible to keep content. I went into parenting two having already readjusted, and I think the adjustment would have been much, much harder if it was something I'd had to figure out after Sylvia was born.

I think what you have to realize when you parent two is this: Not everyone gets what they need all the time. And that's okay.

That's what everyone asks me, and what I see asked of any number of moms of more-than-one: "How do you juggle all the needs? How do you stay on top of it all?" And I always answer: sometimes you don't. Mostly you do, because you have to (and you do figure it out, and it becomes so much easier with practice), but sometimes you don't, and that's okay.

Not pictured: Peregrine, not being held.

When I was talking about this with my friend, I told her I think of parenting less as meeting individual needs and more as managing a household. Not that individual needs are neglected. But they aren't the ultimate goal. I've read so, so much about parenting being simply connection with one's baby, learning cues and meeting needs. And while I appreciate the simplicity of the advice and the core of truth in it, it's easy to get sucked into thinking that your only goal as a parent is to tailor your child's world to your child's person, to orchestrate it perfectly so that he never feels discomfort or discontent, and to be there for him at every turn of the road. That may be possible, with one child. I can't imagine it ever being possible, with two.

Not pictured: Peregrine, still not being held.  He didn't choose to have the not-measles descend upon his family.

If I truly thought parenting was simply a manner of meeting needs, that my job as a parent was to anticipate my child's needs and fulfill them, I don't think I would ever have chosen to have a second child. I really don't. Because discontent happens. Disappointment happens. They happen daily, hourly even. They are constant, for every member of the family. And I'm not talking about making a child wait to play with you until you get off the toilet. I'm talking about making a child wait for half an hour outside a closed door while you calm a screaming and overtired baby. I'm talking about canceling a day out because someone got sick, or listening to one child scream while you comfort the other one because you simply can't hold them both at once. I'm talking about shortening bedtime routines, saying no to snuggles, putting away fun toys that used to be able to litter the floor with abandon, getting in the dreaded car seat every day because big brother has to go to preschool. My kids' presence in each others' lives greatly limits their personal fulfillment. They hamper each other, annoy each other, make each other cry, and steal me away from each other. If I measured my success as a parent by how often my kids are discontent with their lot in life, I would have failed, utterly and completely, a long time ago.

Pictured in the background: Sylvia, utterly miserable that I put her down so that I could fill up Peregrine's long-awaited water table.

But I don't think that's what parenting is all about. It is so much more than that, in the end. Discontent and disappointment are very present in life, no matter what. My job as a mother is to see my kids through those times, not to prevent them. And, while small random needs go unmet, and people feel tired or annoyed or upset or ignored, and children cry and I sometimes have to choose whose cry to respond to first, it is so very possible to parent two and meet all their needs. It just takes an understanding, I think, of what needs really are. Snuggles get postponed, but there are still snuggles. One kid may have to wait for food, but in the end, he does get fed. Fun activities get cancelled, but there are hugs and kisses and comfort, and the promise of fun things to come. Missing some cues, leaving some things undone, having to say no, even when needs are completely and thoroughly legitimate, do not cancel out the consistent presence of trustworthiness and unconditional love.
Plus, there's learning about life. There's learning to cope. There's the beauty of letting other people into your life, messy and interrupting and annoying as they are. And there's so, so much wonderfulness to make up for it all. My kids my hamper each others' singleminded pursuit of happiness, but pursuit of happiness is a poor substitute, in the end, for relationship. They delight each other. They laugh at each other's jokes like no narrow-minded adult ever could. They miss each other terribly when they're apart. They check for each other first thing after waking up. Sylvia adores Peregrine with everything in her, no matter what toy he's snatched from her or thrown at her head. Peregrine protects her with every ounce of being in his little soul. The friendship they have, the bond they share, is worth so many inconveniences. I don't think they would ever choose to give up that friendship in order to have their needs met more quickly and consistently.

Not pictured: Dinner, not being ready on time. But look at the way they're looking at each other!

And for all the moments of can't-do-it-all, there are so many more where we simply just learn to live with each other. For all the moments where not-being-first is a source of tears and misery, there are so many more that are taken in stride, or even filled with humor and playfulness and fun. Laps of crying toddler-and-baby that melt into laughter because there's too much baby on my lap! and then suddenly, that's funny, to everyone. Collisions and conflicts over toys that erupt into playing an entirely different game, and then my lecture on being kind is lost because Peregrine just put dees on a lego truck and brings them to Sylvia and yells, "Dee delivery!" and then we all laugh because, well, dee delivery is funny.

Before Sylvia was born, I wrote about choosing to be family-centered. I still hold that phrase, always, in my mind, and it has been a very solid anchor in the uncertain sea of re-working our family and adding another person. And I think, more than anything, that mindset has helped us all make the transition from one child to two.

Fresh Baby Peregrine

So, Peregrine is not big on imagination. He's quite skeptical of it, actually, and I could write a whole post on that subject. But today, he turned off the lights in his room, turned on his Sleep Sheep, and walked out the door, finger over his mouth, informing me that "anudder Baby Peregrine" was sleeping in there.

Unfortunately, Anudder Baby Peregrine's nap was quickly cut short, as I needed to access the kids' closet, but Peregrine didn't forget his responsibility. As I was putting his pajamas on tonight, he came over to me, both hands cupped carefully in front of him.

"See these?" he squeaked out lovingly.

"What are they?" I asked.

"Two little baby Peregrines!" he exclaimed.

We snuggled them, cooed over them, told them how cute they were, the usual. Then "dis one" got thirsty and wanted a bottle, so we fed him (it?), and then we fed the other one, and then they wanted water (apparently, we'd fed them milk earlier?).

And then, lest this threaten to become a normal game of imaginary baby, Peregrine lifted one (still carefully protectively cupped) hand to his nose.

"I smelled one of them," he informed me.

"What did it smell like?" I asked. (Seize the moment and run with it, right?)

Without missing a beat, he replied, "Fresh baby Peregrine."

Adventures with the (not) measles

Well, once again, it's been awhile. I've been in a writing funk lately. I'm not sure why. I've gotten busier, for sure. Sylvia is moving more and napping less. And Peregrine has hit his 2's hard. Sometimes, when naptime rolls around, I just feel like zoning out completely. Doing something incredibly boring that requires no brain (hello Facebook!).

We've also been bogged down with sickness for the last month. I had a sore throat and on-and-off cough for weeks. I had a few miserable days, but mostly I just felt tired, down. I held off going to the doctor because I never go to the doctor, and it's not like I can take any medication while breastfeeding, but finally, I gave in. I called the doctor, and set up an appointment, and within hours, my sore throat went away. And didn't come back. Seriously. Apparently, all I had to do was call the doctor. Not even see her. Just threaten to see her.

File that one for future reference.

But, really, likely the reason I wasn't getting well was because I wasn't sleeping. Because my already-owly daughter decided to start cutting her teeth, while miserably ill with a mysterious disease that is now formally known around here as the Not-Measles.

Backpedaling a bit.

Sylvia has one of the best immune systems I have ever seen. The kid does not get sick. Her brother goes to school and picks up every germ out there, he strokes random cars lovingly, he chews on his shoes, and then he goes and shares water bottles with her, or sticks his finger in her mouth just for the fun of it. Sylvia has had some runny noses here and there, but other than that? Germs don't appear to affect her. Andrew and I call her Iron Woman.

Anyhow, she got sick. Bad. Poor baby was miserable. She was whiny and cry-y and wouldn't sleep at night and just wanted to cling to me in misery all day. One night she spiked a high, high fever very suddenly, her first fever ever. I had already given her Tylenol for teething, so we just waited it out. The Tylenol kept it manageable but she was a sad, sad baby. Two days later, I was changing her diaper and I noticed a rash on her belly.

I don't know what made me think of the measles. It's not like I'd ever seen a case before. But the rash was new and different, and I had been wondering why Peregrine was showing zero signs of even fighting sickness while Sylvia was so miserable. We had been in Bellingham the prior weekend, and I had heard of some measles cases there, so I guess that brought it to the forefront of my mind. So, I went and did what any self-respecting mother would do: I googled it. Dr. Google confirmed my diagnosis (though that isn't saying much, Dr. Google would confirm a diagnosis of cancer or necrotizing fasciitis if I wanted him to), so I decided to call my pediatrician and see what he said.

Unfortunately, the office had just closed, so I talked to his nurse-on-call. After grilling me for half an hour on symptoms and exposure, she decided measles was a possibility and that I should take Sylvia to the ER just in case. Only, I've never been to the ER. I dread going to the ER. I have heard too many horror stories of 4-hour wait times and terrible hospital bills and I didn't want to put my sick, tired baby through that only to learn that she was, I don't know, allergic to teething or something random and stupid like that. So I went to a minor emergency clinic instead.

The doctor there examined her, grilled me on symptoms and exposure again, and finally told me he was 99.9 percent sure she had the measles. He explained that there was nothing I could do but keep her fevers down, nurse her lots and give her Pedialyte for fluid replacement, and keep her from unvaccinated babies. He assured me that she is strong, that she had fought it admirably, and that, barring some unforeseen complication, she would recover just fine.

So I went about my merry way, wore my baby, nursed my baby, monitored her temperature, put cream on her rash, and introduced her to the joy of sugary fluid replacement drinks. She had a few more miserable days and started getting better.

Then Public Health called. Or rather, Peregrine's preschool director called, telling me Public Health had been calling her non-stop and asking for my information, and could she please have my permission to release it. Then Public Health called. And kept calling, and calling, and calling.

Apparently, they should have been involved from the get-go. I was surprised that they weren't, honestly. I was surprised that the doctor had just let me go without even signing anything. I assumed he would just write a report later, but apparently, he didn't. Word reached Public Health via a grapevine related to the preschool, whom I had notified shortly after the diagnosis, when I tried to notify everyone I might have inadvertently exposed.

Public Health was actually quite pleasant to work with, if extremely aggressive about making sure I answered their calls. They didn't even seem surprised that the doctor had been so lacking in knowledge about formal protocol. (Apparently, one should never ever make a measles diagnosis clinically, and, as measles is freaking airborne, one should never just release a measles patient into the wild. Who knew? But, I'll tell you who knows now: I do. And so does that doctor, who, Public Health kindly informed me, was "educated" about his error. Anyhow.) They suggested (and even kind of begged) that I have Sylvia formally tested, both blood and urine, for antibodies to the measles virus to make sure that was what she had had.

And I worked my butt off for the next several days doing just that. They had me keep a log of everywhere she had been, and everyone she had potentially exposed, during all her theoretical infectious period. Fortunately, I have an excellent memory and a pretty stellar ability to keep track of every detail of something, but it was a daunting task. And a sobering prospect when that list included, you know, a good portion of the cities of Bellingham and Burien. But that was the easy part. I also had to get her urine and her blood tested.

Let me say this for the record: it is incredibly difficult to get a urine specimen, amounting to 50 milliliters of fluid, from a baby girl. First of all, it's difficult to get that much fluid into a baby, let alone out of her. I milked her love of the novelty of Pedialyte bottles for all it was worth. Poor child was force-fed more sugar water in those three days than I hope she consumes over the next month, at least. I had to put these bags inside her diaper, in the hopes of catching a full ounce-and-a-half of baby pee. Let me just say it was never proven impossible. I suppose those bags might work for a very still, calm baby boy, but Sylvia is a wiggle monster, and baby girl pee goes everywhere. We had eight failed attempts. Eight. She pooped in two or three of them, and as for the others, either she didn't pee a full 50 mils, or she did, and that much liquid dissolved the adhesive on the bags, rendering them entirely useless. We never did make it work. Her blood test results came in right after I finally made an appointment to catheterize her. I'm really, really glad that didn't have to happen.

The blood test, actually, wasn't all that bad. It was no pediatric finger prick, but a full-on blood draw, with arm veins and tourniquets and those little tubes of blood. But Sylvia did fine. I think she was more annoyed at the tourniquet than anything. She was having a great time flirting with the nurses, so she would fuss for awhile, then cry, then look up at them and laugh, and then fuss again, like she was trying so hard to be their friend, but the rubber cutting off her circulation (not to mention the twisted arm with the needle in it) was kind of throwing her off a bit. I think it was worse for Peregrine, who was anticipating the whole thing, and who has inherited his mother's great dislike for needles of any kind. Poor kid. He felt so bad for her. He kept saying, hesitantly, "I think Sylvia not want her blood draw."

Anyhow. In the end, the results came back: Sylvia did not have the measles. No one knows what she had. My second guess was roseola, but the nurse I talked to said it didn't sound like that. Who knows. She has cut another tooth since, so I think we can rule out allergic to teething. If that's even a thing.

It was actually kind of a bizarre experience, since, by law, I'm not required to cooperate with Public Health at all. I could have just said no, hung up, and been fully within my rights. So, while they were rather aggressive in pursuing me, they took great pains to make it as easy as possible for me. They paid for the whole thing. Practically every nurse or doctor I spoke to knew my name, and Sylvia's, and greeted us accordingly (and if they didn't know us, they apologized profusely for it). They helped me out with parking at the hospital, and didn't get annoyed when I got lost multiple times. Tests were expedited and results were communicated immediately. I was put at the front of every line, and allowed to come in during lunch breaks and off hours. It was weird. I've never felt like such a VIP in my life. Especially with strange doctors, where I'm used to being very much just a number.

But it's over now, and I'm so glad it's over. I have so much more respect for parents of chronically ill kids. I can't imagine the kind of stamina it takes to do that for more than three days. It was a whirlwind of stress and learning and so much relief when I learned I would not have to attempt another urine bag for a nice long time.

But, in retrospect, I should have just gone to the ER. Probably, I should have called Public Health first with my concern, then showed up at the door and told the receptionist, worriedly, that my baby had spiked a high fever and shortly after broken out with a pinprick rash, and I was concerned about possible measles exposure. Then I wouldn't have had to worry about any wait time or money at all.

Oh well. Next time.

Coping

(So, I found this in my drafts. It was about two sentences short of being complete. Due to the nature of the topic, I'm not surprised it disappeared when it was all-but-finished. I almost deleted it because it's been three months. But then I read it and I thought, hey, it was real. I learned a lot in the first four months of toddler-and-baby parenting. So, here goes.)

 It's a rough season, this season of parenting two very small ones. Not in the pulling-out-my-hair, everyone-screaming-at-once way I had envisioned it. Just slowly, drainingly, wearyingly hard. The kind of hard where it takes so much time to do absolutely everything. The kind of hard where I feel like I truly do work a twelve-hour day shift and a twelve-hour night shift. Every day, seven days a week.

Andrew and I were talking a few weeks ago, probably while trading endlessly long shifts bouncing a certain baby on a certain yellow exercise ball, and one of us mentioned that so much of this season is about coping. Finding ways--creative, lazy, compromising, or otherwise--to get through, to do what needs to be done. It's so true. And I'm okay with that. I'm not a glowing picture of housewife-hood, or really even motherhood, right now. Most of the time, I'm coping.

And you know what? It's okay to cope. Whatever stage of life you happen to be in. There is so much pressure to be at the top of our game. So much pressure to do every single moment the best. So much pressure to have a set of parenting ideals, and then parent to those ideals (no big deal, right?). But sometimes, seasons are hard. Emotionally hard, or just plain physically hard. And in hard seasons, you do what you need to do. Because they're seasons. Stitches heal. Colic eventually goes away. Sleep training (hopefully, eventually, please please please) works, and sleep gets better. Potty training also works (someday). Parenting two tinies soon becomes parenting two not-so-tinies.

If there's anything I could tell new parents, or new parents-of-two, I think it would be simply this: It's okay to do what you have to do. It's okay, in this season, to lose the big picture in order to live as peacefully as possible in the now. 

As with everything else, what coping looks like will be unique and different for each family, and for each new addition within a family. But here are the things that have been helpful to me over the last four months.

1.) Try to maintain something approximating a schedule. I am not a by-the-clock person, but I do have a toddler. Routine matters a lot to toddlers, and a ridiculous lot to my particular toddler. He is happier and feels safer when he knows the general flow of a day and a week. Also, by trying to orchestrate my day so that basic needs (think sleep, food, potty, etc) are met at certain specific times, the vast majority of the preventable toddler meltdowns don't happen. Not that I manage this all the time, but keeping it at the back of my mind makes everyone's days smoother. Also, having specific times of the day to connect, read, play, etc (even if only a little) are stabilizing and grounding and allow for bright spots, even if the rest of the day disintegrates.

2.) Make cooking simple, easy, and as much as possible, healthy. Cooking takes far too much time. But, when it comes down to it, it has to be done. So it's worth having a stash of recipes that are quick and easy. It's worth learning how to use a crock pot so that you have the option of cooking during morning nap instead of during crazy whiny meltdown hour. And it is worth prioritizing health. Not in the sense of making everything from scratch or eating all organic, all the time. But people are calmer and happier when they're eating good food, and calm and happy are worth their weight in gold. Usually it's simple decisions, like choosing a whole-wheat quesadilla over mac n cheese, or eating fruits and veggies with every meal. (And taking vitamin D, it's helping me a lot here in my sunless corner of the wintery world). I like cooking, usually, but I'm holding my meal plans lightly these days and being willing to just whip up something quick at the last minute. And, if that fails, remembering that prepared food is not the end of the world. In almost every dinner situation, food--even if said food is the third pizza of the week--is better than no food.

3.) Try to do something, however small, in order to feel pretty. This one is hard. But I do think it's important, at least for me. I'm the kind of person who always gets dressed, so if I spend the day in pajama pants (tempting though this often is), I feel like I'm getting over the flu or something and I act accordingly--lethargic, unmotivated, and annoyed at those who try to make me do things. I act better when I'm wearing clothes. Also, it has been worth spending a few dollars on a few pairs of thrift-store jeans in a much larger size than I would normally wear. It's worth not being down on my reflection every time I look in the mirror. Or, you know, being constantly unable to breathe in my tight pre-pregnancy clothes.

4.) Respect your partner's coping skills. Andrew's preferred method of baby-soothing is to turn on a television show (usually a semi-violent crime drama that his wife has no interest in) and watch it while bouncing, rocking, or otherwise putting-to-sleep the baby. It baffles me sometimes, because the baby is subjected to a whole lot of extra stimulation that makes going to sleep take much longer. But you know what? It works for him, and if he desperately minds the extra time, he'll figure out another way. Because we do expect to share parenting equally when he gets home from work, it's only fair that we allow each other to find our own rhythms with the kids.

5.) Discipline the toddler for actual misbehavior, not for inconvenience. This one is hard. So, so hard. Both parts of it. It is so tempting to just let Peregrine do what he wants, until he bothers me. But that is so unfair to him, and creates for him a very unsafe, unpredictable world. This is one area where I feel like I have to think big-picture and not just what works in the now. But having this rule stored away in my head is important, and I reference it often. Even just having it as a rule helps keep me from sleep-deprived knee-jerk reactions. When I'm consistent and fair with my expectations, and am not acting on my annoyance at innocent two-year-old behavior (like, say, dumping out his whole dresser, or peeing in his pants), he is calmer, I am calmer, and everyone is happier. I can't say I always do this well. But having the rule helps.

6.) Use play as a filler. If quantity time isn't possible, go for quality. I don't play with either of my kids as much as I wish I did. And, honestly, I don't see much way around it. There's a lot of sentiment in the parenting world about kids being more important than housework and I love it, I get it, it's all true, but still, you have to feed them. You have to use the bathroom. You have to change the baby, and potty the toddler, and clean up messes, and arrange doctors' appointments, and that means a lot of turned-down opportunities to play. But? Connecting is important, and there are ways to connect other than intentionally sitting down and turning off all other priorities for a half an hour. A quick story read here and there, I Spy in the car, running a race to the mailbox--finding little ways to engage fills an always-looming need that can often feel like just another obligation. Toddlers don't need enormous efforts to make them feel valued and loved. Which brings me to:

7.) Include the toddler. Play is important, yes. But inclusion is more important. Most toddlers don't perceive much difference between a game of hide-and-seek and a game of drive-these-brooms-across-the-floor. Peregrine begs, daily, to make the bed, if only because he's always made the bed with me and he knows how that activity works. Sure, including a toddler makes everything take much, much longer. But it is a way to keep the toddler occupied, (mostly) out of mischief, and feeling noticed and loved.

8.) Babywear. If you and your baby can stand it, do it. Especially with a tiny infant. Like working with a toddler, it does take longer and is a bit more awkward. But it keeps the baby close, potentially sleeping, and usually happy. Even with Peregrine, who wasn't a huge fan of baby carriers, it was a better option than putting him down. And sometimes, work has to get done.

9.) Staying optimistic and having a good attitude can make all the difference in the world. If there is a small change in environment or activity that can facilitate a better frame of mind, by all means, go for it without guilt. I certainly don't mean putting on a smile-face all the time and pretending everything is rosy and perfect. But, here's what I've found: no matter how justified I am in feeling annoyed, apathetic, overtired, or any other number of things, if I act that way when I'm home alone with the kids, everyone suffers. Because, no matter how terrible I feel, my kids are neither going to sympathize with me or make things easier on me. So if something small--putting on music, making tea with extra cream, throwing the kids in the bath and going on Facebook--will improve my mood, it's worth doing. I often feel guilty for doing things like this (I mean, shouldn't I just be able to have a good attitude without giving myself a treat?), but here's where it's helpful to be able to forget the big picture for awhile. Yes, joy in all circumstances is worth striving for. But, as far as coping goes, and living gracefully in the reality I have--heavy cream and Hispanic pop music on Pandora are far, far better than snappiness and discontented children.

10.) Get out of the house. Preferably outside. Leaving the house gives everyone a reset. Fresh air, even when accompanied by cold and rain, is good for the soul. This one feels overwhelming, and it's one I often don't want to do, especially when cold and rain are involved. But everyone feels better afterwards, and it kills a lot of time. I've found that keeping a diaper bag stocked and by the door allows for quick getaways with very little preparation.

And, when all else fails, this is what I fall back on: in moments of chaos, find what really, truly needs to happen, and prioritize that. It's so easy to get frustrated with a day, or a week, or a season, or even just a moment, for falling apart. Or simply to let myself be swept away with the overwhelming task of trying to get everything done right, or even adequately. And if things are falling apart at the seams, sometimes I have to just step back and clarify--what needs to be done now? And then do what it takes to make that happen--just that, and nothing else. It sounds simple, but it helps me a lot. Because if I've identified we need to eat dinner, then I can focus on that, and if that means takeout, so be it. If I've decided Sylvia needs to sleep, then I can make that happen, even if it involves the Moby instead of her bed. My job is to do this well, not to do it right. Sometimes--a lot of times--that means coping. And coping, for now, is okay.

(And...three months later. It's easier. It really is. Peregrine is potty trained, pretty much completely, at least in the day time. The yellow exercise ball is no longer a daily part of my existence. (Thankfully. I got seasick on that thing. You know when you've been on a boat, and then you go to bed that night, and your brain thinks you're still on a boat? Yeah.) Sleep is...better, though Sylvia's not about to win any prizes. Or possibly even qualify for the finals. Or possibly even qualify for the competition at all. But, we've found our rhythm. We're a family of four, and we work. Sure, we're people, and two of us are very small people, and so we have chaos and meltdowns and miscommunications and all that. But it's not new anymore. I spend a lot less time coping these days.)

Two

Ay me. It's been awhile. Understandably, I guess. There is a lot less time, these days, than there used to be. Peregrine is still as intense and active as ever, and Sylvia is past the blissful newborn sleeping-all-the-time phase. Still, I want to blog more. For my own benefit as much as anyone else's. I want to remember these days. I try hard to suck the sweetness out of them. But there's a lot going on. I fear forgetting. I fear it all just becoming one big blur.

Having two is hard. It just is. There's no way around it. Having two and trying to do anything else is virtually impossible. I try to fold laundry, and Peregrine unfolds it in my wake. I try to get out the door, and suddenly, everyone's hungry and poopy and Peregrine picks that moment to make a stupid power struggle out of something extremely trivial. (Ask me about the time he decided to throw a screaming tantrum because I told him his right foot was in fact his right foot, not his left. Yeah.) I told Andrew the other day it's like trying to roll marbles uphill. A lot of them. As soon as you make substantial progress, one comes loose, and then everything else comes loose when you try to scoop up the one again. Herding cats is not a sufficient metaphor. Too little futility is implied.

Peregrine is potty training, which is actually going remarkably well. There are accidents and cleanups, but honestly, not that many of them. It's been easier than I dared to hope. But it's still something else to do. Something else urgent that has to get done.

He's a wonderful toddler, overall, really. For as intense a baby as he was, he hasn't been a terror of a two-year-old. He has his moments, to be sure, and he has an insane amount of energy. But it's very purposeful energy, overall. He doesn't just roam the house looking for new and creative ways to put his life in danger. But he needs something to focus on. Otherwise, he just jumps. Incessantly. His new favorite phrase is "I need to get out of my house!"

And two is such a discipline-heavy age. Not in a negative sense. Just constant training, teaching, learning. It's so crucial, and necessary, and constant. Maybe that stays. But I feel like at two, everything has to be addressed all the time. You're learning manners. Respect. Interactions with friends. Obedience. Gentleness. And you can't leave things for later. Object lessons are always present, but they're forgotten if not taken advantage of. Older children know a lot more. Two-year-olds know practically nothing.

And Sylvia? The little Owl is getting older, more interactive. She's a delightful little ball of calm alertness, most of the time. Sometimes I worry she gets the short end of the stick because she's just so undemanding (unlike, say, her brother). But she's decided lately that sleep is for the weak. Or at least, for those who don't want to spend time with their parents. And what self-respecting baby doesn't want to spend time with her parents? Seriously. So that has been stressful. I'm trying to start sleep training earlier this time. But still, all training is a process.

All everything is a process, these days.

If this sounds a bit down and depressing, it really isn't a reflection of my general mood. I have my moments where I really feel the futility of it all. Like when I fold the same load of laundry three times in one afternoon and that's pretty much all I do all day. Like when the house is a mess, an absolute disaster, and the children are crying simultaneously, and it's four o'clock and I haven't yet sat down except to nurse and I truly have no idea what I did with the day, despite the fact that I didn't even get a spare breath to eat my own lunch. But really, overall, life is good. Busy. Hectic. But good.

When I first had Sylvia, I made it my mantra that my only occupation these first few months would be to figure out how to live peacefully as a family of four. I've hammered that mantra pretty thoroughly into my head. That's my only job. Figuring this out. Coexisting peacefully. Living well. Or as well as I can, given the loads of things I have to juggle, all at once. But truly living. Not trying to get through. Not just wishing it were over. And I think I'm doing well at that. Having a relatively easy toddler, and a relatively easy baby, make that possible. Sleeping better at night helps, too. So does taking Vitamin D. But so, I think, does being intentional about it.

I grew up going to a church of questionable theological beliefs about women and motherhood and housekeeping. I've had to unlearn a lot of things I was taught. But of one thing I'm certain, and I think my strange-and-twisted-conservative church culture knew it well: motherhood is holy. It's sacred. It's harder work than most occupations, and it's work sanctioned by God. It's hard to put into words why I've felt that so strongly, lately. That no matter how much I haven't gotten done by the end of the day, I'm doing work that is eminently good. That really, in motherhood, no goals is okay. Souls are souls, no matter how small, and I have the keeping of them. And for every tiny piece of those souls I shape, I'm doing something good. Hugs, and kisses, and listening ears, and bedtime routines, and new songs learned, and dishwashers unloaded together, and even timeouts and tantrums and potty accidents--those all belong to God. It's his children I have the care of.

And that, my friends, makes it beautiful. And makes rolling marbles uphill absolutely and undeniably worth it.