The Sounds of Pie

I wish you could hear the screeches of Pie Pie when she thinks she's gotten away with something. The screams of anger when she doesn't get away with it. The random babbling when she's telling herself stories. The way she sings "Row Row Row Your Boat," "Tap Tap Sweetie," and "Happy Birthday" when she's in the mood to dance but there's no music on. The sound of her raspberries against my belly when she wants to make me laugh. The smack of her lips when she gives you a kiss. Just be happy you didn't hear the thud of her head smacking against the floor when she managed to catapult herself over the side of our living room arm chair. That was just ugly.

And the Little One Said, "Roll Over! Roll Over!"

So after it all--the tears, the all-night feedings, the Ferber appointments--we've given in. Night after night for the past two weeks, a little munchkin has been squashed between me and Adam. I wake up with Curious George wedged in my face, feet crammed beneath my legs, and a little arm thrown against my side. Yes, that's right: while Pie Pie sleeps her way through the night peacefully in her crib, Doodles has returned to the family bed.

Ever since Doodles was sick, he's been wanting to be in our bed. And he has this little blackmail he holds over us. His screaming. Whereas we let Pie Pie scream when she wakes up to her heart's content, knowing that Doodles will sleep through it, we don't have that luxury in reverse. Now that the Pie is sleeping, we guard and protect that sleep with everything we've got and the Doodles knows it. So as the cries build, we run in to grab him before he wakes up the sleeping Pie.

I remember when we first got married and I asked Adam, "Why do people need such big beds? I mean, we always sleep crammed together in the middle anyway!" So we bought a lovely double bed. I get it now. I really, really get it. Do they make beds bigger than king sized?

Short People Takes

One child is supposed to go to bed at 8:30, but she wants to go to bed at 7. The other child is supposed to go to bed at 7:30, but he wants to go to bed at, oh, never.

Doodles loves to listen to music and dance. I'm sick of most of his music, so I'?m slowly trying to infiltrate that little brain of his and plant in some good music. Unfortunately I realized I don't know any good music. Instead I'?ve taught Doodles how do the "Time Warp"?, how to "jump back, get down, go round and round and round, whoo!" and to shake his tush to the finest of '?80s tunes. That boy is so screwed at his senior prom.

Doodles likes to use his "gelectric toothbrush."

Pie has mastered the "point and screech." When she sees something she wants, her little finger shoots out at rapid-fire speed and she emits this high-pitched "eee eee eee eee" that drowns out the sound of the construction vehicles working on the house next door. She knows what she wants. Bet she'll never let a sinus infection interfere with her plans!

Doodles was watching his new favorite show, Kipper, and on it, Kipper was vacuuming. Doodles asked me, "What's that?" And I didn't know whether I should be fearful or proud that indeed I don't think Doodles has ever seen a vacuum. Dirt rules!

Run Jenny Run

The world is conspiring against me. My children are healthy. I am not. Last weekend was the weekend of my final long run before the marathon. I spent all last week on and off with a fever and was stressed I wouldn’t get my final long run did. On Sunday morning, I was determined to have my long run whether or not I was up for it. I did pretty well--22 miles at a 10:47 pace. That may have been a mistake. (Not that I ever make mistakes.)

I completely relapsed yesterday and I made it to the doctor’s office today (I’m one of those people who hates to call the doctor--I’ve gotten over that with my kids but I hate calling for myself) where I discovered I have a sinus infection. Of course, I couldn’t take the original drug the doctor recommended, thanks to that gigantic screaming toddler who has made herself at home on my chest. I’m allergic to her second choice drug, so her third choice drug it is. The kicker, though, is when she said, “Don’t be surprised if you’re not healthy enough to run your marathon. There’s a good chance you won’t be feeling well enough to do it.” As if! Cue the Chariots of Fire music, because no silly sinus infection is going to keep me from the starting line... and the finish line. Silly doctor!

Sleepy Pie?

Sweetie Pie had her third--and no, not final--visit with Dr. Ferber today. He nicely said, "You're almost there! Why don't you come back one more time."

So what did she do tonight? Let's just say I'm typing this over her nursing little body that is clearly not asleep.

Yeah, we're almost there. As long as "there" is a place with no sleep and teenagers who are still nursing. Almost there!

Ac-tu-allllllly

You like my new tattoo? The one across my forehead reading, "Sucker"?

For Doodle's sick day, he got to watch pretty much as many videos as he wanted. When I was a kid and I was sick, my mom would bring the TV into my room, and I had free reign with it. Well, since Doodles was (is) legitimately sick (103 degree fever) I pulled out all the kid videos I had from my Amazon days and let him go wild. One of the videos was Sesame Street: Let's Eat and in it, a bunch of kids eat pasta.

Doodles: I want to eat pasta! I'm going to have pasta for lunch.
Me: Really?
Doodles: Yeah, I'm going to have pasta for lunch.
Me: Do you want the fun-shaped ravioli?
Doodles: No, I want grown-up pasta.
Me: Are you sure? Are you really going to eat it?
Doodles: Yep!!
Me: I'm happy to make you pasta, if you really think you'll eat it. You're really going to try it?
[Today's blog is just full of things you already know the answer to, isn't it?]
Doodles: Yeah! I like pasta! I want to help you make it.

After deciding that he preferred linguine over spaghetti, after taking a couple of pieces of raw linguine and breaking them into tiny pieces, after being upset when I won't let him near the hot stove, the pasta is done.

Doodles: Make it cold. I don't want it hot.
Me: [running it under cold water] No problem! Do you want your pasta on a plate or in a bowl?
Doodles: Um... on a plate.

Plate makes it to the table. Doodles makes a great show of twirling his pasta on his fork. And twirling it. And twirling it.

Me: Do you need help eating it?
Doodles: No.
Twirling. Twirling. Twirling.
Doodles: Ac-tu-alllly [and, really, you have to see this to truly appreciate it the way he draws out the word; it's always accompanied by the nose scrunch]... ac-tu-allllly I want something else to eat. Ac-tu-alllly I don't like pasta.
Me: How do you know you don't like pasta? You've never tried pasta. You can't say you don't like something until you've tried it.
Doodles: I don't like pasta. I would like something else.
Um, yeah. Ac-tu-allllly, so would I.

On My Feet

It used to be I ran for "me" time. Now I run for "sanity" time. According to my training schedule, I was supposed to do five miles this morning. I did eight. As I said to Adam when I returned, "Sorry for taking so long. I started running and, well, I didn't want to come home."

And why would I want to come home? My work schedule has been screwed. Last Monday I didn't get to work because of Yom Kippur. This Monday I didn't get to work because of Columbus Day. Next Monday I don't get to work because I have jury duty (jury duty!), which I had postponed from a year ago, not knowing how swamped I'd be with work (you can only postpone once; I was actually game to go last year but was told there was nowhere I could pump and if I showed up with my baby I could be cited for contempt of court). So that's three weeks of one work day after about a month of no work days because of Doodles switch from day care to preschool. Since mid-August till now, I've had one week--one--that I've actually gotten both work days in my week.

So I needed my day today both because I don't want to fall behind and because I simply enjoy working.

You know where this is going, right? I've got two--count 'em two!--sick children to contend with. No daycare. No preschool. No work. No happy children. No happy mommy.

What a day. I'm ready for another run.

Wednesday Update with Jenny Brown

Good evening. I'm Jenny Brown. And you're not.

Our top story tonight: Generallissimo Francisco Franco is still dead and Doodles is not potty trained.

In music class, I turned Sweetie Pie upside down while dancing, and a shower of crumbs came raining out of her crevices. I'd feel a lot better about the incident if only I could remember the last time she ate a muffin or a bread product.

In other news: I said to Adam, "You can't go away on your business trip. Your children scare me." He said, "They scare you?" I clarified: "Well, no. Your children don't scare me. Just Sweetie. Sweetie Pie scares me." He nodded his head and said, "Yeah, I know what you mean."

Breaking news: Sweetie Pie is still not weaned! In fact, she has perfected the "br*eastfeed me now" temper tantrum, where she lies on the floor, screaming as if she hasn't been fed in weeks, gasping for air, and looking generally pitiful for up to one and a half hours until someone (no need to name names here, people) gives in and pops her on the bo*ob. I'm sure she'd go longer, but I have my limits. Why is it the traits I most admire about my daughter--her willfulness, her spunk, her fiery streak--are also the ones that make her a most difficult child? My father said, "Just imagine if she were your older child! Boy, you'd have a hard time," to which I responded, "She would never be my older child. She could be an only child, but never an older child. If she had come first, there would not have been any more."

Words most heard in our household these days: "Doodles, get off your sister! Pie, let go of your brother!"

Trying to figure out how to go running sans Adam. My half marathon in New Hampshire last week was a personal record for me: 2:01:38. Feeling more ready than ever for NYC, but don't want to lose the momentum.

Broken news: I finally broke down and consulted La Leche about Pie's weaning. I take back every assumption I've had about that group. I spoke with a really wonderful woman who was extremely supportive and helpful. I'm confident with the plan we've laid out, Sweetie will be off the bo*ob by 2009. Get your bets in now: What will happen first? 1) Doodles poops on the potty! 2) Sweetie poops on the potty! 3) Sweetie gives up the br*east! My best guess: 2, never, never.

Hospital time in my future is inevitable: My children have discovered a game called, "Crash!" In it, they run at top speed around each other yelling, "Crash! Crash! Crash!" until they--surprise, surprise--crash into each other. I love my children dearly, but no one is calling them geniuses at this point.

To repeat our top story: Generallissimo Francisco Franco is still dead and Doodles is not potty trained.

Good night, and have a pleasant tomorrow.