Poor Me

Addie is abusive. I am covered in little black and blue marks and tiny little scabs from all the places she is biting me (so desperate she is to get these damned teeth in) and pinching me. I mean, I guess I should take it as a compliment, because she isn't just biting just anyone. I'm special. I'm the object of her abuse..er, I mean, affections.

Instead of loving my skin, I am trying to get her to love the "boopies" or the well loved, soft trifold diapers that double as G's Favorite Things On Earth to snuggle with, but Addie is much happier to snuggle up to nurse and take her top hand and pinch the skin on or near my nipple (next favorite place is the skin just below the armpit on the inside of my arm, then the soft skin just above my clavicle on the base of my neck, none of which are pleasant). And we all know how that skin is about 99.9% nerve endings or something, so hopefully you can empathize. When I say "no pinching" firmly, she gives me an irritated grunt and does it again. Like "how dare you tell me not to do this thing that I enjoy, woman who is here to please me!

Huh. The Beastly Baby phase. No fun.

Busy-ness

I'm not sure how women with two children and a full time job manage to blog. I have been terribly remiss, but I am not as sad for people who check in here for updates as much as I am for myself and for Addie. Blogging for Gillian was always a phenomenal way to remember all her amazingness and technicolor and stuff in fairly good real time resolution. I have resigned myself that I won't really remember exactly when Addie sat up (~6 mo) or purposely rolled over (~3 mo) or stood on her own (~6.5 mo) or walked (TBD), but I can safely say all those things happened for her well before they happened for Gillian (even at her adjusted age she was way behind Addie in the gross motor skills department).

I haven't really taken much time to tell you about Adelaide Miriam. She is now 9+ months old, and is blossoming into quite a little pistol. She is into everything every second of every day, puts everything she can stuff in her mouth in her mouth. She is mobile and heads straight for whatever it is you had a passing thought of "I really should put that away", or "yep, she'll probably head straight for that toilet if I don't put the seat down", or "I should really barracade the cat food bowl". She is like a flash of lightening she is so fast...like you bring a spoon of pureed prunes 5 inches from her mouth and within a millisecond, she has it on her face, in her hair, and has bypassed the bib and it's all over her shirt. She is incredibly expressive too. I especially like her pensive and weird japanese whispers and her angry German ranting, all indignant. Imagine someone snapping at you and saying "Duh. DEEE-DEE DUHDUHDUH!" with an expression of ire. Now imagine someone who is cute and bald and 9 months old doing it. It slays me.

The scary thing is that compared to Addie, Gillian was a cakewalk of a baby. I am hoping the old addage about easy baby hard toddler, hard baby easy toddler is true. Otherwise we won't live through the World War III that will ensue either because Gillian and Addie are constantly at odds, or because they have conspired against Sean and I. But truly, Gillian never got into anything, never put things in her mouth, and wasn't a climber. I am pretty sure Addie will walk at least 6 months earlier than Gillian.

We have been sick more than we have been well this winter, and I am very ready for warmth and sunshine to come and cook all the respiratory bugs away from grimey winter germ-caked surfaces everywhere. Addie is on her 7th cold of the season, once again unable to breath while eating. She is cutting SIX teeth at once (I current operate somewhere between the 5th and 6th circle of hell, I think). So, this girl lives hard and fast. Can't wait until she's 13. Every now and then I find myself thinking she HAS to be exactly who she is to not get run over by Gillian, the puppet master. Gillian takes stuff from Addie, who then shouts at Gillian in some unidentified harsh language and takes it right back. I find myself like a fascinated spectator, watching a boxing match. Most of the time, I am rooting for the baby, because Gillian needs to learn to respect her sister and other people's right to have things too.

On a personal note, I have started thinking about what I want to be when I grow up again. I am thinking more and more about a Doctor of Nursing Practice degree. I have 9 years to work on it before I retire, and I am more and more sure about the fact that I would love to work in obstetrics to help women birth babies while completely respecting their choices. I know my completely different experiences have touched my core more than I initially realized, and I love the idea of practicing patient care and not having to answer to an MD (NPs are independent, generally, and can even prescribe medications, etc.). So, I am exploring how I might go about that path. Obviously, lots of work to do on the front end to get an RN license with regard to school, but I have lots of time to do it as slowly as they let me. Crazy? Yes. Definitely. But life that is predictable has never been exactly my cup of tea.

So that is the state of things. Now, a catnap before the mayhem resumes.