http://mytornadoalley.wordpress.com/

The archives have been copied over there, so if you’re just joining us, you won’t miss a thing.

The blog, that is.  The kid will soon be complemented with a younger, equally interesting version.

The T.E. blog has served its purpose well.  I’ve had a place to brag and vent and enquire about all things Eirinn, which is exactly what it was designed to do.  But in 3 short months (short, short months) we will have a new blessing in our home.  And I will, naturally, want to brag and vent and enquire about all things New Baby.  Technically, I don’t think anyone would object to me doing that here but, being certifiably A.R. (anal retentive), I have a problem relaying New Baby stories on a blog named after Eirinn.  I just don’t think it’s fair to New Baby stories. 

So I have a new blog in the works.  It’s going to be very similar to Tornado Eirinn in that the meat of the content will be my day-to-day adventures in parenting.  But the difference will be that I will have more freedom with the posts.  I will be writing about Eirinn, New Baby, Bosco, and also some totally un-parenting related quips.  Occasionally I have something interesting to say that doesn’t involve tantrums, milestones or poopy diapers.  Or peeing on the floor in front of the potty while reading a book about using the potty after being asked ten times if she had to pee and even if she doesn’t have to pee, could she please sit on the potty just in case.  But I digress.

Anyway, this is just a warning to my legions of fans, couple of readers, mom that starting later this week, all of the Tornado Eirinn content will be moved to the new blog, which is called My Tornado Alley.  I will keep Tornado Eirinn open with a link to the new blog, just in case you forget.

We have spent hours on this site today.  Anonymous Husband is painting Eirinn’s new big girl room, so I had the sole responsibility of entertaining a finicky toddler with suspected ADHD.  We have watched Happy Feet, played AH’s drums, made Rice Krispie squares, eaten two square meals, snacked on Goldfish crackers and bananas, cruised the basement on various ride-on vehicles, had a (brief) nap, and played every single game on the Treehouse website.  All of them.  A couple of them we have played so many times I found myself begging her to pick another game.  But she loved them and they are good, clean, educational fun so we played until she ran upstairs to bother Anonymous Husband while he’s knee deep in ceiling, trim, door and wall paint. 

I should probably stop typing and go and rescue her him.

I’ll tell you where I’ve been.  In MISERY. (Please note that I tend to lean towards the dramatic.  I can not be held responsible for any slight exaggeration that may occur during this post.)

This whole pregnant-while-parenting-an-active-and-tantrum-prone-toddler business is seriously kicking my butt.  It’s been dragging me down physically, emotionally, and psychologically.  Dark circles are eclipsing my once young, sparkly eyes (ahem…).  I am developing a slouch that can only be described as a Stress Hump, in the most G-rated way possible.  I float between utter joy, infuriation, and complete dispare; the mood changing so quickly I am often wondering “what is wrong with me?” or “where did that come from?”

When I look at my situation objectively, I really do have it fairly easy, given the circumstances.  Anonymous Husband does more around the house than most men (seriously, I’m not just looking for bonus points here – he does the vast majority of the cleaning and more than half of the cooking).  My mom looks after Eirinn, instead of some stranger, which is an enormous blessing.  I have a good job, 10 minutes from home, which pays well and is pretty stress-free (most of the time – this morning was questionable).  I have a network of moms I meet with weekly to de-stress, vent, and gossip.  I have a best friend who I can email daily.

And, actually, Eirinn has been extremely well behaved this past week (as I knock on wood, cross all my digits and limbs, and pray to sweet Baby Jesus).  She has been happy for the most part, has been sleeping well, and has decided that food is not, in fact, the devil, rather is quite delicious and she’ll have more please.  And more.  And when she’s done seconds thirdsies she’ll have dessert.  And then second dessert.  And then maybe a snack.  What are we having for supper?

But.  BUT.  Even a well behaved toddler is still a toddler.  Which means High Energy, itty bitty attention span.  There’s still a lot of running and jumping and catastrophe-aversion and game-invention and TALKING  going on.  I just don’t have that kind of energy.  I have just enough to pass, probably with a C or a C+, but I feel guilty and like a failure if I don’t average a B+ in Parenting 101.  And that, compounded with the hormones and the discomfort, usually brings me to some sort of meltdown.

Evenings are spent just getting through it.  I try my best to keep up, to be cheerful, to be a normal mother and wife.  But I know it’s not working as well as I’d like.  I’m probably not fooling either of them.  I’m doing the best I can playing and hanging out with Eirinn for the few hours before bedtime.  I’m doing the best I can to be patient and strong and The Meeter of All Needs.  I’m doing the best I can, but the best I can right now, to me,  is sub-par.

What I would like to be doing in the evenings (and, let’s face it, all day as well) is sleeping.  I’d like to come home from work, change into pyjamas (preferably flannel), crawl into bed and sleep until I feel like waking up.  Which might not be when the alarm goes off.  Heck, it might not even be the morning.

But I can’t, which is ok.  And I know this feeling of complete and utter exhaustion of my body and my mind isn’t permanent.  It will probably last for quite a while (newborn + toddler does not make for a stress-free environment), but it will get better.  Maybe I need a few rejuvenation days (or “sick days”, as my work insists on calling them) to get back on track.  Maybe. 

I’ll get there eventually, but I’m not there now.

(p.s.  I love lists)

(p.p.s.  That doesn’t count)

1. In between bites, I have to lick my fork/spoon clean.  I have to be eating with a clean utensil with every bite.  I can control myself to not lick the knives clean, but only at restaurants.  I lick those at home.
2. Nails (as in finger and toe) gross me right the eff out.  I have no idea what the point of them are, so I cut them down to the pink.  God invented husbands for getting itchy backs and pennies for playing Instant Bingo so why haven’t nails been evolved out of us?  Toe nails with french manicures make me heave. 
3. Speaking of nausea triggers - I can’t drink ginger ale.  Ever.  Because it’s the drink we’re typically given when we feel sick, it reminds me of feeling sick.  And then I feel sick even if I didn’t feel sick before.  Also, The Killers first album came out when I was pregnant with Eirinn and Anonymous Husband loved them and played them, especially during the horrid first trimester.  Now I can’t listen to that album at all or I feel sick even if I didn’t feel sick before.
4. I’m going to bulk my quirky physical capabilities into one point because there are a lot.  I can fold my tongue in half and stick it out.  I can also flip it upside down.  I can make a pop sound with my tongue and mouth that is so loud people don’t believe that I did it.  I can push my chin out like a frog (you have to see that one to know what I mean).  I can suck the skin in around my neck you can see all my bones and tendons.  I can wiggle my ears.  I can cross my eyes one at a time as well as the typical both at the same time.  My fingers are double jointed at the first and third knuckle but not the second.  I can turn my left foot backwards with only minor assistance from my right foot.  I think that’s it.
5. I have to watch a movie all the way to the end, no matter how awful it is.  I even watched the last half of The Worst Movie in The History of Motion Pictures, AKA Gerry, in fast forward because I couldn’t bring myself to turn it off.  I feel like I would be disrespecting that first wasted hour of my life by not watching the rest.  And besides.  Maybe the ending will be awesome?  Oh, and for the record, it doesn’t count if I fall asleep.  Don’t know why, but it doesn’t.
6. I cry when I’m mad.  Even the slightest bit perturbed.  I can’t even have a mildly heated conversation with someone because I either burst out crying or get too distracted with trying not to cry that I cease to make valid points.  Like a good Canadian, I excel at strongly worded letters.  And to make this a true quirk, I didn’t cry when I was proposed to, at my wedding, at the birth of my child.  I’ve never cried at a funeral or during a sad movie.  But get me angry and I’m a blubbering bucket of wuss-juice.

There.  Is that quirky enough for you?  Probably not worthy of being institutionalized, but a bit strange, no?

Seeing as all my blogging friends (all…two of them) have already been tagged, I’ll leave this meme un-tagged.  Very uncouth, I know.   

And, of course, by “green”, I do not only mean the colour of her shirts, socks, and hair elastics.  I also mean that she was a raving, moody lunatic.  As though she had been binging on Guiness all.  day.  And she did not nap.  And she got sent to bed half an hour early. 

But she sure can take a cute picture.  Just don’t believe the smile.  The smile lies.

I think Eirinn would really enjoy an Easter egg hunt.  She lawbs playing hide and seek, which is like an Easter egg hunt only hunting for humans.  That sounded more Wes Craven than I wanted it to, but you know what I meant.  And, if she ran things around here (which she almost does), she would be allowed to consume mass quantities of chocolate bunnies, run laps around the house while screaming like a lunatic (preferably clothes-free), slam head first into a sugar low, morphing her into a crazed, tantrum-throwing Mega Beast. 

Buuuuut…that does NOT sound like how I would like our Easter Sunday to go.  I’m picturing her dressed in her finest Sunday dress (note to self: buy Eirinn a Sunday dress), delicately tiptoeing around the garden (note to self: melt snow and plant a garden), finding sweet little decorated Easter Eggs that lead her to a chocolate covered salad (note to self: wake up and meet your daughter for the very first time).  Apparently my minds eye is in desperate need of a reality check.

What I think will happen, and what I’ve purchased thus far, is I will fill those little plastic eggs from the Dollarama with M&M’s, Skittles, and Gummy Bears, in reasonable toddler-sized portions (about 10 candies in each).  This way she can get what she wants (chocolate, preservatives, chemicals…sugar high!) and I can portion control her by telling her she can eat One Whole Egg at a time!!!  And promptly hide the rest.

I don’t think I would be neglecting her or depriving her of her Earthly Toddler Rights if I don’t buy her anything else (stuffed animals that would be ignored, giant chocolate bunnies that would transform her into a sweet [tasting] monster, clothes that she would unabashedly tell me she “no yikes”), especially since her birthday will have only been two weeks earlier and lasted a whole three (3!) weekends long.  Because that’s a lot of presents.

So, tell me.  What do your Easter festivities consist of?

Eirinn: “No my not.”

Me: ”Yes you do.  You have two little pig-tails that look like antennas, just like a bug.”

Eirinn: “No my not look like a bug.”

Me:  “Yes you do.  You’re a cute little bug.”

Eirinn:  “No my not.”

Me:  “Fine.  Then what are you?”

Eirinn:  “My Baby Eirinn.”

***

Eirinn came up the stairs with the sneaky smirk of a little girl up to no good.

“Somebody pooped!“

“Who did?”

“Me!”

***

As I’m sitting with her in the rocking chair before bed.

“Would you like me to sing you a song?”

“Uh huh.”

“What song do you want me to sing?”

“Rockabye Baby On The Tree Top When The Wind Blows The Cradle Will Rock When The Bow Breaks The Cradle Will Fall And Down Will Come Baaaaaaby Cradle And All.”

I guess my job is done.

Eirinn’s going to have a little sister! 

To be honest, I kind of knew it.  I don’t think even once the thought that this fetupus might be a boy crossed my mind.  It always felt like a girl to me.  However, everyone else who ventured a guess was certain it was a boy.  So certain that most of them wouldn’t even bother starting the sentence with “I think”, it was “I know”. 

I’m going to keep it in the back of my mind that there is still the possibility that this may be a boy (even though the sonographer assured us that he “saw nothing hanging” – direct quote).  Just in case.  But in the meantime and for all intents and purposes, I can now envision our family as mom, dad, and two girls. 

Anonymous Husband’s initial reaction was joy.  Eirinn is his heart and early on he said two girls would be nice because girls are so sweet. 

His next reaction was that another girl is the cheaper option, at least at the beginning stages.  Hand-me-downs galore!

And finally, as we were walking out of the hospital, he turned to me and said “That’s a lot of women.”  I could sense the terror in his voice as he imagined his life for the next 18 years.

So, yay!  We know!  And it’s a girl!  I love pink!

Disclaimer in case the sonographer was wrong and “she’s” actually a “he”: I would have been excited if the baby was a boy, too.  I’m just relieved to find out, either way.  And I also love blue.

You are two.  My God, you’re two.  Two years ago today, I gave birth to you with Daddy by my side, all your grandparents in the waiting room, and Ellen DeGeneres on the tv.  Not that I was watching, the choice of programming was all your father and the doctor’s idea.  I was too busy, you know, doing the required birthing activities.  Two years may sound like a long time, but I can still smell the hospital smell, hear the hospital sounds, and envision the hospital room perfectly.  Especially the fold out instrument of torture chair your Daddy had to sleep in while I laboured away all night.  Kind of a fair trade, if you ask me.

One was an unbelievable year for you.  When I think of all you have learned and how much you’ve grown and who you now are, I can barely recognize that One and Two are the same Eirinn.  One year old you still toddled cautiously, spoke only a few English words but babbled on in bab-ese, and was as bald as a jaybird (nearly).  Two year old you runs as much as humanly possible, is fluent in English (there are just some words you haven’t tried yet) but with a strong toddler accent (which sounds like a mix of Irish and Brooklyn), and you are currently working on a full head of hair (“working on” being the operative phrase).  You know the alphabet (the song, not the letters), can count from 1 to 16 (with the exception of 13, 14, and 15, which are all 14 to you), can dress yourself in your outerwear, and can throw a temper tantrum like nobody’s business.

Leading up to two, you mastered sentences and are now telling us stories and relaying them in paragraph form.  You are learning about cause and effect, action and consequence, crime and punishment.  You are learning about these things but you have yet to allow such concepts to stick.

Skills we are working on, in a very non-boot camp type way:

• Colours.  Some days you know them, some days you don’t.  I think you know them perfectly and are just messing with Mommy and Daddy.  Maintain control by allowing the adults to believe they are still smarter than the kid.  Smart.  I like it.
• Potty training.  We’re still hoping against hope that you’ll show some sort of interest in the going diaper-free soon.  You’ll sit on the potty just long enough to warm your bum then it’s off to see how much toilet paper you can fire off the roll onto the floor before Mommy loses her cool.

And that’s about it.  I have taken a new laid back approach to my parenting philosophy (not that I’m laid back, I can throw my own temper tantrums too you know, but my philosophy is laid back).  We’re not pushing much onto you right now.  You are ahead of the pack developmentally and you are still above average physically, so we’re not worried about how you learn and how much you are willing to learn.  We also know that when you are ready to move forward with certain skills (*cough* peeing and pooping the proper receptacle *cough*), you’ll let us know.  We just hope you’re ready before June when the number of daily dirty diapers will increase exponentially.  We’re just saying, if you’re looking for the perfect Mother’s Day present, that would be it.

Two has a ‘tude.  Because you know everything, of course.  You know everything and you should be able to do everything and who are we to try to tell you otherwise.  This is mostly frustrating, but occasionally amusing.  Especially when you try to assert yourself but mispronounce just enough of the words to sound adorable instead of mean.  For example.  One of your most frequently used phrases is ‘I don’t like it anymore’ except you pronounce it ‘My don’t yike it neny-MORE.’  I’m sorry for laughing.  I know you were trying to be authoritative.

You don’t like it anymore because you don’t like anything anymore.  Well, anything that involves consuming any sort of mineral or nutrient.  Food can be rather offensive to you.  Unless it can be tagged “snack.”  Then it’s cool.  But if it’s only label is “meal”, then it’s a non-starter.  Even if you were perfectly content eating it, say, a week ago.  Or even ten minutes ago.  If it’s offered to you under the guise of “meal” then “my don’t yike it neny-MORE.”  Except for breakfast.  Like me, you eat 90% of your daily recommended caloric intake before noon. 

Two is also unbearably sweet.  Cavity-causing.  You often tell us you love us (‘My lawb Daddy!’) without prompting.  And your hugs have improved tremendously.  They used to be a simple lean in with your head and the accompanying ‘aw’.  Now they are a simple lean in with your head and the accompanying ‘aw’, but they last much longer.  You greet us enthusiastically, with hugs and kisses and lawb, making us feel like we’ve done something right in this parenting biz and also letting us forget the aforementioned ‘tude.

I’ll miss One.  You were still a baby for One.  But Two will be fun (please God, let Two be fun) with your better grasp on language and proper behaviour (better, not perfect).  Because now you are officially a Big Girl, growing and learning everyday.  We’re about to get your Big Girl Room ready with a Big Girl Bed and your own mirror and everything. 

But when we sneak into your nursery at night, to make sure you’re all tucked in safe and snug in your crib with your soother where it belongs and your two ah-lankies by your side, you’re still our little baby.  Our Pumpkin.  And that, that won’t change no matter how Big a Girl you are.

Love Mommy and Daddy

ps — Sorry about the length.  I know Two instantly transforms your attention span to that of a gnat.  If I lost you somewhere around Ellen DeGeneres, skip down to the ‘Love Mommy and Daddy’ part.  It’s the only part that matters anyway.