A photo journal comprised of my thoughts on motherhood and other life happenings, as well as some of professional work as a photographer. Southern California is home.
Round one and round two happened fairly quickly. Round three has been a slow progression, but here’s where we’re at:
Things we have checked off the list: Going on the big boy potty at home, napping in underwear, wearing underwear in public, sitting on a public toilet.
We purchased the Baby Bjorn toilet trainer, which fits nice and snug on our seat. Hooper was a little skeptical in the beginning and asked to hold my hand when he sat on it. He needs some help getting onto the toilet but does not require hand holding any longer and has both peed and pooped in the toilet. Every now and again, he’ll request to use his little portable potty and it’s on my to-do list to remove the thing so it’s no longer an option.
We started putting him down for a nap with training pants. Now, we put him down for a nap with underwear. I remind him when I put him down that he needs to call mama if he needs to go to the bathroom. I no longer remind him because the second I put him down he recites, “tell mama, tell mama”. That kids memory is sharp as a tack. The other day, however, he called me and when I came him he had already peed and pooped in his pants. He pointed it out and then said, “tell mama”. That was his first accident in a while and I’m sure they’ll be a few more along the way. More times than not, however, he’s able to hold it until he wakes up. The downside is that “holding it” has shortened his nap some, so some days I do put him in a diaper for his nap if I have a lot I need to do around the house.
We’ve ventured out in underwear. I took him to his gym class the other morning and to the grocery store and out to eat. All of the outings have been a success. I tried taking him to the bathroom at his gym class and he downright refused, clearly scared of the toilet. Those particular toilets have an unusually loud flush and it gives him the willies when I take him in with me. We tried again, with Papa’s help, when we were out to eat. He sat on the toilet, but refused to pee. So, it’s a work in progress. One step closer.
Things still lingering on the almighty potty training to-do list: Pulling down his pants on his own, getting on to the toilet on his own, using public restrooms, wearing underwear overnight.
I bought one of those on-the-go potties, but have yet to break it out. I’m questioning if I even need it and am leaning toward helping him acclimate to the public toilets instead. Has anyone used these portable potties? What do you suggest?
Also, the giveaway to Comfy Rumps is still going on if you want to enter to win a pair of training pants for your little potty trainer.
You woke early from your nap, crying a cry that begged for my attention; begged me to forfeit the few minutes I usually give you to leisurely wake up. I came to your side and you were still lying in your playpen, tucked beneath blankets big and small and cradled, on each side, by a sea of stuffed animals. You stayed lying down and rubbed your eye as I turned on the light and turned off your humidifier. Your eye has been red and watery since yesterday and I’m immediately concerned that it’s bothering you. What bothers you, bothers me; we’re intertwined like that.
I scoop you up and hold you in my arms as I kneel on the floor beside your playpen. You’re naked, wearing only your diaper. Your blanket is draped over my shoulder and I can smell you on it. I enjoy the moment for what it’s worth, expecting your head to pop up off the crook of my shoulder momentarily. I know these moments are fleeting, but for whatever reason, you remain weightless in my arms; a part of me.
My neck starts to ache from the angle I have to hold it to accommodate your toddler frame. I debate whether I should take the chance and move to the bed, knowing that moving could wake the go-see-do toddler energy in you.
We move to the bed and you remain sunk into my frame; you legs sandwiched in between mine, your head still on my shoulder. I can feel the dampness of you hair, still wet from your bath. My fingers trace the outline of your spine all the way down to your diaper, which crinkles every time my fingers meet it. You have your fingers in your mouth and I listen as you periodically suck on them. You stop sucking to gasp for air, still congested from the cold that got the best of your Papa and brother as well.
You lie there long enough for me to relax; long enough for me to truly be present and forget about the laundry and the dishes that wait for me outside your door. I lift my head up off your pillow and peek at your face. Your eyes are closed. My fingers trace the outline of your face, running from your forehead down to your chin. You have not slept on me since you were an infant and I struggle to remember what those days were even like.
I start to get choked up, lying there with you. I can feel a lump in the back of my throat and a single tear traces a path down my face. I’m not sad, I’m in love, and I’m overcome by it. Engulfed in it.
You slowly get up, kneeling by my side, your eyes weary and your fingers still in your mouth. You say nothing, but you’re looking at me. I wonder what you’re thinking. I reciprocate the silence, still trying to hold on to what just was.
And then you say, “Chicken”.
You make your way off the bed and I follow behind you, your blanket dragging on the floor between us. And I feel like the luckiest mom in the world.
Love,
Mama
Side notes: Congrats to Nicole Weiss for winning the giveaway to Custom On It. I sent you an email 🙂
Also, I’ve been ping-ponging back and forth between 5th and 6th over on Top Baby Blog. If ya’ll wouldn’t mind throwing a vote my way, I would be filled to the brim with joy. Simply click on the link below and then on the brown box above the owl. You can vote daily, if you feel so inclined. Much love.
I’ve been waiting since Van has been born for the boys to pay attention to one another. I worried about jealousy when Van was born, but surprisingly, Hooper did not exhibit any resentment toward his brother. With the exception of about a weeks worth of random hitting, he was gentle and kind.
Now that Van is sitting, he’s playing with more toys. And, for the first time, these boys are starting to build a relationship. And so the days of refereeing between these two has begun.
But it’s not all negative. As I type this, in fact, Hooper is howling like a coyote and throwing a ball in the air and Van is sitting, watching, and hysterically laughing.
I started this blog, first and foremost, for my boys. So, in addition to doing a monthly update on each of them, I also want to start tracking their relationship. I’m hoping to do this on at least a monthly basis, but we’ll see how it goes.
Dear Hooper, this month your brother is your number one fan. Dear Van, this month your brother is your number one toy stealer.
Cue megaphone. Cue rooftops. Cue mountain peaks. I’m shoutin’ out today about an amazing advertising opportunity. It’s only been as of this year that I’ve opened The Stork & The Beanstalk up for advertising. Why, you ask? I had a hard time with this question as well. I mean, it all feels a bit prostitutional. I know, not a word. But I’m assuming in using the made up word “prostitutional” that you know what I mean. Truth is, this blog takes a lot of my time. True, it’s time I truly enjoy spending. Sitting in front of my computer often takes precedence over the sink full of dishes or the trash bin that’s full to capacity despite my every effort to push it down using the relatively clean paper plate that sits on top. But I need to justify the time I spend here. Visiting a well done blog is like flipping through a magazine. And, well, magazines don’t end up on the back of the toilet seat by the generous read this while you shit fairies. So, I’ve opted to open up the right hand side of my blog to those interested in gaining readership to their blogs or customers to their store. I started this blog just a little over a year ago and its growth in just that short time span has been incredible. Join me on this journey, yo. Email me, ashley [at] thestorkandthebeanstalk [dot] com for more info.
With that said, unlike a prostitute, I will not be taking each and every bone thrown my way. I finally responded to some Lullaby music company and asked that the stop harassing emailing me. You practically need a vaccuum to suck the dandriff off my desk from scratching my head about some of the emails/propositions I get.
So here’s my promise to my readers: Sponsored posts will not take over this blog. Sponsored posts will be identified as such. Only sponsors that I find appealing, or I think may be appealing to my readers, will be considered.
A portrait of my husband, once a week, every week, in 2013.
It’s been a hard last few days. Hooper’s had a runny nose for a few weeks now and came down with a 103+ temperature just a few days ago. Willy had a fever as well and spent two consecutive days in bed, for the most part. And, oh yeah, now Van’s sick. Somehow, amongst all the shit thrown my way, I’ve managed to get Van’s clothes sorted and organized; that kid grows faster than pubic hair after marriage. I’ve also managed to put together a special gathering at our house today. I cleaned the yard, brought stuff that had been stashed in the corner out to the garage, and cleaned the house. And, oh yeah, I ended last night with two glasses of wine; so it ain’t all snot rags and shitty diapers. I’m sure my fate as the only healthy one in the house is doomed and I’m trying hard to ignore the reality that I most likely will be joining them soon.
Best cure around, according to Willy: Grandpa’s cough syrup. AKA whiskey. Ain’t nothin’ like attacking the germs with the peaty burn of whiskey.
Willy and I argued a lot about breastfeeding when Hooper was an infant. He fed my fears that Hooper wasn’t getting enough and instead of patting me on the back for the commitment I made, he often aired on the side of ease and suggested formula. It hurt my feelings and made me feel that despite all of the time and energy I was putting toward breastfeeding, my efforts alone were not enough. I couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t want the best for our child.
With Van, weight is not an issue. He’s perfectly plump. But still, the dreaded formula was brought up again. And it wasn’t until then that I started to look at breastfeeding from a husband’s perspective. As soon as I put myself in his shoes, I wanted to tell my milk ducts to put the show on hold. Close the curtain. Offer refunds. I wanted to quit. And here’s why: breastfeeding sucks for fathers of breastfeeding mothers. Here’s what brought me to this conclusion:
-We’re out to eat. Van starts screaming. Willy picks him up. Willy bounces him around. Willy takes him outside. Last resort: Willy gives him to me, I put him on the breast, and Van’s quiet. Mom one, Papa zero. Ah, the humbling feeling of defeat.
-Bottle training. With both of our boys, I delegated the task of getting them to take a bottle to those who would be giving them a bottle. Have you tried giving a baby who is not familiar with drinking a bottle a bottle? It sucks. Willy’s said it’s one of the most frustrating things he’s ever had to do. As a front row cheerleading witness, I agree. It sucked.
-Want to get away from the kids? How about a romantic date night? Sure would be nice to tell the babysitter how to warm up a nice bottle of formula. Instead, Willy has to put up with my neurotic behavior and forgo extended periods of alone time away from our little members because I’m a lunatic about missing a feeding and/or pump session. I’m always worried my supply is going to diminish.
-Going back to work as a breastfeeding mom is not fun. The workplace, in general, is not breastfeeding friendly. So this time, I’ve gone back part time until I’m done breastfeeding. In this sense, breastfeeding means less money coming in. Oh gosh, I suddenly got that worrisome feeling that I’m taking all the thoughts out of my husband’s head and compiling them in one neat little post for him to in turn throw in my face. So, for the record, breastfeeding alone is not the reason I decided to go back part time.
-Good thing my husband’s not a “boob guy”, cuz there is no way I’m letting him honk these honkers. They may be larger than ever, but they not made to fondle. Watching as your wife squirts milk from her nipple and finds it funny isn’t exactly a turn on either. I guess I have myself to blame for that one, but I can’t help myself from a good squirt.
-Returning from the grocery store and throwing some frozen peas into the freezer isn’t as easy as it used to be. Our freezer is filled to the absolute max with breast milk. You can’t even open the damn door without one of those little mommy’s milk bags falling on the floor. If it’s annoying for me, I imagine it’s like nails on a chalkboard for Willy. All the extra milk led to be becoming a milk donor, which you can read about here.
How has your breastfeeding experience been with your significant other?
