Storing up sun and thigh rolls to see us through the lonely months ahead

At the Cape savoring my last 2 weeks of denial before we’re home for a long winter.

RB is 10 months old and within 12 pounds of 4-year-old BB. BB tries to push her around. I warned BB her days for this are numbered.

BB declares,

“I had a tall growth spurt and RB had a wide one.”

RB is STRONG. Given a large stationary toy intended to stay put RB is most likely to heave it over her head and toss it across the room. She has accumulated many nicknames including Bam Bam and Destructo.

We had a well visit with the pediatrician. She goes through her standard list of questions:

“How’s she eating?”

I grab a chunk of baby thigh rolls, “These don’t happen by magic.”

“How’s she sleeping?”

“As to be expected.” Meaning she’s up multiple times a night.

The doctor reminds me,

“She’s old enough to cry it out if you want.”

“Yes.” I’ve avoided mentioning we’re bed-sharing. I may someday when our pediatrician has kids of her own.

“Does she transfer toys from hand to hand?”

“Yes.” And from feet to hand and from hand to as far as she can fling it.

I left BB in the middle of our playroom, formerly known as our living room, and headed to the car to load up for the Cape. I hear an immense crash and rush back in. RB is sitting there smiling, launching large toys across the rug onto the hardwood floor.

I’m continuing to enforce the hard truth that some of BB’s toys are for RB too. BB expresses concern for their welfare. I chalked this up to not wanting to share, but now I must agree BB has a valid point.

At the Cape my mom shared some of my brother’s old toys with BB. RB also got something to play with. BB was not thrilled,

“That’s MINE.”

“No it’s not. It’s Uncle J’s.”

My mom adds,

“Yes, and he wants both of you to play with it.”

BB who had been on the verge of a fit, sighs,

“Well that answers that.”

And there was peace. For 5 minutes.

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I love me some ruffly butts.

Our overburdened dishwasher just quit

We’re home and our dishwasher is broken. This may be what sends me back to therapy.

Like many of us, I’m totally fine and about to lose it. I just didn’t know the dishwasher would be the tipping point.

The Cape doesn’t even have a dishwasher. Maybe that’s in its favor. It makes no pretense of anything washing the dishes besides a person.

As the dishwasher-detergent subscriptions pile up, Captain is on the case. He’s fixed the fridge, the washing machine and the clothes dryer so I have faith even if we did call some repair people.

They’re backed up. Everyone’s dishwashers are breaking. Should’ve know. It’s another symptom of this pandemic, just like the backorder on exercise bikes, puppies and sweatpants.

I made that up. They better never run out of sweatpants.

We’re headed back to the Cape as soon as possible, but being there without Captain has brought BB’s lingering jealousy into relief.

At 6 am I’m jolted awake. BB’s little face is peering at me over the side of the bed. She whispers,

“I’m your first baby.”

“Yes! Of course!”

GOOD GRIEF and with that RB startles awake and starts wailing.

Never thought I’d get to the beach by 8am, but this is my year.

With Captain around to play Barbies and otherwise dote on BB, she couldn’t care less that RB is in bed with me. Without him around, she’s inclined to snatch every single toy away from her sister regardless of whether the toy is something she truly wants to play with.

She grabs a pot and pan lid from RB. RB screams. I mention,

“RB was playing with that.”

“But I NEED it.”

“You need it?”

“I don’t have any cymbals.”

And for many reasons this is about when we leave for the beach.

BB asks,

“Who do you love more?”

I have answered this question several ways. This time I try a new tactic,

“You love Frozen right?”

“Yes.”

“Do you love Frozen I or Frozen II?”

“Can I watch Frozen II?”

Sigh.

I pop into my obgyn office to get a mysterious spot checked out. No kids allowed. Yes I really had a spot. All is well. The doctor asks,

“Any postpartum depression?”

“No.” But can I tell you about my dishwasher?

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Taking my corona to the beach

Running along in my hamster wheel. Preschool zoom is over. The 10am-10:30am slot of my day has returned to the other indistinguishable slots of the day.

BB is a little befuddled.

“There’s no more morning meeting?”

“Not until the fall.”

BB hangs her head. For someone who sat in front of zoom picking her nose, putting her dress over her head or leaving the video frame, she is more upset about this than I expected.

I explain that it’s normal to have no school in the summer and that if all goes well she’ll go back in the fall. But will she? Or if she does, will it be for long?

Who knows? But we’re going to the Cape for almost three weeks. I might as well take my hamster wheel to the beach.

Two weeks ago I considered the baby swing which is too big to take with us. At first I thought to myself, “Good. We need to break this habit.” Then yesterday I panicked and googled travel swings.

RB is already too heavy for them. She’s been pandemic snacking on the reg. She’s wearing BB’s size 24-month summer clothes and the diapers that almost 4-year-old BB stopped wearing this year. RB is 8 months old. This made me check the weight limit on our current swing. We’re about to max out.

Ok so no swing for the Cape. Maybe what I need is a rocking chair for the beach. I wonder if something like that exists? I google it. It does! And it has a cup holder. Sold.

I can see it now. Drinking a beer on the beach. RB having whatever of that makes it into my breastmilk and both of us rocking away.

The other night I pop open a corona. BB jokes,

“Oh no! Not coronavirus.”

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Both kids contained. My work here is done.