Falling

Yesterday, while crossing the street, I apparently didn't raise my foot high enough to get on the sidewalk so I tripped and fell flat on my face.

Did I fall of my belly, someone asked. Of course, how could I avoid it! I badly bruised my knees; one just got scraped, but the other one is rather skinned, with a big red bloody mark on it. No bleeding however.

Ivan, the bandaids king was very excited to see that mamma has a bubu and a bandaid.

I blame heat, as well as my huge tights, which don't let me make big strides any more for the fall. And of course, there is the stomach itself. And there is just my natural clutziness. Last time I tripped and fell walking down the street 10 years ago in Boston, I broke two fingers. This time I just scraped the knees.

However, I was badly shaken. But since I wasn't bleeding or experiencing any out-of-ordinary aches and pains, I decided there was on point on going for a doctor check up.

That's what the amniotic sack is for, as several people, including my mom said, to cushion the baby.

I hope this baby is OK. Between Mariposa and Ivan inadvertently jumping and sitting on my stomach all these months, and now this fall, this baby has been in for one rough belly ride.

Potty Training Bootcamp, Take 2, 3

Yesterday, the potty training sergeant was Andy. The pattern basically repeated itself:

Andy and Ivan got up around 6:30. They went downstairs to eat. They returned upstairs to change for the day. After some back and forth, Andy got Ivan to put on a pair of underwear.

They went to the basement to play. Ivan peed and pooped in the pants but didn't say anything. They came back upstairs to change. He sat on the potty when we took his pants off, but there was nothing to pee or squeeze out. All had been done. Lots of pee and the same bean paste as the day before. Andy offered to wash it off (yeah!).
I cleaned Ivan in the meantime.

We haggled over underwear. Ivan didn't want to put them on. Andy convinced him to. Then he left to walk Mariposa. Not even five minutes later, wearing a new pair of underwear and shorts, Ivan peed on the bedroom floor.

"Ah," he said when he saw the pee puddle at his legs.

I changed him into a fresh pair of underwear. Since we were down to one pair of clean shorts, I let him just wear underwear. I also figured he may be more likely to say something, if he needs to go potty. We played in the room for a while and then went to the basement to put a load of wash to dry and another one to wash.

In the time that it took me to put a load in the dryer and another in the washer, Ivan peed again. Another floor puddle. "Ah," he said again.

So off to the bedrooms we returned. I changed him and cleaned him. He wouldn't let me put another pair of underpants on, so I let him run around naked. An half an hour later, when he had to pee again, he went to the potty and peed.

So, basically, if he's naked he'll use the potty, but if he's wearing underpants, he will just go in his pants.

Some time later, while I tried to on another pair of underpants, he insisted "mamma, cange diaper, cange diaper, cream, wipes." He then brought me a diaper, his butt cream and wipes.

It was 11 a.m. again and I capitulated. I put him in diapers for the rest of the day. I also really had no more clean underpants and shorts.

Today:
More or less, the same scenario. Ivan peed in his clothes. Andy brought him up to change him. While we were in the process of changing him and he was naked, he ran to the potty to poppy and pee. (A nice hard turd. Why couldn't he have pooped them yesterday and Friday!) We ceremoniously flushed the poop in the toilet.

We dressed him in clean clothes, and he basically peed his pants two more times. On our 4th pair of clean clothes for the morning, I took a gamble to take him to the playground, wearing underwear. Just in case, I brought a clean pair of shorts and a diaper along.

We were at the playground for one and a half hours. No wet spots. I was pleased. I put him in the stroller and went home. When we got home, some 5-10 minutes later, there was a bit wet spot on his butt. He had peed in the stroller without saying anything.

"No wewe," he said when I changed him.

I aborted the potty training mission and put diapers on since we were driving to my parents' house. I didn't want to risk a big pee stain on the car seat.

I also took this morning's assortment of soiled shorts and underpants to my mom's to wash, since he was out of clean shorts again. Ivan's spending the night at their house and the day with my dad. I gave him thorough instructions of how to attempt potty training, however, knowing my dad, I doubt he'll follow through. No, he'll have a better way, his way of doing it because, of course, my way is probably inadequate.

Ivan's art

When I picked up Ivan from daycare on Wednesday, he insisted I lift him up near his basket (where all his belogings are). On the wall above it, was a collage. He wanted to show me. He was very proud of it.

"Should we take it home," I asked. "No, no, leave it," he said. So we did.

Andy said he did the same thing last week. Every day, he'd point to his artwork, which was hanging on some mobile in the classroom. (I assume it was drying out.)

On Thursday, both of us picked him up. He insisted Andy lifts him up to where his basket was. He wanted to show dadda the collage as well.

Andy said it was the same piece he was pointing out last week.

This is a new development -- Ivan being so proud of his creation and wanting to show it to us.

Our first baby conversation

Yesterday, when we went to pick up Ivan from daycare, Emma, a cute talkative three-year old in Ivan's class, was showing us her "baby." A doll she had put under her shirt. I don't know if she has a younger sibling or not.

Today, Ivan got his stuffed dolphin and stuck it under his shirt. "My baby, my baby," he told me. Had I not seen Emma do this yesterday, I would've been concerned where he got it from. But it made sense.

"Mamma has a baby in her belly, too," I took the opportunity to tell him. It was our first baby conversation. I'm sure he has no clue what it actually means, but he did show interest in my growing stomach and the baby that's inside.

Maybe this makes more sense to him now, than our elusive "don't hit mamma on the belly, gentle with mamma, etc" warnings.

I suspect that he's been aware for at least a month now that something is going on with mamma. Ever since the sonogram to which both he and Andy came, he's been acting more clingy around me. When I hold him, he doesn't just relax and lay limp in my arms, but rather hugs me back with all this toddler plump might.

I especially noticed it this week at daycare. Each morning when we dropped him off, he really didn't want to let go of me. When he saw me in the afternoon, he'd rush to me and hug me real tight. He'd rush to me past Andy, even though in the past he'd always primarily go to him not me, since he's the primary daycare drop-offer and picker-upper. And Ivan, like all toddlers, is all about a routine.

Potty Training Bootcamp, Take 1

It lasted all of four hours this morning.

Knowing that Ivan will refuse to wear underwear, I asked Andy to make a big deal out of wearing underwear when he was getting dressed this morning.

Ivan finally relented. He allowed Andy to put a pair of underpants on. However, not the red Elmo pair that I was trying to put on him. He had to go and choose his own pair. Fine. He returned with a blue Grover pair. Maybe it's Elmo on the underwear that he doesn't want to wear, not the underwear itself, I thought.

We dressed him in a pair of pants and then Andy left for work.

I repeatedly told Ivan to let me know when he needed to go potty and pooppy so we can go on the potty. He didn't acknowledge any of my heedings. He was too busy playing.

Some two hours later, while he was engrossed in play, I noticed a big wet stain on the front of his pants. He didn't say anything, nor acknowledged it when I said his pants were wet and let's go to change.

Nothing.

I got concerned that maybe he doesn't feel the wetness or that maybe it doesn't bother him. Either one, of course, would be bad from the potty training perspective. I found it weird though because every time his pajamas get wet, because his diaper is too full or somehow wasn't positioned properly, he loudly complains to change him. "Change diaper."

We attempted to go upstairs to the bedroom several times to put on some new clothes, but somehow we'd always end up back downstairs playing. Eventually, half an hour later, we made it upstairs. He proceeded to play, completely ignoring me.

Meanwhile, Andy's mother called and I told her about my dilemma. Should I change him or should I wait for him to acknowledge that his pants are wet? She didn't know. But Ivan heard me talk to her about underwear, and quickly ran to his room to bring a pair. So he's been listening all along.

Still, he wouldn't let me change him. I let him play in his room, where he was busy neatly spreading out on the floor his various bedspreads, while I stayed in our bedroom. A few minutes later, he rushed in crying. A bean-infused aroma, or shall I say stench, enveloped his little frame, like some sensory aura. He had popped his pants.

He still refused to get changed, but engrossed himself in play in the bedroom.

OK, this is some sort of potty training resistance, I thought.

Eventually, off to the bathroom we went to get cleaned up.

Instead of popping a few nice firm nuggets that I could just toss in the toilet ("bye, bye poppy, we always tell the poop when he clean diapers and flush its contents into the toilet), the poop was of bean paste consistency that was stuck to his underwear and butt, and smeared all over his legs.

Great! Underwear isn't disposable diapers, so I was thrilled to have to clean that up.

We lingered in the bathroom. He sat on the potty a few times to pee, which he did. (Always requesting gobs of toilet paper to dry himself off, to the point that the toilet got stuck.)

Then he played in the bedroom butt-naked. When he had to pee, he rushed to the potty. So he knows when he needs to go, I confirmed.

But he absolutely refused to let me put underwear back on. I got out the entire Sesame Street collection to let him choose. He picked the orange one. I forget which character that was.

"Too tight, too tight," he protested when I pulled up the pants. They're the right size and fit fine. But the underpants feel different than diapers, and he doesn't like it. I would say more comfortable, but then I haven't spent my whole life in diapers, like he has. His safety blanket.

Then, he brought me diapers, pleading with me, "change diapers, change diapers, mamma." I acquiesced.

So by 11 a.m. with one peed and pooped underpants, he was back in his diapers.

Tomorrow's bootcamp sergeant will be Andy (he doesn't know it yet). I hope he fares better.

Dancing, Singing Ivan

Back in spring, Ms. Yvonne told us that Ivan likes to dance at daycare. We were shocked. He never wanted to dance at home, and if I tried to dance, I'd get a big, "no, mamma, no," in return. He also absolutely hated the music class we took him to last fall. He kept wanting to leave the room.

Then a month ago, when Ivan and I drove my mother, who had just returned from Croatia, back to her house, the first thing Ivan did at the house was to run to the radio to turn it on. Then he disappeared into the kitchen. He returned with mardi gras beads strung around his neck (they hang on the pantry door). He went up to my mom to dance with her. Apparently, that's what the two of them do when he sleeps at their house. They get the newspaper "nonine, nonine," he watches my mom make coffee (who puts "secer" in the coffee) and then they dance.

Over the summer, I have noticed that he'll sometimes kind of bounce around to the music, but didn't make much of it. But the last few days, he's been holding Medic by its arms, jumping around, singing "dance, dance, dance, dance." It's hysterical.

He's also apparently really taken by music. There was the time at my parents' house when he was mesmerized by the Josh Groban concert.

Then about a month ago, at Andy's parents house, while Andy took of for his float-down-the-river-drinking-beer trip to Maine and I went to a quilt show with Andy's mother, Andy's dad and Ivan had quite a nice little morning to themselves. They got some crackers, sat in Pappi's den, and listened to nine tracks of Enya's Christmas album. Ivan was apparently mesmerized.

My parents said that the other week when we woke up at their house, he first turned on the radio to listen to some Dalmatian klapa music. He sat quietly on the sofa, with his hands crossed in his lap, enjoying the music for some 10-15 minutes, my mother reported.

Today, he insisted we put on some children's music. The spent the whole morning singing "people, up and down, up and down" while we was trying to stand up and squat down. Finally, I realized he was singing "the Wheels on the Bus."

I, however, am not really allowed to sing. He says "no, mamma, no." Now, I'm not sure whether it's because my voice is so bad that even toddler's ears are jarred by the sound of my off-singing, or whether he just doesn't like it because it's not something that mamma does.

The Nap Boycotter

This past month, Ivan has become anti-nap. He still needs a nap but he absolutely refuses to be put down.

It all started the week of July 20, when daycare was closed for the week, and I was home with him. He'd wake up at his regular time, between 5:30 a.m. and 6 a.m. and would be dead tired by the time lunch rolled around. However, he started resisting his naptime. First, he'd try to stave off the nap, but by 2:30 or so he'd give in. "Sleepy, sleepy" and I'd put him down in his crib.

Then he started refusing to nap in his crib, preferring either our bed (drugi krevet) or the spare bedroom (before it got dismantled, but that's another story, loosely related to resting bed time).

Then he started refusing to go and take a nap at all.

After a week of this, he returned to daycare. Ms. Yvonne said that he goes down for a nap during the regular nap time between 1-3 p.m. There is nothing else to do, as all kids must take a nap. He doesn't have to fall asleep but he has to rest, she explained. However, he always willingly goes down and easily falls asleep, unlike some other kids who put on a show. He just watched them from his cot. At 3, she said, when it's time to wake up, she actually has to wake him up from slumber.

Well, that definitely has not been his behavior at home. As the month progressed, the nap boycott became more pronounced to the point that we've just given up.

So last Friday, when we came home from the pediatrician's, he was about to fall asleep in the car but we got home before that. He was sleepy and limp in my arms as I carried him into the house. But as soon as we got to the bedrooms, he threw a fit that he wanted to go "dole." So, dole we returned. I sat him on the couch and went to the bathroom. He looked positively groggy, almost drunk. By the time I returned a few minutes later, he was fast asleep. He slept for two hours.



Two Sundays ago, neither Andy nor I could get him to lay down. So we let him be. Kris and Olexa were coming over for a BBQ around 5:30. While Kris and I were chatting in the living room, Ivan suddenly quited down and disappeared. He fell a sleep in the dining room on the floor. He basically slept through the night.

Today, even thought he had been up since 5:30 and I could tell he started getting tired as early as 11 (as did I), he started adamantly proclaiming, "No nap, mamma, no nap." By 2 p.m. or so, these proclamations escalated into downright yells.

I wasn't allowed to take a nap either. I laid down on the couch while he was playing but he would come over to hoist me up.

So I let him be. I was too exhausted to keep fighting him.

Around 3 p.m., I went to the kitchen to eat some mac and cheese. A few minutes later, I realized that the ruckus in the living room had quited down. I got concerned. But when I turned the corner into the living room, I found this:


I scooped him up and took him to his crib. The "no nap, mamma" boycotter slept until 6:30.

Some toddlers drop naptime all together because they no longer don't need it. But Ivan does.

Ivan, I think, is doing the other typical toddler thing: he doesn't want to take a nap for the fear of missing out on things.

Just another morning

There is nothing like abruptly being woken up from deep slumber before 5:30 a.m. by a screeching toddler who's desperately crying out "mamma, mamma," with an urgency of someone being tortured. I rush into his room, concerned about what's going on. He is desperately trying to take off his pajama pants and diapers, asking for "meme." I tumble down the stairs, more by feel and touch than by sight, praying that I won't miscalculate the number of stairs and twist my ankle, and aiming not to step on the sleeping dog, who's sprawled on the stairs landing, all to the not-so distant background music of a toddler screeching.

It's pitch black outside. I waddle into the kitchen, open the fridge door, shielding my eyes from the bright fridge light (squinting my eyes again, oh no more wrinkles, I think someplace deep in my subconsciousness), pour the milk, and waddle back up the stairs into Ivan's room to deliver the milk. He no longer wants the milk, but is still trying to take off his pants. I take off the pajama. He cries louder, I give him the pants back, "wan that," he says, and throws them across the room.

I pick him up in an attempt to console him. He cries even louder and wants to be put down. He rushes to the gate, pulling on it, like a monkey behind bars, "dole, dole." Downstairs he wants to go.

So, unwillingly I open the gate again, really wishing this episode would end and he'd go back to bed, because that's where I want to be, but no, he sits on the step to say hi to Mariposa, who's wide awake now, wagging her tail.

We go down the stairs into the kitchen. At least he walks, and doesn't insist I carry him, which is good because at his hour I'm still unsure of my balance on the stairs.

I'm ordered to open the fridge door. He wants "senvich." I get the bread and cream cheese. He takes it to the table and orders me to "mamma, mamma, sit there". He tells me to cut the bread in half. I oblige. I spread cream cheese on it. "No mess, mamma," he advises. I give him the sandwich. "Wan it," he says and he pushes it away. I didn't really think he was going to eat it anyway.

But he goes back to the fridge. "Ccc butter," he asks. So I pull out the pbj ingredients. Again, I cut the bread in half. He wants peanut butter on one half and jelly on the other. Usually, we combine the two sandwich halves into one. But no, he wants them apart. He bites into the peanut butter, "wan it," he says and lays on the bench in protest. I didn't think he'd like it either. Peanut butter by itself is too thick to eat. In a second, he comes around the table to spit the contents of his mouth into my hand.

Then he's back at the fridge. I follow him to open the door. Beans, is what is wants. He pulls out the beans tupperware container. I get the spoon. We sit back at the table. I twist the jar open. The pungent smell of Cuban style beans hits my nostrils. The smell is a bit too much at 5:40 a.m. But Ivan eats them with gusto. I want to gag, but instead I turn on this computer, in an effort to distract myself and not to fall asleep while trying to block out the offensive the beans smell. Luckily, a pregnancy side-effect is my constantly stuffy nose, "it's the extra mucus" as pregnacy books helpfully explain, but right now, the extra snot blocking my nasal passages is a rather welcoming buffer to the super olefactory beans molecules that are desperately trying to chisel their way up my nasal cavity.

Seeing me turn on the computer, Ivan declares "ma turn," and I think "great, now I won't be able to peel him of my computer holes into which he'll try to plug and unplug the mouse." But instead, Ivan runs over to get his toy computer. He sets it on the table and turns it on.

"Bunnies, bunnies," he says pointing to the computer. "Bunnies dole." Apparently, bunnies live in the body of computer. He's very concerned about them. Then he points to my computer. Bunnies apparently live in my computer as well. "Bunnies tu, bunnies tu," he says, pointing to the disk drive. Who knew?

These imaginary bunnies keeep cropping up everywhere these last few weeks. Bunnies are everywhere, according to him, even though the only bunnies in the house are a few of his stuffed toys. But no, those don't seem to be the bunnies he refers to.

Like the other day, when he dolefully declared "no more bunnies," as if there were ever bunnies in our back yard. Or the time a few weeks back, when he starred at the window telling me that there are bunnies in the back yard, while Mariposa was vigorously barking at someone/something through the porch door, facing that same direction. I spent a good half an hour looking for this invisible bunny. I have never seen a bunny in our yard. Still it creeped me out, as I thoroughly tried to examine the empty back yard. Nothing but grass back there. Still Ivan was talking about a bunny and Mariposa was barking. I kept thinking, is it a white rabbit from the Jefferson Airplane's song, or maybe an Alice in Wonderland character.

(There are a bunch of bunnies in Andy's parents backyard but not our yard.)

By 6:14 a.m., Ivan has long finished eating his beans, making a big mess in the process both on the table and his shirt, and is demanding "affle." "You want a waffle," I ask. "Affle," he affirmatively nods. So I pull out a frozen French toast from the freezer and plop it in the microwave. "Affle, affle," the screaming continues. A toddler absolutely has to have that instant gratification, and even a two minute delay to warm up the bread is a wailing eternity. Finally, the toast is done. I cut it in into little squares and pour maple syrup on it. He eats it.

It's 6:30 by this time. Everyone is wide awake. Andy is up. Mariposa was let out to pee. I'm wide awake as well, no chance of going back to sleep, now. And Ivan, in his diapers and the beans-smeared pajama top, is busy playing on the kitchen floor with his assortment of plugs, wires and his radio.

The sun has not even come up yet.

And I still have no clue what was so offending about his pajama bottoms an hour earlier.

Just another ordinary morning.

Food update--mo laisins

A few weeks ago, it appears that Ivan's appetite has kind of returned. So after two full months on subsiding on milk, yogurt and air, Ivan has started to eat again.

He's still picky and doesn't eat that much, but it's definitely an improvement from before.

Raisins now rule. "More laisins, more laisins," he yells all the time. I started buying raising about a month ago, in an effort to get him to eat something that at least used to be a fruit.

He's still on a fruit boycott. All fruit, except bananas, which he willingly eats and goes to get himself, are a no go. He did put a blueberry in his mouth a few weeks ago, as if to dare me, but he promptly took it out. And blueberries were last year's one and only food item.

He even backed of yogurt for a few weeks, but that was short lived. However, he's now very peculiar about his yogurts. He wants to pick the one he wants to eat from the fridge. He opens it. Sometimes he eats it, but other times, he declared "no want it." And that's it. The yogurt goes back into the fridge. I try to give it to him later, but he refuses to eat an open container. He wants to open a new yogurt. As a results, lots of yogurt got wasted in the last few weeks.

The veggie boycott also continues. Although a few weeks ago, at a birthday party, I did manage to feed him a few carrot sticks dipped in hummus. After that, I optimistically bought carrot sticks to serve with hummus, but he caught my gimmick. No carrots have been eaten since the original birthday party tasting.

He regularly refuses to eat dinner with us. We've been making a big deal about dinner lately. We all sit down as a family to eat a nice square homemade meal. While Andy and I eat ours, Ivan plays with his food, or pushes it away declaring "no want it."

Yesterday, he did take a couple of bites of his corn on the cob, which was a major improvement over the previous time we served corn last week, when he systematically pierced every kernel, as if it were bubble wrap.

But today, he positively shocked us. We ate burgers with boiled potatoes and green beans. He pushed his plate away, even though "kepops" was generously doled out on the meat. We didn't expect him to eat the green beans and potatoes, since he's never touched them before. On his plate, there were served more as a decoration than a part of the meal.

Then Ivan got off his bench and wanted to sit in my lap. Once on my lap, he actually picked up a green bean and ate it. Then he helped himself to several more. Andy and I were too afraid to say anything, lest we'd break the grean bean eating spell, so we just looked at each other in shock. Then Ivan actually got a few potatoes pieces of his plate and ate them. Again, we were speechless.

This entire spell lasted only a few minutes. And soon Ivan was back at the fridge, demanding we open it, so he can peak in. He wanted hummus and "cips," which we let him eat.

And later he wanted yogurt.

(On Sunday at my parents house, while we all ate stuffed peppers and mashed potatoes for lunch, he refused to eat. But once we were done, my mother continued hanging out with him in the kitchen. Somehow she got him to eat. He ended up eating three small plates of stuffed peppers-stuffed with ground meat and rice--and mashed potatoes. We're still talking about this eating spree four days later because it was so unusual.)

Pregnancy Yoga

I signed up for pregnancy yoga over the summer. I debated whether to do it or not, citing the lack of time (and disposable resources) as the main obstacle. But I'm glad I did. Once the summer session ends in two weeks, I'll sign up again for the fall so that yoga gets me through the entire pregnancy.

Since I've basically thrown exercise to the wind two years ago when Ivan was born, I have progressively gotten rather out of shape (except for unstructured daily lifting of a human free weight, e.g. the toddler, whose weight keeps increasing and is now up to some 30 pounds.)

I've had the best intentions of going to the pool for regular swims, like I did the summer I was pregnant with Ivan. But so far, we've been to the pool once, and I didn't even get in the water. I was the mom guard, in charge of guarding our stuff, while Ivan and Andy soaked in the water. (Not that it mattered, there were so many people in the pool that any attempt at swimming would've been futile.)

But yoga was been wonderful, even more therapeutic than I remember it with Ivan. It's amazing how a few isometric stretches and poses, which look impossible to do but actually feel really good, make me feel like I’m in control of my body. I stand taller and straighter, and feel more graceful, even comfortable in my gigantic waddling body, after each session. The slightly sore muscle pain actually makes me feel fit. The practice is also very calming. And the shavanasana (sp) pose that each practice ends with, is simply to die for, no pun intended. It's the most relaxing experience, more restful than an undisturbed night of sleep.

Even on hot and humid days, like this past Saturday and today, when doing anything other than laying down felt like an uncomfortable exertion on my growing girth and when I had second thoughts about going to the practice, an hour and a half of yoga makes me feel light, fit and able.

This morning, my shoulders were killing me. The area between my shoulder blades was so tight and sore that I all I wanted to do was lay down. Coincidentally, the focus of this evening’s practice was on body twists. These twists do wonders for shoulder and back stretching. The pain I felt all day today, has simply dissipated.

Yoga teachers and other yoga aficionados, especially the earthly mother types and those into natural mid-wifey homebirths, advocate for yoga for helping in childbirth. The mantra that yoga teachers give throughout each class is geared toward natural homebirths.

I like to hear that view. In principle, I’m all for it. I tried to espouse it with Ivan—the natural birth part, not the homebirth part. But I’m not sure whether it worked. I would like to think that yoga did help me birth him, although after having endured 56 ½ hours of labor, of which the last 10 hours were spend under the relaxing drip of an epidural, I wonder. On the other hand, how closed would’ve my hips been had it not been for yoga.

It did however help me labor. All labor techniques that I employed I remembered from the semester worth of yoga, not from a six-hour hasty hospital-sponsored Lamaze class.

So this time, I’m doing yoga for myself and my physical well-being rather than for the supposed childbirth benefits, even if I still like to hear the holistic and earthly messages yoga teachers imbue each class with. However, I still plan to birth this child as naturally as I can possibly endure it. Hopefully, Ivan’s 56 hours journey through the birth canal has paved the way.

(Lack of) Potty Training

It has been my summer goal to potty train Ivan. I can't say I've been successful. Well, I haven't gone all bootcamp on him, like I've been advised to do, to just do it one weekend.

I've had the best intention of doing so, but it's just been difficult to find a few days when we can be home, without going anywhere, to accomplish this training period. And I'd really like to fully train him over a long weekend, so he doesn't have too many accidents at daycare. It just seems like that would be unnecessarily embarrasing.

So potty training has been more of a gradual process, which started a few months ago when we bought the potty.

He knows when he needs to go--he's aware of the sensation to pee and poop. And if he's diaper-less, he'll tell us when he needs to go. Before bath time, he likes to sit on the potty and, occasionally, pee. Otherwise, if he's wearing diapers, he tells us (most of the time) after he poops. And he wants us to change the diapers then because he's obviously uncomfortable then.

The problem has been that he's absolutely adamant about not wanting to wear underwear. I've tried everything. I bought Elmo underwear. I keep talking about how both mamma and dadda wear underwear... But to no avail. He won't let me put them on. He asks for diapers.

I could let him run naked and have a few accidents, but I'd rather not. I want him to embrace underwear instead.

But since the summer is almost over, I'm thinking that Labor Day weekend is my last chance to do a bootcamp potty training session and get it over with.

Ivan and Milk

The separation of milk and the bottle successfully continues.

He still gets his bedtime milk in the least spillable bottle, but otherwise he prefers to drink his milk from a cup. He actually asks us to unscrew the bottle top so he can drink the milk from the bottle itself, like it's a glass, not the sippy part.

So now he differentiates when he actually wants to drink milk because he wants milk, or when he wants the bottle for comfort and soothing.

He's also gotten quite interested in drinking from straws. Straws are fun. Not only can he drink from them but he can also gnaw on them, or even blow bubbles with them.

Weight Gain

Last Friday, I went for my monthly ob-gyn appointment. I gained 11 pounds in the last month. Wow! No wonder that lately I've been feeling like a big fat cow that can barely move, especially last week during that super humid spell.

And no wonder that going up the stairs has suddenly become more tiresome.

I know I've popped in the last few weeks, but I didn't realize I had gained so much weight. The doctor wasn't concerned. Apparently, I hadn't gained any weight the month before. So it all evens out. Overall, I've gained some 18 pounds or so.

I feel huge and fleshy, but I know I'm only half way there in terms of expansion.

Last week, I put on a shirt I had nicely worn a week earlier. Last week, it no longer fit. It was stretched tight over my stomach. So off into the storage pile the shirt went. I've slowly outgrown all my loose non-pregnancy clothes, except for a summer dress, sweat-pants shorts, and another loose shirt. It's finally time to give in to pregnancy wear.

Mad at Ivan for Him Being Himself

This morning we went for our usual Sunday morning playground tour. It was too hot outside and we were a bit late getting there. There was no one else on the playground. None of the other playgroup moms, no other people. Just Ivan and I. We had the playground to ourselves.

He immediately went to play, as opposed to hanging out around his stroller for one hour whining "kuci" before warming up and deciding to go and join kids in play. After walking around the edge of the mulch, he climbed up the slides and wanted me to join him. I did. He insisted I sit in this one specific spot between him and the slide, which I couldn't do because there wasn't enough space. After a few minutes of going back and forth on this, and of me not understanding what he wanted from me, he melted into crying. Crying followed by "kuci, kuci." So we went home. It was too hot to be out anyway, and since no one else was there, there was no point in staying.

So I got mad at him for him being himself--for not being as physical, extroverted, loud and "forceful" as I see other kids his age to be, for not immediately rushing in to join a group of kids to play but for standing back, observing, taking it all in and then joining them when he's comfortable.

Yesterday we went to a birthday party. We came late. There were 5-6 other boys of whom he knew three from the playground. They were spashing in a kiddie pool. He didn't want to play with them. He sat on my lap the entire time. Then after some time, he got up and led me inside to the table where the food was laid out, to look for cake. He was actually circling the table looking for cake. (Because at birthdays that's what one does: I say, "we're going to a birthday party. He replies, "happy birthday, cake!") When the ice cream cake did come out, all kids had one piece and then proceeded to chase each other around the house to work off the sugar. Ivan wanted another piece, which he ate on the steps with me. Then he kind of got up to observe the kids more closely and participate "remotely." Eventually, he led me back outside, where there was no one left, but where he discovered the hose. His favorite. So he played with the hose for a while and actually showed Ethan how fun spraying water from the hose is. And then Seger showed up. So the three of them took turns playing with the hose. And then Ivan played with the hose with Gavin's, the birthday boy's, father. Then, it was time to leave.

On Friday, we went to daycare for a school picking. My mom came along. Granted, when we got there, it was around noon, and Ivan had just fallen asleep in the car. So he was groggy and sleepy and didn't want to play. He sat limp in my lap for a long time. Then he sat in my mom's lap. He observed the mayhem around him, but didn't join in. And these are the kids he sees all the time. They had rented a moonbounce, but he absolutely refused to go in. He did, however, eventually cheer up and went to interact with Ms. Yvonne. I was happy to see that he has a good rapport with her and that he willingly goes to her. She's also very good with him and with other kids.

So all these instances, along with the recent playground instances where he sits in the stroller for an hour and whines that he wants to go home instead of playing, got to me today. (On the playground, he does eventually warm up. But it take him an hour or two. At yesterday's birthday party, Beth and I were joking that Ethan and Ivan need to have a pre-party party, where they could warm up. Ethan has a similar quiet, gentle personality, like Ivan's. They "discovered" each other a few Sundays ago, when it was just the four us of on the playground. They ran off the playground and found sticks. Sticks, a bonding point. They acted like two little cavemen, running around with these branches, wielding them around, screaming and squeeling, like Bella and other girls do. They had so much fun. Both Beth and I were astonished. The following Sunday, they rediscovered the sticks. This time, even Seger joined in their little cavemen game. It was hysterical.)

And then after I got mad at Ivan, I felt awful for being mad at him, because he can't be any sweeter, cuter, more lovable and loving than he is, as well as cheerful, happy, engaged and playful, when he's in comfortable situations. Our little sunshine.

I should really do more one-on-one playdates, since he doesn't seem to be shy in such situations. It's just in bigger groups of kids.

But then as my mom reminded me today, I apparently used to even cry when I'd see new people, like when we'd have visitors or go to visit people, whereas Ivan is perfectly fine in such situations. (For example, when Donna and Ron came over to my parents' house for dinner last weekend. Ivan had seen Ron, once back in February/March. But apparently he remembered him. Both Ivan and Mariposa wanted to play with him. They were actually fighting over him. Poor Ron was on the floor tackled by both of them, who were laughing and barking on the top of their lungs, because they had so much fun playing).

Sippy Cup Continued III

Ivan may have reached the stage where he doesn't care that much which cup he gets him milk in. Last week he wan't picky. I kept giving him the bottle with the big sippy cup top, and he didn't protest.

Then earlier this week, he spent two nights at my parents' house. They forgot to take any bottles with him. My mom feared that at sleep time, he throw a fit, asking for the bottle. But they gave him milk in a small Trade Joe's water bottle, which he accepted without a fuss. Amazing.

He's also been increasingly going to bed without the bottle. Actually, without drinking milk. He wants the milk and the bottle, but not necessarily to gnaw on it but rather to hug the bottle in the crook of his elbow. Medic in one arm, bottle in the other. It's part of his safety blanket.

No Pink Tutus for Me

The sonogram two weeks ago proved Andy right. It's another boy. Deep down inside I wasn't shocked. But I was still hoping.

The most logical old wives tale about predicting a child's sex was told to me by two acquintances who each recently had two children of both sexes. If the second pregnancy is very different from the first one in terms of first trimester woes that then the child is of the opposite sex.

This pregnancy so far has been a carbon copy of the first one: same cravings, same issues, same hormonal patterns.

So deep down inside I wasn't surprised that it's another boy. And while I genunienly thought and felt that this time around it truly wouldn't matter who it is, my heart did sink when the sonogram technical confirmed the sex.

It's the sense of finality. This is it. There will be no more opportunities. (At least that's how we're planning it and how we've always thought about it.) So no pink tutus for me and no tea parties.

Although over the last two weeks I've told countless people that it's a boy and I was perfectly happy about it, last night when I told a friend over the phone I started breaking down. Except the conversation was about her not me, so I composed myself and carried on. Besides, she was one person who probably wouldn't get it.

Now that I'm writing this, tears are swelling in my eyes again. I know it's stupid, but I can't help it. I didn't expect this delayed reaction.

Also, for a day or two after the sonogram, all this wacky unexpected thoughts kept bursting into my brain. What if I can't bond with this baby? What it this baby somehow sucks life out of Ivan? Already at this sonogram he measured in the 50 percentile, whereas Ivan measured at 10 but was then born in the 50 percentile, only to fall into a 25 percentile pattern of growth. What if this baby will be a difficult, loud, rough, aggressive child who will overshadow Ivan's gentle personality? When they grow up, they won't be as close to me as I am to my parents but we'll hear from them sporadically and won't be part of their lives.....

On a pragmatic, economical side, at least this will be a bit cheaper. No need to buy new clothes for the baby. Also, if we remain in this house, they can eventually share a room, which will still give us a spare bedroom.

For now, our next goal/dilemma is deciding the baby's name. With Ivan we settled on his name combination two days after his birth, right before we left the hospital. And we kind of used up our good names. Now, we're back to square one.