If The Shoe Fits

At first glance, Dane looks exactly like his father.  His deep brown eyes, tan skin, short stocky legs, and long torso are Jonathan reincarnate.  Although if you look at my baby pictures, there is certainly some similarity.

It was difficult to find a photo where we were about the same age, but if you've ever actually met Dane, there is certainly a resemblance.  This was my first Christmas.  I was 9 months old.

Sorry, Dane.  It looks like you might have inherited my nose!

Even though there is no denying who my baby daddy is, there's plenty about him to remind me he has half of my genetic material.  He has a temper.  He likes things exactly his way.  He's easily annoyed.  He loves a routine.  He hates to be hot like Cleveland hates LeBron.  He's me.  I realize that a lot of this is typical 2-year old stuff.  What toddler doesn't throw a fit when lunch is late, right?  But my parents, who raised three kids, agree.  Something is just different about the way Dane does things.  And every time they watch him play (lining up trucks, sorting things by color and size, insisting the trash be put in the trash can immediately), they are in amazed at just how much he is exactly like I was.  

My parents always laugh when they tell me I knew how to tie my shoes before I was potty trained.  (Granted, I wasn't potty trained until 2 1/2.)  Apparently, no one did it "right."  So, my parents gave up and told me to do it myself.  And I did.  Well, this weekend, I told Dane to put his shoes on so we could go outside.  I figured he could start the process and I would finish it up.  He plopped down on the floor with his shoes, stated "Dane do it" and put them on.  The right feet.  The right way.  No adjusting needed.  Ok, little dude.  Do your thing.

The Frosty Toss

Every family has those stories that will always be told, the ones that become funnier the more you tell them.  Even people that weren't present know them by heart-- when you join a family by marriage, learning them is a rite of passage.  And it's certainly hilarious watching your sister-in-law hear a little bit about her husband as a child.  There's the time I managed to kick myself in the back of the head when my dad was "teaching" me how to dive.  There's also the time my youngest brother lit a fire because he got scared.  In a tree stand.  That he was IN!

But this story is about my middle brother, Sean.  Middle children are funny creatures.  I've never heard one deny this.  Sean is no exception.

Every week after Wednesday evening church service, my dad would take my brothers and I out for ice cream and we'd eat it on the way home.  Usually it was Chick-fil-A.  This Wednesday it was a delicious Wendy's Frosty.  Sean was sitting in the front passenger seat while my dad drove us home, trying to drink his out of a straw.  "Dad, my hands are cold from holding the Frosty."  Dad hands him a napkin to wrap around the cup.  "Dad, I can't get any Frosty.  It won't come up the straw."  Dad hands him a spoon.  "Dad, my spoon broke!"  My dad, without really saying anything, rolls down his window, and chucks the frosty.  Tears ensue (of course).  Sean is so upset that I'm pretty sure Dad went and got him another frosty.

Now, to be fair, Sean was still a little kid, probably elementary school age.  And stories do get embellished along the way, just like any oral history.  But now, in my family, when someone is annoying you in a car, you may threaten to do a "droid toss," "ipod toss," "chapstick toss," or in the case of say, yesterday, a "Mickey toss."  To the best of my knowledge, no one has ever actually done it again.  That doesn't make it any less tempting.

I was driving Dane around town to run some errands.  He's got this not-so-new, perfected ability to take his shoes off and hurl them on the floorboard, along with his water cup and whatever toy is essential to his and my sanity at the moment.  He did it every single time we got in the car yesterday.  I'd hear a shoe.  Clunk.  Then the other shoe.  Clunk.  Then hard plastic Mickey Mouse hits the window and I grit my teeth and tell myself over and over "he's two, Melissa, he's two."

And here's Dane, sobbing:  "Mickey, mickey, mickey."
Me:  "Mama can't get Mickey right now, she's driving."
Dane:  "Shoes, shoes, waaaahhhhhhhhh!"

At this point, I want to pull the car over and throw Mickey and his shoes out forever.  But I'm keenly aware of two things:  kids' shoes are not cheap and unlike a frosty, I can't just run through the drive-thru window to replace Mickey.  So all I can do is laugh as I remember the original Frosty Toss, thinking my dad had lost his mind, and for the first time understanding that yes, he had lost his mind, and it was all our fault.

So happy birthday, Dane!  I'll try my best not to chuck your Frosty.

Dane is (almost) two!

Two years ago today, at 11:05pm, my water broke.  Nothing about becoming a family had come easily for Jonathan and me, so why should Dane's birth go as planned?  Just like us to create a little drama in a drama-free scheduled c-section.  :)

It was a Thursday.  My c-section was supposed to be Monday morning at 7am.  I honestly think he just ran out of room.  I gained 27 pounds during my pregnancy, and he was a whopping 8 lbs, 13 oz, and 22.5 inches of that.  He was 99th percentile for weight and off the charts for length.  Which is funny considering he's a scrawny guy now.

I had a (nearly) uncomplicated pregnancy.  A little placenta previa, along with an easily treatable thyroid issue were my only "problems".  I felt fantastic for pretty much every second of the 38 weeks and 6 days I was fortunate enough to carry Dane.

And I was 100% certain that I was going to make it to my c-section.  I'd had some uncomfortable (but unproductive) contractions starting earlier that week, but no pressure, no dilation, and nothing consistent.  In fact, I hadn't even packed my bag.  I had all weekend to do that, right?  (If you know me, it is absolute insanity that I did not have my bag ready to go from the day I found out I was pregnant.)    Earlier in the afternoon, I even thought my water broke, took a trip to the local hospital to find out that it had not, and got home in time for dinner after spending a couple hours being monitored.  Jonathan had been on edge all week long, practically begging me to pack my bag.  The pseudo-water-break was enough to convince me that I should indeed pack a bag, even if it was just to get him off my back.  So we ate dinner in front of the TV for pretty much the last time ever and I packed my bag and showered.  I only had one more day of work before welcoming our new baby into the world!  Little did I know, I had already worked my last day for many weeks.

I had been in bed for five minutes.  I was in that not-quite-asleep-but-definitely-not-completely-conscious state when I felt a pop.  I gasped.  Jonathan didn't even ask.  He just called his parents and told them to get in the car, hopeful that they would be at the hospital by the time Dane was born.  (They had an 8 hour trek.)  It took us 45 minutes to pack the car and contractions were becoming a little more irritating during the frenzy.  We hopped in the car.  Just as we got on the highway, I thought, "well, this isn't very fun."  It was no longer very funny that we weren't at the hospital yet, which was still two hours away.  And when you're measuring time in 2-minute increments, 2 hours is a hell of a long time.

We stopped at a gas station about midway because apparently, even being in labor, pregnant women still have to pee every five minutes.  I prayed that my child wouldn't be born in a Quik Trip bathroom stall (even though they are really nice gas stations) as I tried not to attract too much attention from the attendants.  This is not easy when you're nine months pregnant, have a HUGE wet spot on the front of your pants and shirt, and your husband is asking for plastic bags in hopes that the car's interior will not be ruined.

Pregnant folks:  people who tell you that contractions feel like really strong period cramps are straight full of shit.  There is nothing to compare this pain to.  Not.one.thing.  I do know this: nothing less than every muscle in your entire body is involved.  I don't know how women scream.  I couldn't speak, hardly even breathe.  And there was so much paperwork!  Hadn't I pre-registered??  After five hours and 41 minutes of this, I hadn't even dilated one bit and no one in L&D could feel Dane's head.  Several nurses remarked "good thing you're planning a c-section, because you'd be having one anyway."  I received my epidural a few blessed minutes before Dane was born.

My dad calls a c-section "the airlift."  Dane was "airlifted" out at 4:46am on Friday morning, July 16.

I cannot believe he'll be two tomorrow.  We've been calling him a two-year old for a couple of months now, but I can't help but wonder where the last year went.  In some ways, when he turned one, it felt like one.  We had earned that first year, all of us, and I was not sorry to say goodbye to his infancy.  But two?  Really?  I've actually enjoyed the last year and it's gone.  I ask him to snuggle now and he shakes his head "no," laughs and says "Mama silly."  It's going to seem like no time at all before I ask him to snuggle and he laughs and says "Mom, I'm late for basketball practice."

How is it that someone can make you feel so old and so young all at the same time?