cat named pig

 [Warning: If last Thursday’s post made you unexpectedly ovulate and conceive your second child, well, this post will probably just gross you out. But we at catnamedpig.com strive to present a fairly accurate view of life with young children, and it is not always pretty.] 

It is possible that you recently read this post and thought and then what? Did we all just hop on our winged unicorns and follow a rainbow path back to our house, bathed in the gentle glow of the setting sun? Did the kids eat the dinner I served without complaining or making a mess? And did bath time go flawlessly, with no fighting and no one peeing on the floor?

Please. As if*.

Our typical leaving-the-park-for-dinner-and-bath experience looks more like a work by Jackson Pollock**, or possibly Hieronymous Bosch, than by Thomas Kinkade, Painter of Light. And that night was no exception. 

Yes, Siena made some older kids wait for Elliot to go down the slide safely (thereby causing my heart to melt into a steaming puddle of love and pride). And yes, they got along really well the whole time we were out. But the following also happened, and was equally typical of our family out in public: 

Elliot and another little girl were playing in the sand. He sneezed a gigantic sneeze all over their shared toys, and a huge stream of snot came out of his nose, heading toward his mouth. Since we were nowhere near the diaper bag, and since the girl’s mother was right there and probably horrified, my only thought was to somehow stop the snot before it reached his mouth or the little girl’s toys. So I grabbed him with one hand and the hem of my dress with the other, fully intending to wipe his nose with my clothing. On purpose. The things parenthood does to a person’s dignity.

What happened instead was, I knocked him over somehow. And he started crying, and the stream of snot turned into a river as I picked him up to comfort him. I carried him over to the diaper bag (why hadn’t that been my first move?) and wiped his nose and my shoulder repeatedly. I don’t even want to imagine what the other mom was thinking at this point. 

A few minutes later Elliot fell off some stairs***, also typical for us out in public, and I decided it was time to go home. Which made both kids cry until Elliot’s nose started running again****.

And that is what it’s actually like when this family goes to the park.  

….. 

* The unicorns would be the most realistic of those scenarios.

** Incidentally, http://www.jacksonpollock.org/ is Siena’s new favorite website. This week she has requested “the painting one” more than she has requested Nutcracker videos on YouTube, for which I owe Google my most heartfelt and profound thanks.

*** He was not very high up. He seems fine. I think. 

****At home, both kids proceeded to complain about dinner (Siena verbally; Elliot by taking a bite and letting the offending food slowly fall out of his mouth after he tasted it and then flinging the rest to the floor). And both kids fought over the bath toys, and Elliot peed on the floor the second I lifted him out of the tub. All of these things are so much a part of our daily routine that I barely even notice them anymore. But in case you thought this post was going to end without a hint of schmoopiness (come on, it’s me) I also feel compelled to mention that, every night at Elliot’s bedtime, he and Siena say goodnight by giving each other a hug and a kiss. And in the morning, if she hears him before we do, she will go in his room and climb into his crib with him to keep him company until we groggily stumble out of bed.

In conclusion, let me just point out that there is method behind the apparent chaos of Pollock’s painting. And to my eye, the results are breathtaking. I definitely recommend having the second child. But carry extra tissues with you at all times. If your children don’t need them, they will come in handy for sopping up the mess when your heart melts at the sight of your kids being sweet to each other.

First day of preschool today. Siena is supposed to be “resting” right now. Judging by the sounds coming from her room, she’s getting about as much rest as a marathon runner on mile seventeen. 

She came out a minute ago to ask if it was time to go yet. She was all ready — had her brand new sneakers on, a purse in one hand, and a baby doll to bring “just in the car.” Such a mix of grown-up kid and little girl that I had to turn my face away as I told her it wasn’t quite time yet, so she wouldn’t see the tears in my eyes. 

It’s not that I think the preschool (where she will spend less than nine hours a week) is such a huge milestone. She’s been in a daycare/preschool program since she was an infant, and I’ve had plenty of opportunities to separate from her, to see her run off and play happily with other kids, to pick her up and hear about her day full of projects and activities.

It’s just that this new school, and the backpack and snack container labeled with her name, and the cubby and the school supplies, all this feels very much like kindergarten. Which is just one short year away, and then she’ll be in school every day for pretty much ever. And I keep wondering, since when do babies go to kindergarten? And then I keep remembering that she’s not a baby anymore at all, that Elliot’s barely even a baby anymore and SOB. 

I have to go now. I have to try not to cry all over the preschool teachers and risk embarrassing my big-kid daughter. Who still seems very little, somehow.  

…..

[Update: just dropped her off and totally cried. Which was rather. . . lame on my part. Especially since Siena was totally fine and playing happily when I left. (She did not see me cry, thank God, although I think some other parents did. Why so crazy, Self? Why so cry-ey?) So now I’m home, Elliot is napping, and no one has come in to ask me what I’m doing eleventeen times, and I guess the peace and quiet is nice. IF IT DIDN’T COME AT THE PRICE OF MY CHILD GROWING UP AND AWAY FROM ME AND BEING ALL INDEPENDENT AND STUFF. Gah.]