Rambling

Drew's fussing again. Nothing new there. I had hoped I'd end up with another angel baby like Sami was, but no dice. Thankfully, he's not quite as difficult as Allie was (he doesn't have the attitude-- and, yes, I truly believe Allie had attitude right from the womb). Friends had wondered if Allie was colicky. Nope. She just plain hated being a baby-- life got better temporarily whenever she learned something new like sitting up or crawling or walking. But little Drew is colicky. Kevin seems proud of how "hard he works" to get the gas out, with all of his moving and grunting. And he does pass an awful lot of the stuff-- like father, like son. But the poor baby just isn't content very easily. I'm doing my best not to wish this time by quickly, because this is time I'll never get back. But I won't be disappointed when he starts to smile and laugh either.

And while the girls adore their little brother, rarely getting irritated with his constant unhappiness, my biggest challenge with them is getting them to understand that if Drew isn't fussing to leave him alone. Or if Drew is sleeping, don't touch him. They don't get it that the best way to help is to not try to "help" him most of the time. But Allie is old enough to actually be a good helper when I need it this time around-- to grab the burp cloth for me while I'm mid-nursing, or find the binky, or sing him a sweet little song when he's especially sad. And best of all, the girls give him great kisses, all the while speaking sweetly and softly to him. Okay, maybe Sami doesn't speak "softly" very often, but she means well.

I'm just grateful Allie and Sami's relationship seems to be back to normal now-- some fighting, mostly playing, as opposed to... well... the opposite of that. While I was in the hospital, I'd look forward to every visit from Kev and the girls, but I'd also dread it, too. Within thirty seconds of walking through the door, Allie was reprimanding Sami for something minor, and Sami was weeping and wailing, swinging for Allie's face, in response. I'd sigh, and then since they usually came right when my dinner had been brought in, the girls would beg for my grapes and chocolate cake. Not long after I made it home, my parents came to help out, and the fighting got worse. Allie's tantrums even made my mother sit on the couch fuming, arms folded, lips pursed, ready to kill her. And Mom wasn't even the one responsible for dealing with it!

But the girls are back to normal now. Fewer fights, fewer tantrums. Of course, the house is just as disastrous during the day as ever, with books and dolls, and dress-up clothes strewn here, there, and everywhere. To their credit, though, it's all always cleaned up by bedtime-- I don't touch that stuff.

I'm just exhausted. I told Kevin the other day, "Man, I'm getting too old for this!" And I won't even be thirty for another couple weeks. Maybe that's why women in other primitive cultures have children in their teens.

Suddenly the idea of being a thirty year-old grandma doesn't seem so bad!