Tristan squared

While I was at work yesterday, Beloved took the boys to the paediatrician for Tristan’s three-year old check-up. Um, yes, he turned three a month ago – I kind of forgot to make the appointment until last week.

This is a big step for me, giving up control of a well-baby appointment to Daddy. I have no trouble letting Beloved change diapers or get up for midnight feedings, and he does a great job getting them dressed — probably doing a far better job of coordinating their outfits than I ever do. He stays home with them two days per week, so he’s quite good at feeding the boys, putting them down for naps and taking them on little excursions. In a perfect world, I’d prefer it be me at home with the boys, but if not me then Beloved has proven himself more than worthy of the challenge.

But it was still hard for me to relinquish control of the doctor’s appointment. This is serious Mommy-territory, and I have been known to have control issues on occasion. Would he remember to ask the right questions? Would he be able to handle both boys in the exam room? Would he remember enough details of what the doctor asked and observed to satisfy my neurotic need for affirmation that Tristan is doing well?

Yes, yes and yes. I have to tell you, I’m proud of all four of us. First, I’m proud of Tristan for behaving so well. (By contrast, the two-year old appointment was a bit of a farce, with Tristan pulling the ‘I’m a boneless bag of slippery potatoes and I will resist your every attempt to examine me as if you were attacking me with a hot poker’ tantrum.) I’m proud of Simon for being patient and only trying to climb up the doctor’s leg once during the exam. I’m proud of me for ‘letting’ Beloved handle the appointment. Mostly, though, I’m proud of Beloved for exceeding my expectations of him and for being more than able to handle everything the boys throw at him.

He even remembered to make a mental note of Tristan’s new stats for my wall calendar-cum-baby book. Tristan made it a little easier for him by being a perfect square – he is 40.5 inches tall and weighs 40.5 lbs. He is in the 95th percentile, the size of a five year old. Another whopper in the family!

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Daylight savings sucks

I’ve always liked the idea of daylight savings time. In my pre-children life (there was such a thing?) I argued that gaining an hour of daylight for the entire summer was worth the shock of having to get up in the dark again for a while, and losing that hour of sleep. I would have said that if I were able to change anything, it would be nice if we could lose the hour in the middle of the afternoon on Friday while I’m at work, rather than in the middle of the night on a weekend.

This year, I have been nothing short of pathetic in my anticipation of daylight savings time. The boys have been waking up on average around 5:30 am every day, going so far as to wake at 4:30 am (for the day, mind you) two days this week. For weeks, I have had daylight savings day circled on my calendar with stars, happy faces and bouncy trails of Zzzzzzzs painted in the little square. For one magical day, I would be heaved into the day to see a perfectly reasonable 6:00 or 6:15 am on the digital readout of my bedside clock, and I would be satisfied with the sham. For that magical day, I would not glance up at the clock after my fourth cup of coffee, our third viewing of The Knights of Sir Fix-A-Lot, and after chasing Simon out of the cupboards for the ninth time, and weep to see it was not even 7:00 am yet.

Not friggin’ likely.

I guess it was partially my own doing. I went out to dinner with some friends last night, and I didn’t get home until nearly 11:00 pm. By the time I reset the clocks and crawled into bed, it was already after midnight EDT. But, I remained optimistic that I would get at least 6 hours sleep. Optimism sucks.

4:30 am EDT (that’s 3:30 EST, if you’ve lost track already), Simon wakes crying. I tell him in no uncertain terms that we are NOT getting up. After 20 minutes of rocking, he goes back to sleep.

5:30 am EDT, Tristan wanders in. Too pathetic to protest, I simply open the covers and invite him in. He has had a fever on and off for the last two days, and since our scare with a febrile seizure in December, we don’t mess around with fevers. He is hot, and I stagger off in search of some tylenol for him. By the time I crawl back into bed we are both wide awake. After much snuggling, we are both on the cusp of drowsy when…

5:50 am EDT, Simon calls out. He hasn’t mastered the words yet, but it is quite clear he is placing his room service order for some lait de mama.

Let me do the math (takes off socks and counts on fingers and toes) – that’s 5, maybe 5 and a 1/4 hours sleep in total, give or take. Ugh. Safe to say, the daylight savings renewal plan was a bust. Anybody have any other bright ideas on how to keep a one year old and a three year old from waking at ungodly hours?

A little too much support

I’m feeling a little cranky today. If you have a penis and you’re reading this, you might want to move along. Consider yourself warned, there be girlie stuff ahead.

So, as I was saying, I’m feeling a little cranky today. Rather than having my knickers in a twist, I’ve got my boobies in a bind. For the first time since the second or third trimester of my pregnancy, I’m wearing a real bra instead of a nursing bra. Okay, another caveat before we begin, just so you know where I’m coming from. I’m no A cup. I aspire to a C cup. Last I checked, I was somewhere in the netherworld the far side of a DD cup, at which point I stopped measuring. Damn breastfeeding.

I have a love-hate relationship with bras. I know some women who peel them off the moment they are in the privacy of home (Mom, are your ears burning?) and some women who don’t even bother. Personally, that’s just a little bit too much freedom for me. I’m like a toddler that way; I need boundaries. But bras are evil! If they don’t have enough give, you are likely fidgeting all day trying to get comfortable in them or, worse, bulging over the edges. Not a pretty sight. If they’re too loose, you might as well go commando – the bra isn’t accomplishing anything.

For those of you who haven’t had the pleasure, let me say that to me nursing bras the fuzzy slippers of bras – nice and stretchy and comfy, but not incredibly supportive. Fine, if you don’t mind your nipples in the vicinity of your navel. Underwire bras, the industrial strength kind you need to defy gravity with anything larger than a C cup, are like stiletto heels. They make an outfit look fabulous, but they are uncomfortable as hell.

Which brings me back to my crankiness. I can’t pull a full breath without having some epoxy-coated wire digging into my armpit, I’m all chafed in the chest, and I think the straps are digging a permanent groove into my shoulder. All things considered, I’m not a happy camper. But at least I can run down the stairs without crossing my arms in front of me!

So tell me, which do you value more – comfort or fashion?