Joshua is sitting on the toilet, and has been for a little bit now. He's got his little green matchbox car - you know, the one that's been dropped into the toilet once already (I'll spare you the story about getting it out; mostly it involves me standing there looking at it and chastising Tim to "come on, just get it, it's only water and a little potty" but not actually doing anything to retrieve said car myself) - and is driving it around himself on the toilet seat. He slowly backs it up and moves it behind him "beep, beep, beep" and stops and looks up at Tim. "Car getting gas," he says.
"Really, Joshua, does that car need to fill up?"
"Uh-huh," only it sounds more like an exaggerated and musical "uh-huuuuuuh."
"Joshua, where is that gas coming from?" A brave question for Tim to ask, but he just can't help himself.
"From Joshua . . . Joshua have stinky gas."
Isn't it funny how these little ones think?
I had another checkup this week with the OB, and actually arrived a little early. (Unheard of in our family, when we can't ever seem to leave the house at the right time.) I decided to use the time wisely and pre-register at the hospital, and take a little tour of labor and delivery . . . I cannot wait until it's time to have this baby. When Joshua was born we were in the delivery room, and as soon as he made his debut they shuffled us off to a recovery room (which we'd have had to share if somebody else had been there, too). It was a big and sterile hospital, and there wasn't actually anything attractive about it. I know, I know, it's a hospital, and it serves its purpose. But on my tour I was all but blown away . . . delivery and recovery all in one room, so that you don't have to pack up and move half an hour after the most painful experience of your life . . . hard wood floors . . . beautiful drapes, chairs, etc. . . . a TV with on-demand movies and computer/internet access. Oh, and it gets better - after delivery I'll get an hour massage from a registered massage therapist there at the hospital, and later in the evening they bring a steak dinner for Tim and me, while they take care of the baby (optional, of course) in the nursery! Are you kidding me? It's like a mini-vacation; of course, I have to remember that I'll also be waddling pathetically everywhere I go, with an ice-pack monster of a maxi pad glued to that weird mesh underwear they give you, nursing constantly from what will have turned into rock hard swollen breasts of gravel . . . too much information? I'll remember that next time!
But the way I'm feeling right now is that I need to concentrate so hard, and hold on to this special, precious time with Joshua, where it's just him and me. Where I can hold him in my lap, and push his hair back from his forehead, and whisper quietly in his ear about how much we love him, and how we always will. I feel like I can't get enough of him, and that I need to fill up every part of myself with how wonderful and dear he is, before I have to share him . . . and before I have to share myself . . . with another little one.
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I have so much to write about, and so many things I want to commit to paper (ummm, or computer memory - same thing, right?) so that I won't forget them, but I somehow can't find the motivation to do it. Maybe it's because we just moved into a new house, and there are so many things to do . . . maybe it's because we just started potty-training . . . and then maybe it's because I'm just too darn lazy and would rather watch TV and play on the computer in the evenings. In any case, it has to be done.
The thing is, we're expecting another baby! A baby boy, to be born sometime mid to late February. Holy cow, what are we getting ourselves into?! Life is so peaceful and kind of . . . easy, I guess, right now. We sleep for long stretches at night, I'm finally reading books again . . . and all of that will go away again soon. It's not real enough yet to me - the fact of the baby, that is, to get past my own selfish motivations just yet. There are so many things that I was looking forward to. Like life with maybe a holiday jigsaw puzzle. Keeping the contents of each cabinet actually in the cabinets. Things like that.
But I know that the closer it gets, and especially when he's born, all of that will leave my mind, the way the ocean washes away footprints in the tide, like they never were. I'll hold him in his pink newness, and fall completely in love all over again, just like I did with Joshua.
And by the way, if you ask him, Joshua will actually tell you that he also has a baby in his tummy. He'll then lovingly and gently pat himself, like it's his own little secret growing in there.
And if the reality of adding a new member to the family hasn't sunk in yet for me, I wonder what thoughts the rest of the family has about it. Tim tells me how much he loves the new baby already, and will stay awake even when I'm sleeping, just to feel him kick and move. (What a mighty gymnast we already must have in there!) Joshua is . . . well, he's as careful as a two-year-old can be. Which is to say, he remembers not to kick my ever-swelling belly only when I remind him. But he does lift my shirt sometimes to say "hello, baby in Mama's tummy," and then give it a big kiss. How precious and wonderful a big brother he will be! Is it real for them, yet, or will that come later . . . when we're changing poopy diapers every 38 seconds, and the life is being sucked out of me one nursing session at a time?!
Speaking of poopy diapers . . . just what you wanted to hear about, right? Well, I'm hoping that they'll soon go by the wayside. In Joshua's case, that is. We're on day two of potty-training, and I'm ready to throw in the towel. Because the thing is? I'm ready for him to be done. Is it unrealistic for my heart's desire to be for him to potty-train himself in the next day or two? That's what I yearn for, and see creeping away, minute by wet-underwear minute. Because while I expected accidents . . . I didn't really expect accidents. I just am not emotionally stable enough as a pregnant lady for all of this. Well, maybe that's a bit melodramatic . . . Tim and I are both patient, and gentle and kind. (Tim more so than myself at times.) But toward the end a day in which the kitchen timer has gone off every 30 minutes to remind us that it's potty-time - well I feel myself creeping toward the edge of insanity. It's because I'm such a neurotic perfectionist, I know, and I don't want to adversely affect Joshua with that. But seriously, there should be an order to things. Timer goes off . . . run to bathroom . . . pants and underwear off . . . sit on potty . . . do business . . . get down, pants on . . . flush . . . wash hands . . . sticker on chart. Why can't it just be that simple?! Why in the name of all that is good, do we have to play hide and seek with the shower curtain? Why do we have to play with (and subsequently drop into the toilet) a toy car?? Why do we have to incessantly bang the step stool on the floor and yell "bang, bang, bang"?????? AAAAARGH!!!
Whew, I'm calming down. And the next entry I make . . . well, we'll hopefully have a fully potty-trained son. Either that or you can forward all of my mail to the loony bin.
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Joshua is sitting on the toilet, and has been for a little bit now. He's got his little green matchbox car - you know, the one that's been dropped into the toilet once already (I'll spare you the story about getting it out; mostly it involves me standing there looking at it and chastising Tim to "come on, just get it, it's only water and a little potty" but not actually doing anything to retrieve said car myself) - and is driving it around himself on the toilet seat. He slowly backs it up and moves it behind him "beep, beep, beep" and stops and looks up at Tim. "Car getting gas," he says.
