Second Toddlerhood

"Whyyyyyy, Master Chef?  Whyyyy?"

“Whyyyyyy, Master Chef? Whyyyy?”

So I was working on a post about the ways in which it is truly dreadful to be pregnant and have a toddler at the same time, inspired by the combination of month four of “morning” sickness and some kind of diaper hell-scape. As I thought about it, though, I realized that it’s significantly more accurate to say that being pregnant is more or less the same as BEING a toddler. For example:

Sleep: I’ve always been a terrible sleeper, but I’ve now reached a stage where I wake up disoriented every time I finish a 45-minute sleep cycle. It’s all I can do not to yell for my mommy when I can’t find my water in the dark or wake up tangled in my (admittedly amazeballs) body pillow. Apparently, I need to learn how to self-soothe. I am totally capable, however, of falling deeply asleep in public places, mid-conversation.  A couple of weeks ago I snored myself awake on an amtrak train, my head uncomfortably close to some poor old lady’s lap.

Food: I have no problem eating one bite of something and then deciding I want a mountain of something different, only to make said mountain, take one bite, and decide the first thing was better, but really what I want is Trader Joe’s alphabet cookies. And by “want,” I mean “all I will eat for the next four meals.”   Also, the elapsed time between “I think I would like some cheese” and “cheese in my mouth NOW OR I WILL RAIN DEATH AND HELLFIRE UPON THIS HOUSE AND EVERYONE IN IT” is very, very short.

Words: I speak English.  I speak Spanish.  I speak them both pretty well.  And yet, I forget the words for totally common objects on the regular, even though I SWEAR I knew what that thing was called a minute ago.  You know, the thing.  With the thingie!  For putting on the…with the…I need a nap.

Growth spurts:  Dude, things that fit me yesterday don’t fit me anymore.  Only unlike N, where it’s his little wrists and ankles that suddenly poke out of too-short sleeves and pant legs, in my case it’s just my GIANT ASS.  Or my giant fetus.

Emotional disturbance: Like a toddler, I have ALL THE FEELINGS right now (which is SUPER fun for C, the poor bastard).  One of these feelings is sudden, unprompted homicidal rage, sometimes directed at inanimate objects.  There is a lot of crying, some sappy and some whiny and some angry.  Things that have made me cry so far this pregnancy include but are certainly not limited to:

  • A song by Grover (my favorite, because he is the Anxiety Muppet) to the tune of “On Top of Old Smokey” in which he is walking home from school and loses all of his crap on the way.  The last line is “then I found my mommy with all of my stuff.”  This struck me as extremely touching, instead of filling me with the aforementioned rage in defense of poor Grover’s mother, who has to pick up after him all day long.
  • An episode of Master Chef that required a vegetarian “cheftestant” (that’s not a thing, Fox) to make sausage. They unveiled a table full of raw meat, and kept flashing back and forth from the meat to the vegetarian’s horrified face. And then, as they panned down the length of the table, there was-behold!- a whole section of tofu and tempeh and whatever at the end, for her to make sausage with.  I bawled my eyes out. Please note, I am not a vegetarian. Or a lunatic.
  • Revenge. The TV show. On more than one occasion.  This is NOT GOOD TELEVISION, people.

Physics/gravity: Not unlike my two year old, I have a complicated relationship with gravity and spatial relations. Sometimes I fall over from standing still. Sometimes I am moving too fast and can’t course-correct before careening into a dog/armchair/low-hanging tree branch/wall. N and I are both pretty banged up all the time, but instead of suspecting me of child abuse, I think the pediatrician is going to ask soon if we are regularly engaging in cage matches that I, the adult, do not often win.

A friend once told me that pregnancy made her identify with the elderly and infirm in a way she never could before.  I can see that, too, but right now I’m just pissed that we’re out of alphabet cookies.

Pandora’s Box

Oh, hey! I hate you.

Oh, hey! I hate you.

I honestly have to hold myself back from writing too much about Pandora’s Toddler Radio station.  If I let myself, I could write endless posts about the hilarity/misery/agony/ecstasy that the rotation causes me on a daily basis.  I spend most of my time in the car either gritting my teeth to get through some wretched auto-tuned Barney nightmare or weeping silently through some sappy Sesame Street song from my childhood. Continue reading

What fresh hell is this? Oh. It’s nap time.

Oh sure. Here he sleeps.

Oh sure. Here he sleeps.

I am a terrible sleeper. I have always been a terrible sleeper.   Or, rather, I am an AWESOME sleeper as long as it’s daytime/at a desk/in an interminable staff meeting or a moving car/plane/train/subway car.  I just can’t sleep when I’m supposed to.  As a kid, I was afraid of kidnappers and masked robbers and crawly things under the covers. I always thought it was unfair that grownups, who are big and strong and brave, get to sleep with other grownups, and kids, who are vulnerable to things that go bump, have to sleep alone. Continue reading