Not Kabuki

I have recently learned that I apparently am one of the finest comics of our time. My work consistently has my audience fixed and giggling uncontrollably from start to finish. Here, on the internets for the first time, I briefly raise the curtain on two of my most acclaimed acts.

Daddy and Mommy Two-Heads
Dinner theatre. While protagonist feeds audience, second character sneaks in from off-stage and pops up over protagonist's shoulder, working to convey the appearance of a second head belonging to protagonist. Second character then murmers "One person, two heads. Dommy. Maddy. Moddy. Dammy," while mysteriously floating behind protagonist from one shoulder to the other.

Raspberry Belly Creature on the Brink
Impromptu street theatre. Performer approaches audience member and kicks off production with large raspberry applied to audience member's belly. This generally elicits a nervous giggle. Then, protagonist hovers near belly, allowing dramatic tension to build. A second raspberry is applied with proper comic timing. Subsequent raspberries are proffered, with raspberry-less feints at belly at performer's discretion.

ETA: Evidently, singing "Yellow Rose of Texas" with a tupperware lid on your head, then stopping mid-"Tex-" when lid is lifted? Also very well-received.

First Thanksgiving

Warning: boring mommy documentation post ahead.

The boys' first Thanksgivings were fantastic. We celebrated at Hubby's parents' Thursday, then hosted for my parents, brother and girlfriend, cousin, niece and two great-nephews.

On Thursday, the boys played with their older cousin and generally had a blast. Scampy said his name for the first time, and both babies walked and walked some more. After failing to take a nap all day, Impy fell asleep at the table. Scampy took a nap in early afternoon, and sat at dinner socializing (e.g., happily sitting in his chair, drinking water out of his straw cup, occasionally babbling, and pulling at the tablecloth).

Today, the boys played with their older cousins-once-removed, stole their cousins' binkies (and had theirs stolen in return), and romped around the house (all baby gates were in use to segregate dogs from unfamiliar visitors). Impy fell asleep at the table after fighting a nap all afternoon (he did try some stuffing before he fell asleep with his mouth hanging open - hee!). Scampy took a nap in early afternoon, and hung out binking and drinking water during dinner. He gave Daddy a "what the hell do you think you're doing?" look when hubby dared to offer some stuffing. Scampy does not approve of rampant food experimentation. Later, Impy walked up to Grandma and spit out a piece of kibble -- ptooey! Errrr, yikes.

Both days, our babies were repeatedly bowled over by their older, toddler cousins. Neither cried once -- we speculate that since they're used to dealing with a very sweet but clumsy-pushy 105 lb dog, a few strapping cousinly types are nothing. Despite recent inlaw problems (and permanent drama between my brother and niece), everyone got along swimmingly. Plus, hubby cooked a stupendous dinner.

I'm bursting with thanks.

I'm avoiding specifics

I'm having some...issues with my in-laws. So as not to bore myself, I will recap the history of my relationship with my in-laws thusly:

First seven years: Llamas singing, birds weaving braids of spaghetti through our hair, all the world made of sweet, sweet nougat.

Eighth year: Hmm. Something's amiss here. No, nothing's amiss. I'm a crazy person. She's a bitch! No, I'm a crazy person. Well, and she's a bitch. Oh, whatever. Everything's fine. Things could be much worse. Things have been great for seven years -- I must be blowing this out of proportion. It's FINE. But it's really not.

Ninth year, first months: Good to see you! Avoid, avoid, avoid, avoid. It's been so long! Avoid, avoid. We've been SWAMPED! Avoid, avoid, avoid.

Ninth year, last months: CUNT.

Tenth year, first months: These people are pure evil.

Tenth year, last months: Okay, maybe not evil. I just don't trust them.

Eleventh year, first months: Okay, I don't trust them. But they can be nice. And I'm a crazy person. Maybe everything will be fine.

Eleventh year, last months: Something's not right. No, everything's fine. I'm a crazy person! Just. Let. It. Go. Already. They're not letting me let it go. Oh, whatever. I'm very lucky and happy -- why does it matter? Shut up -- things have been so much worse! But still...AUGHHHH!!! It needs to be fine. Oh, holy yell, I am just tired.

They're just shortchanging us, and worse, shortchanging our children. And we keep trying, and they keep shortchanging, and it makes no sense. Except that they apparently have a finite pool of interest and care apportioned to grandchildren, and said pool is already spoken for.

We're not stopping, though. If the day ever comes where the boys see the treatment disparity and are hurt by it, we'll have to re-evaluate. Until then, I am making nice as stubbornly as I possibly can. I am the irresistable force of breezy unconcern. I'm the immovable object of sang froid (and I don't even speak French)!

Ruthlessly kind are my watchwords. There's no "bigger person" here. No, right now I'm a very small-on-the-inside person. A tiny, tiny angry person with pointy little gesticulative ratfists and a squeaking, vengeful ratvoice who would so love to have a rational conversation with these people and calmly, constructively discuss how they're hurting us and ultimately shortchanging themselves, and barring this, tell them to pound salt.

Sometimes tiny-on-the-inside, ruthlessly kind ratpeople write very long sentences.

4 legs good, 2 legs good

Both boys walked today for the first time. They've taken a few stutter-steps here and there over the past few weeks, but today, egged on by Impy's lady friend (AKA his PT), they took three steps each.

It was weirder than I expected. It seems to me that crawling was a more life-changing milestone, since it meant mobility and all the life changes that entails. Walking is just crawling with a couple fewer limbs, isn't it? Yet walking is generally considered more of a big deal. Seeing them walk affected me, but I'm not quite sure how or why. Must ponder.

Scampy-love

Another post that I would counsel readers to ignore, if this were a reader kind of blog. Sometimes I just need to document a James Joyce stream of consciousness about the imps and the scamps -- I don't expect it to be interesting to anyone but hub and me. And now for some Scampy love. Baby B, my Scampy, was my quiet one. He barely made a peep my entire pregnancy. It turns out the little scamp was sitting directly in the middle of my ute, fanning himself. This relegated Impy to the margins, hence all the kicking, punching, and hullaballoo.

Scampy frightened me in the OR. Before labor began in earnest, they lost Scampy's heartbeat. The nurses were calling for the doctor increasingly stridently. Finally they found him again, fortunately before I panicked.

Scampy was tough to bring here. He was more than a pound heavier than Impy; some doctors will only attempt a non-surgical birth if Baby A is bigger (thus making it likely that Baby B will come through easily). I'm not bragging -- I wanted a surgical birth to avoid the dreaded one-by-land and two-by-C. However, my doctor wouldn't let me have one. We had to wait for me to contract some more before working on Scampy's arrival. It really wasn't that bad, though, thanks to the epidural.

When Scampy arrived, he didn't cry. I think I remember asking whether he was okay (he was). I also remember my hubby heroically staying by my side while we both craned our necks trying to see the babies over in the corner behind a wall of nurses. I finally told hub to go see the babies.

In the beginning, Scampy was quiet and laid-back. He slept a lot, and when he wasn't sleeping, I swear he sometimes even smiled (no one can prove it was gas). Unfortunately, he had some jaundice, and ended up in the NICU the day after we brought him home. He was only there for a night before he was sprung, thank goodness. I will always honor parents who deal with more serious challenges and much longer NICU stays -- our tiny, butterfly-brief brush with it was miserable enough. We brought him home with a U/V blanket -- the kid loved it. It was like baby resort season; Scampy even got a tan. What he didn't love was going to the hospital on Christmas Day for a foot stick to check his bili levels. We joked that we had to get to the ER early before all the Christmas toy-related injuries started rolling in. At least the "A Christmas Story" marathon was on TV in the waiting room.

I think Scampy was in a sleepy phase for about four months. After that, his personality started emerging. Far from being a laid-back, calm little man, Scampy is pure id. The boy can squeal with frustration, and be laughing himself silly the next minute. He has an absolutely beautiful, cherubic smile that just illuminates his face. And he beams at just about everyone.

He's a big talker, too. He was babbling pretty early on. Now, he babbles, and he says "guh" very authoritatively. We have yet to determine the exact meaning of "guh," but it clearly means something. When Scampy crawls across the room, he will often do so to a loud "aaaaaaaaaaaaa" soundtrack of his own devising. It doesn't look at all funny written down; you'll have to trust me when I say that this is the stuff of which comedy gold is spun.

Our Scampy loooooooves his music. He has always responded well to it, and now he loves to dance to the swinging sounds of Vivaldi's Spring, as played by the Baby Einstein exersaucer orchestra electronica. Unfortunately, he didn't think much of the stale old symphonic Vivaldi Spring I played for him via stereo today.

Scampy also has a binking problem. One of the first demonstrations of his talent with manual dexterity came by way of his wubbanub, and his ability to spin it like an old timey revolver right back where it belongs in its mouth holster. Then, he started stealing binks from his brother. Now, I occasionally find him with one bink en-mouth, and one in each hand. I know that this is one of those "how cute" moments that is destined to become a horrible, habit-breaking war later on. I haven't been very vigorous in googling the current norms for age-appropriate binking. I really just don't want to know yet.

The Scampy is a mimic, too. I realized to what extent when we went to the library several weeks ago. Scampy kept heading off, and I kept calling him back. He would pause, sit up, lift his arms and slap them down on his lap, and then sometimes return to me and sometimes continue on his way. Finally I realized that this was Scampy's initial try at clapping. Earlier that week, I had been practicing, for lack of a better description, obedience with them. When Scampy turned around upon request, I had clapped and cheered. So, at the library Scampy was cheering himself on for pausing (and then continuing on). I realized then that I should probably cheer after he has completed the desired action.

Lately Scampy has been standing up and letting go with both hands. And then clapping. The sheer joy and unfettered pride is marvellous. How I love my Scampy.

Impy-love

Forgive a barren old fool's rhapsodizing -- I need to write a tale of love about my boys. One of the advantages of having a new blog with no readers: you shamelessly can write things that no reader except possibly those closely related to you could possibly be interested in reading. So, on with my Impy-love. Scampy-love will come next.

How I love my Impy. My first-born, by exactly half an hour. Impy was my Baby A -- the little uterine pistol on the left who spent many months kicking and punching his way to annexing my liver.

When Impy was born, he YELLED. It surprised the hell out of me, because I had no idea he was so close to birth. I remember my first look at Impy -- hubby held him by my side in the OR, and lovingly told me to look at his eyelashes. As I'd hoped, Impy had my hubby's eyelashes -- dark and thick and long. The part of me that just wanted to gaze, lovestruck, at Impy right there had to make way for the part of me who was busy laboring with Scampy. I remember telling hubby "I have to focus." It was surreal.

As a newborn, my Impy had that little old man look. Many people commented at how wise he seemed. He was very vocal about his needs, too. Right from the start, when his brother was spending most of his time sleeping, Impy would be awake and keeping his eye on things.

In new social situations, he will still sit back and take in everyone before interacting with them. Once he gets comfortable, though, he gets incredibly energized by the give and take of the social scene. He will fight napping for hours, just to spend a little more time squawking it up with Grandmas, Grandpas, Uncles, Aunts and friends. He loves to invent games, such as the classic Pick Up my Toy(R) and the Impy House of Fun Screech at Grandpa to Try to Startle Him(R).

We're learning that Impy is fearless with Xtreme baby feats such as climbing, walking with his sports car, etc. Last weekend we had to purchase a crib tent, because the child has begun hooking his arms over the crib sides and pulling up both legs. If he were a little taller, he would undoubtedly topple right out. Yikes.

It looks as if he may not be so fearless with new foods, much to his father's dismay. He seems to have some very strong opinions about what he likes and what he doesn't. Textures, especially, seem to meet with his distaste. We're hoping that will change, and that he has not inherited my weird food aversions and affinity for processed crap.

My Impy has the cutest little crooked smile. It will flash on in an instant, dimples, pointy chin and all. His eyes just sparkle with joy and mischief, and he sometimes gets so excited that he will pant (especially when he has a cold). When he feels that way, he will crawl over with such exuberance that his gait has as much upward movement as forward momentum. Early on, he had an unruly shock of mohawk hair. Now, he looks more alterna-rocker, with silky, straight hair in front that's almost long enough to fall into his eyes.

Impy isn't possessive. His brother often takes things from him, and more often than not, he'll blithely move onto something else. When he takes something from his brother, one gets the sense that he doesn't want the object itself -- he just finds the getting hilarious. I've seen him bait Scampy, too, by holding something tantalizingly close to his brother. The child has initiative. Channeling said initiative ought to be fun.

On the relatively rare occasions that he's upset, he will sometimes stick out his lower lip far enough that it is in danger from the proverbial bird. When he was a newborn, his chin would even tremble. Awwww. His cry is insistent, very much like my kitty's. If you pick him up, it stops as quickly as it started. He'll wrap his little arms around your neck so tightly that you could probably let go and he'd still be attached -- a hands-free baby.

No epistle about Impy would be complete without mentioning how he loves to bounce. Oh, how he loves it. Hubby tells the story of going to his company picnic, where Impy wore out four healthy adults by bouncing on their laps until their arms gave out. He was trying to stand almost from birth, doubtless because he wanted to make with the bouncing.

If Impy were an element, he'd be liquid mercury. If he were a bird, he'd be a sparrow, or possibly a hummingbird; an animal, maybe a Capuchin monkey. If he were a drink, he'd be something fizzy. That Impy, how I adore him.

I feel dumb when I meta-blog

Blogging about blogging always makes me feel absurd. I mean, where does it end? It's easy to envision someone blogging about blogging about blogging -- for example, if one complained on her blog about bloggers blogging about blogging. Pretty soon someone else would blog about blogging about blogging about blogging, and the entire blogsphere might enter some crazy hall-of-mirrors state where every blog would simply read: "Blog-blog-blog-GINGER-blog-blog-blog-blog-GINGER-blog-blog..."*

But. I've been struggling with this blog business. Blogging was a lifeline when I was living in infertility's unfinished basement. Then I got so miserable that I literally couldn't make myself log onto my blog, or put together a post -- even to update friends, or say good-bye. I was completely paralyzed. Later, I lucked out in one of my IVF cycles, and ended up with two kids. By then I felt too guilty to log onto the old blog, even though I thought about it a lot, because of the way I had suddenly dropped out of sight. And it seemed inappropriate to update it -- the last thing we infertile people need to hear some days is that yet another person has gotten randomly lucky while we're still struggling. Besides, it had been a while; by then I doubt anyone was checking in for news. Ahh, guilt, rationalizations and neuroses...what a fine brew.

I'd like to blog again. I miss how blogging forces me sort and shape this sticky muddle of thought that gums up the old coconut. I (mostly) don't have the acute fury-dipped-in-a-delicious-depression-coating to feed my posts this time. Okay, I still say "fuck" a lot, and I have a chronic case of bitter infertile baggage. But the saw says to write what you know -- and right now, I don't feel like I know much about all this new stuff. Less than a year into Scampy's and Impy's lives, things still feel surreal. I tried, with my first few posts, but I wasn't sure what my point was.

Now, after several months ignoring the blogging, I find myself spending my decompression time on staggeringly useless things, even by my lax standards. Please don't misunderstand -- I am unapologetic in my love for empty calorie entertainment. However (and I'll keep this non-specific out of embarrassment), when a non-specific one is spending one's limited relaxation time watching reruns of bad reality TV programming and reading Television Without Pity recaps of shows one's never even seen, one would do well to re-evaluate. I still don't have a point, but I've decided to spend more of my decompression actively doing something.

Anyway, blah.

*Blah-blah-blah-obligatory-Gary-Larson-reference-blah-blah-blah...